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A Call Back


MaltaMoss
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It was cold and dark, the rain fell in torrents against the poorly maintained roofs of the town. The ground was slick with frigid rainwater, muddy and swamp-like, the soft thump of boots echoing audibly down the alleyway breaking the man from his train of thought. The soldier perked his gaze upward towards the approaching figure, a fuzzy outline of what appeared to be a man stared back at him, lumbering back and forth as he seemed to trudge uneasily through the muck. The night only grew darker as the courier approached, the soft flicker of the candle within his gloved hand wavering beneath the violent whips of the wind.

From across the space between them, muffled beneath the constant downpour, a low voice emerged from behind the cloth coated messenger, the dull reflection of struggling fire shimmering in his eyes.

“They’ve sent for you, you know? They want you back.”
Came the gravelly murmur, the figure still swaying from side to side as it spoke.

The veteran felt his fingers curl into his palms, pressure turning his knuckles white as he gazed upon the future he had tried so hard to run from. Sweat began to form upon his brow, congealing with the droplets of rain as it ran down his face, indistinguishable from the rest of the flowing liquid. Choking out words, he sputtered out a response.


“I know, of course I know. And I want you to tell the-”
His speech disappeared into a soft mumbling as the wind roared forward from above the buildings, rattling the very frame of the rotting constructions with thunderous sound. Stumbling slightly he opened his mouth to speak once more, quickly silenced by the voice across from him.

“Tell them what? That you’re hiding from your duty? That you’re camped out here in the rain and sleet, muttering to yourself like a coward?”

The jagged insults bit into him like a rabid dog, tearing at his confidence until nothing was left but the mauled scraps of an assuredness that once was raging within him. He could feel it now, the queasy nausea building in his gut as he felt the aggressive glare melt from his face, replaced with only subdued panic.

“Exactly, come to the place where we embarrassed their finest, there you will find the rest.”
Words fluttered from the concealed face of the courier as it spun to turn it’s back toward the old man, trotting away into the furious rage of the wind with nothing but the muffled sound of his mud soaked boots.

Alone he stood, the uncomfortable itch spreading slowly across his stagnant body as he struggled to decide his next course of action. The rain only increased in its ferocity, now loudly beating upon the ramshackle roofs as more water began to tumble down upon him, his focus wavering as it did so. In his mind there were only two options, they would come for him in the morning and take his skull, or he would go to them, and pledge his heart once more to the cause.

As he stepped forward, uncrossing his arms from across his chest, he could feel the air once more enter his lungs, breath finally exhaled to the relief of his torso.

He saw there, upon the ground, a missive left for him by the courier, bright golden lettering dulled by the weather, its symbol crooked.


+—------------------------------------------------------------------+
A SUMMON FROM THE BRIGADA

Dictated by the powers of the Garrison present at the step of a great triumph, a call rings true to all the son’s and daughter’s of our beloved Mother. To report to the place of a great triumph, promptly, is not only your duty as soldiers, but your duty as men of true devotion to our cause.

Dispersed, discarded, we call out to you, return to your family. Return to your brother’s and sister’s, embrace them with the truth of our people.

Viva Mercatorii


+—------------------------------------------------------------------+


Many of these missives are spread across the far reaches of Almaris, stuffed into the folds of mailboxes and jammed beneath the lids of barrels they sit as a reminder of a specter thought long dead.


 

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An excited Mercatorii woman of the Ein Sark bloodline woman accepted the missive. Upon reading it, she slammed the door to their home open; and flew in. Almost barreling into her brother Julian as she did so. Addressing her cousins and brothers, she spoke: "Brothers! Our people have another chance! Bai! Bai!" She called with a joy, running to find some sralo and oktasis for them to eat over the good news.

 

Silently, she offered a prayer to the Mother Mercatorii.

