Midnight Patrol [PK]

[Viraj Dobrial 321]

In the far reaches of Arentania did a man work away busily, cloaked in an old, decrepit suit of revolutionary armor. He hummed to himself as he slammed a thick dowel rod into the hole, pausing once to whistle over to the men on the roof, letting them know it was time to start hoisting up the next log.

 

Gizon langilea naiz,

Apurtu neure burua hezurretaraino,

Eta makurtzen banaiz, hurrengo iltze hau,

Jende hauek ez dute etxerik izango.

"Eh, kamrada..." one of the men called down. "You are not use that word right."

"Well, that's what these guys've been calling them," he grunted back, nodding his head down to the workers mulling about below the crew.

"Is not a nail, though, it's made of wood!"

 

The suit of armor would begin to shake, as the men, normally placid-faced, shared looks of nervousness- muted as they were. But, after the moment, that tense cold passed through the air - and the man got back to work, hammering away. That was, at least, until the mail cart came by. "Aye! One for you, jefe!" the man shouted up.

 

"Don't call me that shit," he'd spit back, quickly sliding down the ladder propped against the roof. The three holding up the log struggled to hold it up without the armored man's support, but it was no use. That pillar fell back down to the ground, splintering in three- and the men looked at each other, shrugged, and sat down. One pulled out a deck of cards - the other two pulled out their coin pouches.

"Figure any time as now's good for a break," the man wheezed out, taking the letter from the carrier as he carried on to the manor. He'd break the seal, quickly drawing out the note.

 

"...Son of a *****. He's finally dead, huh?"

 

Spoiler

Thunder clapped, as the man started up the hill. Panting, he shifted his weight back onto one leg, unhooking his shortsword from his side, and aimed it forwards. “I don't want to shed your blood, James," he lied. "You leave me alone, we both walk away from this unscathed.” Rain pattered off of his dented armor, as James drew his own sword, charging at Archimedes. The plated man brought his own sword up, grunting as James slashed for his. The two pushed against each other.  Using the hooked pommel, he'd manage to undercut James' hand, pulling the two closer together. “I will not go Jan's way.” At that, he'd push up, trying to push both blades back towards the MOJ agent's neck - who, just barely, avoided getting his head chopped off between the macgyvered shears. Moving with the flow of the duck, James twisted his arm up, before slashing his blade across the width of the man's gorget. And though the slash did nae break through the armor, dark sludge began to flow through it, dripping down the man's armor and into the fresh mud, as Archimedes staggered back, letting some pool in his hand. "...No honor in it, really" he chuckled out, as he began to loose his footing, falling back into the mud. Desperate, he waggled his sword in front of him. "...Why? What do you want from me, James?"

 

"Well, besides the gauntlet... I want to know why you did it."

Coughing, the man would slowly drop his sword, managing to let out a weak chuckle. “You couldn't begin to understand what my life's been like because of that man. Pain, unending, since he first shackled me and threw me into those dungeons. All I wanted…” He'd pause to wheeze, feeling his neck as more inky, black sludge coalesced across his open palm - “All I wanted was some semblance of revenge against the man who hurt me... and hurt so many others.”

“You could have done it legally - challenged him to a duel of this 'honor' you speak of,” James spat, holding his sword steady above the man's neck. "But no. You waited until he was on his death bed."

“You think that Peter Baldwin would have accepted insult to his name? No! He would've damned me once again to that hell, those moldy, unkempt dungeons… Not to mention the prices he'd put on the heads of the women who came forward…” That blackness that once pervaded the being's neck now formed the crude shape of a farmer's sickle, held firmly in Archimedes' grasp. “A life for a life; not that he had much left to live, anyway.”

A lone tear, divorced from the rain that belted against his back, fell from James' face. "ONE GOD. ONE EMPIRE. ONE EMPEROR." Lifting his sword up, he exhaled softly. "For the good of the Empire," he sighed, before swinging the sword down.

 

But as it swung down, Archimedes raised the hand behind his back - his arm shaking as that spectral scythe held back the weight of the detective. “You want answers?" he sputtered out, as the blade drew closer and closer to his neck. "I'll give you as many as you need! Come on, James - I'm sure you vie for conclusions as much as I do.”

“Explain yourself, then, and quit stalling for death.”

He'd wheeze out the resemblance of a laugh. “I'd feel more obliged to speak if you moved that damn blade back from my neck.” The blade, then, moved to center on the man's chest. Seeing this, Archimedes let his hand fall to the side-  still gripping firmly to the sickle. “Tell me, James. How much would you do to keep your family safe?"

 

“I've yet to have a family, Just tell me what your motives are.”

“Just to protect what's left of my family, after all the ISA has done to them. Bruno, Jan, Warwick - countless others, all damned by vigilantes and bloodthirsty soldiers to an untimely death.” He'd shake his head. “No judge, nor jury - just an executioner. Surely these are not traits of a just society?” He'd pose, shakily lifting his head to meet James' gaze.

 

“They all betrayed the crown. They tried killing comrades in arms for the sake of an organization that could've fought for rights legally.”

