THe 31st Never Left The Fields

[chacmul 276]

The 31st Never Left The Fields

 

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A painting commemorating the M.R.A during the Dobrov battle

 

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To the Inspector General and associates of the Ministry of Justice,
It’s reached us that you’re beloved Garret Darkwood has returned!  We have decided upon your return to active service Mister Darkwood, that the only appropriate response would be to send the blueberries a gift.  We all personally hope you enjoyed what was sent, it wasn’t that easy to acquire. 
-The Mercatorii Revolutionary Army Command and Soldats.

 

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An old snippet of a depiction of the House Of Commons burning

 

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Harrowed ground.  You seek it, you have found it time and time again, stained blood upon the greenery and the orchids no longer dazzled white.  Men of both sides ended a part of the cycle before it was their time.  Yet still, here and thereafter, you continue this propagation of a conflict that the young can not be bothered to remember, and the old not understanding its need to be forgotten. 

The Ministry of Justice, if one can call it that, perhaps the light in the dark for a man or woman being robbed upon the roads to and from the Holy Orenian Empire, yet no longer.  The Ministry forfeit their reign as protectors to anything say themselves and those they deem worthy of their protection.  Such as the way The Holy Orenian Empire and its denizens have fallen to.  No longer will cloth of blue mark the justice to which they desire, rather as a constant pollution of which their failures cause nothing but a disease to those in its ire. 

The Mercatorii Revolutionary Army, our existence dictated by our hatred, we did not desire conflict, we were victims of it.  Lust of battle and wretched portrayals of both sides corroding minds innocent and weary, those who hear the horrors of The Holy Empire inside and out, and those who hear of the Mercatore and her people lashing out.  But the people of the Mercatore not wishing to catch fire to the mind and to the physical, a war not of administered justice rather, an attempt to gather up the crude pride to which the concept of justice has been lost to. 

The Mercatorii, again struck your buildings of the Ministry of Justice, yet our ears did not go deaf at the explosions nor the deafening screams of Dobrov.  We hear of the faults of you, we mirror each other in so little yet we meet time and time again.  The dust returns to the dunes, the corpses to the Almaris, such as one Zand Macheron, slain during another battle in a war to which young generations hear about time and time again.  All the while of this conflict, the citizens go without answers, the bandits wishing nothing more than to gain money are free to rampage the streets, and the royalty of Oren remain a stone faced lot to it all.  Perhaps a desire to avoid conflict, they have failed, perhaps a reason to instigate it, while they have succeeded it appears they have choked.

We bury the dead of both sides, we hope for the same treatment.  Yet in this very reasoning the Ministry continues a linear and straight path towards a goal they cannot accomplish on their own.  And upon a wailing call the ISA arrives covered in metal wielding fine craft, to which we match.  Our existence is threatened, yet the failure to extinguish the spark of desire in our hearts has proven to all in plain sight that by this we have grown in number and in strength to surpass. We destroyed the beacon of false-war, the Ministry Headquarters, we are tired, yet we pushed forward.  A body floats within the lake at Henry’s Wharf, the bodies of the Mercatorii laid to rest in hopes that they stay this way. 

Why must we fight, knowing that all we gain from our excursions is the knowledge that a supposed Holy Kingdom continues to fall further into an abyss?  To fight alongside an empire, to die for an empire, against the Norlanders we now know peace with.  To be ushered out of the gates when it ends, told from ear to ear that we have been thrown out now that our usage has expired, cast away like the very bombs used time and time again.  We were tired, we still tried to push on.

We heard the screams as the roaring incendiary metal ripped apart calloused troopers of the Ministry, we were too hardened yet we still did not understand the weight of a victory.  Ernest Colbert laid to rest, to what remains of him, along with many others claimed in a futile attempt to some frivolous militant dominance to which we now meet.  We have been tired, for many years, seeing time and time again the Ministry rallying by news with more and more malice, only to fall during the hardest of times.  The shattering glass hurts more than just the families of the dead MOJ agents.  To match the Imperial State, to see brazen and hopeful eyes tear away the veils to only see horror, that is what has happened.  We have fought Oren, we are fighting Oren, we have fought for Oren, if this cycle remains another unseen blemish like so many others, it will continue.  We are tired, we desire a notion of peace, the bodies stack as high as the walls, blood runs ‘till the Eastfleet. 

Our people, no longer may pronounce their faith nor heritage without the threats of the Oren military and their populace.  Those that loathe us and our ideals, the military, the people, the government, they see it fit that we are cowards whom surrendered, they will propagate it as such.   They want to repeat the cycle, send us a final call as fools whom the Orenians triumphed over.  To which our own stare at the burning body of a Ministry agent, or perhaps an Imperial State Army officer sinking to the bottom of the deep blue abyss, have no one the slightest idea of the toil one can suffer in seeing an enemy likewise? 

Yet it matters not, truly, for upon this writing soon to be concluded, the only things that shall be remembered in our cries for peace is what came out of the war the Ministry continues to post propaganda for.  Propaganda for a war older than a new-born Mercatore or Orenian.  Perhaps as the veil of cruelty is lifted from the eyes of the Mercatorii, so too will the veil lift upon the eyes of Oren, to see their military stumble to the point that we can not bear the thought of the death we cause.  We wish to fight for ideals, yet now it seems that all the Ministry wants is victory, to which they can yell with foam at the mouth to the scholars and artisans printing out in fine paper their deeds.  We are tired, so says us all, why must we fight when all we suffer is death?