 

 

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Viva Mercatorii

 

 

@MaltaMoss @FunOnTheBun @megavoltar

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From the distant wailing shores of a cliff somewhere near Savoy was a fargone voice of a former M.R.A. Partisan.  His faded armaments lay in a pile, to commemorate a gravestone of his brothers that died during those fruitless conflicts against the Orenians.  But now?  He stood laughing as he plucked off those old weapons.  There was a reignition towards a cause abandoned by the damnable softies that came before.  Old men with deep pockets happy with the turnout of the cause that left the brittle horrid shell of the Mercatorii into something of a defiled corpse.  He stood there as he looked upon the grave, his retrieved weapons brandished as a sign of retribution for a cause long abandoned as he spoke.

"Nie abandoned any longer?  Mother sure work in mysterious ways, I wonder then... How long until the vulture of Oren come to attack, and how hard will they fall?"

Looking over towards the uniform of an MOJ soldier, one of many he had strung up in the vicinity... He guess it would be quite the impact.

Edited by megavoltar
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Dark bags rested under the officer's eyes as he looked over the missive, drumming his digits against the desk. An unintelligible murmur escaped the man as he stood, glancing out of his office window and over the city, sleet pelting the bricks of Providence.

 

Vivid memories of vile acts and gore flooded his head, as he set the paper down, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 

"They're back, aren't they?" Captain Ezekiel Moores mumbles, to the empty room.

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From the his new office within the husk of New Esbec, the Brigada Mercatorii's head of Intelligence yawned, wrapping the loose bandages on his neck and hands. A rat scurried from the front the back of his office. He then sighed.

"A joyous new Motherland, Kamaradak's."

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A somewhat young Mercatorii man clenched the missive in a gloved hand, his clothes still covered in dust and soot of many colors from many lands. A smirk quickly grew across his face as he read it, tucking the missive into his pockets as he sat up in a dark, damp cavern. His head turned to the left, trudging towards numerous small barrels with a dwarven mace resting next to one of them. BIG Sancho hoisted up the mace in one hand, letting out a triumphant laugh in the claustrophobic cave which he dwelled within before making his way to the bright, open outdoors. It's time, once again.

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                                                                                                     "Viva Mercatorii"
                                                                                     Said Ziegfrid Mortimer in his grave

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An nameless Orenian commoner, who has grown up hearing stories of the Mercatorii clashes with the Ministry of Justice, how they bested and absolutely crushed the first assault lead by the disgraced Inspector-General Garret Darkwood, how the Orenians punished the Mercatorii for their mear existence, then seeing the current Emperor of Oren and opening his copy of Canon Law, on Anathemization he then nods "This war against the Emperor is just, thus I must seek out and find this Mercatorii, Viva Mercatorii: 

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An aged veteran of the Tenth Nordling war, and of the multiple Mercatorii campaigns within Oren, skims through the call with a wrinkled grin.

"Viva Mercatorii, borsa."

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An old battle-scarred Mercatorii man took up the letter in his hand.  After briefly glancing over it, he reminisced over his violent and agonizing campaigns against Oren.  He remembered what had been accomplished, and skimmed over the missive once more.  A small grin grew across his face as the time seemed inevitable. 

"Viva Mercatorii, Amarentzat!"

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The veteran reached into his mailbox, withdrawing the daily mail as he opened the envelope. Upon reading this missive he headed inside of his humble abode. Opening the closet which he had taken delicate care of his uniforms, he then took out quite a old and dusty uniform. "Ah... still in pristine condition, it's been ages since I've wore this one." The veteran chuckled as he then exclaimed. "Viva Mercatorii!"

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Tripping over mounds of broken stone, rotting food, and other artifacts scavenged from pillaged Providence did the broken soldier find himself tangled in yet another pile of junk. Trying to free himself from it caused him to sink further in; no protest he made could save him. So there he sat, surrounded by the hordes of useless things he had made for himself, where he spotted it. After forgetting it after all these years was it there, right in front of him - the sword of the Primera Handia.

Waltz. A name he'd forgotten, one that'd buried another, one buried by another. It all came flooAye, I shall continue to do my duty, and I will d my best to attend your next tea partyding back to him, as the garbage crusdenounce that ******* Mortimer guy hed him. So many repreI've made no threat to your livelihood. My question is sissed memories, so many forgotten names - cyclical, it was, that he was damned to relive twhat ARE yohose days over and over, with no sign oou fear the Olf an End to this suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering

"...Where did you get those clothes?" Anger - no, fear, in her voice.
He screeched out with rage. The ground before them was still stained with curdling blood - smeared down and out from the trunk of the grand oak that grew on the edge of Providence's fields. Those screeches quickly turned into a flurry of choked-out cries of laughter. "You didn't even bother burying him?"

A short while before the kneeling man did Ziegfrid Mortimer stand, his eyes crossed, as he shifted his weight unto his back leg. "I had no desire to bury the bastards that tried killing me. You're acting like I ate their guts, or cut their heads off, or something.

"You may as well have. He's still dead."

As Archimedes forced out sob after sob, Ziegfrid sighed, stepping forwards and laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry. To everytrektoEastcliffeitmaynotbeworthyourwhilebutinthesmallchancethatheisthere family member for what has been done."

Archimedes twitched; involuntarily, he flicked the man's hand away, picking at the bandages that dangled over his twisted fingers. "My name... is DEFONT, Mortimer."

"Shut up. I'm talking."

"And what about his wife, Mortimer?" Helvetia stepped forward, leaning down over both of them. "His two children? Ever taken into account those whom were extremely close to him?"

For a moment, Ziegfrid stared up at the hanging branches of that oak, pressing his hand to it before groaning. "Who would you choose to die, Archimedes?" He suddenly shouted. "Him, or me? He brought me outside of the city walls with his friend and tried to kill me. No honor. No duels. Nothing. He literally stabbed me in the back." As Archimedes fell closer to the ground, he turned, pointing at Helvetia. "And you. I don't have any wish to talk about his family." He shuddered, looking back towards Providence as he took a deep breath.

"He made his choice - and that choice was wrong. I didn't have a choice, Archimedes."

 

And to think yet anotherHecannotcontinueservingintheISAcould conduct a disappearing act as well as he could; perhaps, he might run into him again one day in the future. But he was good as dead for now - as was Archimedes. And so he sank further, as he wailed, into that garbage. Darkness, imprisoning.

 

A few weeks passed before a knock came at his door. When the woman found her way in, she turned the corner, expecting to see the man in his usual lounging spot - either chucking chunks of bread into the fire, or over his stove-top, closely watching a kettle boil. But where he usually sat were stacks upon stacks of stolen barrels, some popped open, spilling their contents about the mold-ridden carpet.

"...Orph-"

"Not that one." Something scowled out from the darkness - shadows dancing about the walls, as one made its approach from the west hallway. "I'm... I don't use that one anymore."

"...Whatever." Moving further into the unlit room, she tripped over a creased piece of carpet. "You should take better care of this place."

"I don't see you leasing it."

"I-" She sighed. "I've got something for you. A courier... 'dropped it off' outside."

"Thought we didn't do that here."

"I thought we told you not to bring them around here." She flashed the letter up - bearing an unfamiliar stamp.

"...THEM??"

From the other room, a pile of garbage fell over. Turning at the sound of it did she see the bandaged man rush out from his bedroom, practically snatching the letter from her hands. Archimedes ripped the note from the envelope, scanning over it once or twice. As he did, faint shadows bled from the walls around the two; with the bandaged man did they begin to cackle, as the veteran raised the Handia's hooked sword above his head.

"Viva la Mercatorii! Heriotza gure aurka daudenei!"

 

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7 minutes ago, Viraj Dobrial said:

Tripping over mounds of broken stone, rotting food, and other artifacts scavenged from pillaged Providence did the broken soldier find himself tangled in yet another pile of junk. Trying to free himself from it caused him to sink further in; no protest he made could save him. So there he sat, surrounded by the hordes of useless things he had made for himself, where he spotted it. After forgetting it after all these years was it there, right in front of him - the sword of the Primera Handia.

Waltz. A name he'd forgotten, one that'd buried another, one buried by another. It all came flooAye, I shall continue to do my duty, and I will d my best to attend your next tea partyding back to him, as the garbage crusdenounce that ******* Mortimer guy hed him. So many repreI've made no threat to your livelihood. My question is sissed memories, so many forgotten names - cyclical, it was, that he was damned to relive twhat ARE yohose days over and over, with no sign oou fear the Olf an End to this suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering suffering

"...Where did you get those clothes?" Anger - no, fear, in her voice.
He screeched out with rage. The ground before them was still stained with curdling blood - smeared down and out from the trunk of the grand oak that grew on the edge of Providence's fields. Those screeches quickly turned into a flurry of choked-out cries of laughter. "You didn't even bother burying him?"

A short while before the kneeling man did Ziegfrid Mortimer stand, his eyes crossed, as he shifted his weight unto his back leg. "I had no desire to bury the bastards that tried killing me. You're acting like I ate their guts, or cut their heads off, or something.

"You may as well have. He's still dead."

As Archimedes forced out sob after sob, Ziegfrid sighed, stepping forwards and laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry. To everytrektoEastcliffeitmaynotbeworthyourwhilebutinthesmallchancethatheisthere family member for what has been done."

Archimedes twitched; involuntarily, he flicked the man's hand away, picking at the bandages that dangled over his twisted fingers. "My name... is DEFONT, Mortimer."

"Shut up. I'm talking."

"And what about his wife, Mortimer?" Helvetia stepped forward, leaning down over both of them. "His two children? Ever taken into account those whom were extremely close to him?"

For a moment, Ziegfrid stared up at the hanging branches of that oak, pressing his hand to it before groaning. "Who would you choose to die, Archimedes?" He suddenly shouted. "Him, or me? He brought me outside of the city walls with his friend and tried to kill me. No honor. No duels. Nothing. He literally stabbed me in the back." As Archimedes fell closer to the ground, he turned, pointing at Helvetia. "And you. I don't have any wish to talk about his family." He shuddered, looking back towards Providence as he took a deep breath.

"He made his choice - and that choice was wrong. I didn't have a choice, Archimedes."

 

And to think yet anotherHecannotcontinueservingintheISAcould conduct a disappearing act as well as he could; perhaps, he might run into him again one day in the future. But he was good as dead for now - as was Archimedes. And so he sank further, as he wailed, into that garbage. Darkness, imprisoning.

 

A few weeks passed before a knock came at his door. When the woman found her way in, she turned the corner, expecting to see the man in his usual lounging spot - either chucking chunks of bread into the fire, or over his stove-top, closely watching a kettle boil. But where he usually sat were stacks upon stacks of stolen barrels, some popped open, spilling their contents about the mold-ridden carpet.

"...Orph-"

"Not that one." Something scowled out from the darkness - shadows dancing about the walls, as one made its approach from the west hallway. "I'm... I don't use that one anymore."

"...Whatever." Moving further into the unlit room, she tripped over a creased piece of carpet. "You should take better care of this place."

"I don't see you leasing it."

"I-" She sighed. "I've got something for you. A courier... 'dropped it off' outside."

"Thought we didn't do that here."

"I thought we told you not to bring them around here." She flashed the letter up - bearing an unfamiliar stamp.

"...THEM??"

From the other room, a pile of garbage fell over. Turning at the sound of it did she see the bandaged man rush out from his bedroom, practically snatching the letter from her hands. Archimedes ripped the note from the envelope, scanning over it once or twice. As he did, faint shadows bled from the walls around the two; with the bandaged man did they begin to cackle, as the veteran raised the Handia's hooked sword above his head.

"Viva la Mercatorii! Heriotza gure aurka daudenei!"

 

i love gamerdude09 schizo posts

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