 

“You claim that they could've fought for these rights legally, yet admit they were slain with no regard for their rights as humans. You do not address that these men were nae viewed in objective light, by the citizenry of the empire - but by the skewed views of those trusted with the power to enforce quote unquote law." He'd continue to rationalize in this way, locked in on James' eyes. “You don't know who else is hiding skeletons in their closet around here, James.”

At this, James' face convulsed, shifting into a look of sheer disgust. He pushed the blade forwards ever-so-lightly, beginning to press through the thing plating. As he did, Archimedes let out a shriek of inhuman pain. “I… gave you… what you wanted, you bastard!” Almost instinctively, he swung the hooked tool upwards and over the sword, jerking his arm to the right- and James Madron, seeing this, quickly threw the bulk of his weight onto the back end of the sword, pushing it wholly through Archimedes. The terrorist fell to his side, then prostrate across the ground. From his hand would fall the spectral blade, evaporating into nothingness. Writing for one more second, he went limp. There was no movement from the suit of armor. No muscles twitched. No lungs drew breath. And no heart gave out a telltale beat. Yanking the sword from the man's chest, James stood above the dead man laying before him. He took off his hat, muttering something to himself - maybe a prayer? And then he dragged the suit of armor to the base of a tree. He had no tools besides his sword - and that is what he used to push apart just enough mud to submerge the suit of armor in the dirt. Bits and pieces of it stuck out - part of his knee, a finger or two, and most of his helm. But James did not kill him. For within the suit of armor lay a still-writing creature, made not of sinew and meat, but rue. One that raged on and dug at itself to pull back together - one that left Archimedes in aching, unbearable pain, casting him into a deep, deep sleep.

https://imgur.com/a/OHT0B5b

 

It was nighttime when the manager looked up once again. All the other workers had gone to bed, leaving the man alone with his thoughts. Sighing, he'd look over the letter one more time, before crumpling it up and chucking it over the side of the hill.

"...He didn't even say goodbye."

 

And so he rose, trodding down the hill, and towards New Providence - for one final conversation.

 

Spoiler

W̶̼̣̜̜̐̊̍̾͂͝h̷̺̪̣̮̍̒͜͜e̷̡̤̓̓͋͐̾n̶͙̱̾͜͠ͅ ̶̛͙̈́̈̐͜h̴̡̘͎̗̞͐̅͐́e̶̡̫̭͆͊̋̂̏͘ ̵̖̮̩̟̭̘̅̉̏a̷͖̪͊w̷̛̤͍̼̦͍͎̑̓o̸͍̜̜̅̂̏̕k̵͙͚̓̇̚e̵̳͇̰̺̝͋̒ ̷̛̭̥̦͓̦̹̈́̐͂͝f̸̨̅̓̈͜ŗ̷̗͕͚͚̦͗͐̋̈͂͘ǒ̵͇̬͎͑͜m̷͓̰̹̐͝ ̸͈̤͚͉̿̐h̸̤̽̈́̀̅̀̓i̶̪̼̊̌s̵͕̜͇̝̝͋ ̸̺̈́̈́s̸͓͈̯̒̿̀͗̚l̵̛͖ṳ̷̯̖̗̞̓̉̔͛ͅm̵̛̹͇̞̖̤̹̔̽̉̚b̷̨̜̟͇̫̠̊̃̚e̶̛̫̝͋̿̇̏r̴̭̫͆̄͋̔̾̚,̴̡͉̗̥͇̇̈̄̓͜͠ ̵̢͖̯͇̪̼́̓͋́̂̕h̴̡̤̯͎̪̤̽͌̀̋̚e̶̤͒̽́̑͘͝ ̵̨̮̠͔̙̦͂͒͌̉̐f̷̗̉͊ó̸̮̕͝ư̴̡͖͇͔̂̒̄ñ̶̟̳̝̂̆͝d̵̛͎̦̊̎͜ ̴̺̺̼͍̲̭͒h̸͕͈͙̐̿̈́̏́i̶̺̦͆̄s̸̨̞̬͚̿̍́ ̵̩̬̫̏̄c̶̢̘̦͈͖̏̊̃͌ơ̵̞̟̙͍̣̓̓̎n̶̡̢̼̔d̸̲̜̹͚̂̐̑̔͘͠i̷̢̧̢͍͉͑͛̐̄͊͘͜ţ̷̹̫͈̿̀i̴̖̞̖͖̺̿͑͑̒̉̚ò̸̻͑n̴̡̬͔̾͘ͅ ̸̠̍̃͆̕͝ṅ̴̢̫̤̽̃͋̀̀ͅó̶̜̓̄̀t̴̛͍͉̳̩̝̞̏͠ ̸̦̳̋́̔̉͒̽t̵̰̣̥̕ǫ̸̟̣̀͆͗ơ̸̮̫̼̪̻̈́͑͘ ̶̣̺̠͙͋̍͛̌͝f̸̨̦̥̖͍̟̀͆̒͝á̵̡͙̜̤ŕ̴̮̭̼̭̱̜̉̃̓̕ ̷̡̟͛̂̊͋f̴̨̨͙̔̍̉͛̋̚ĺ̴̥̘̝u̶͙̪̣̹͍͐̏͆̈̅̋͜ñ̵̨͉͇̹̃g̷̙̥̚ ̴̧͖̲̗͚̻̍͐̃̀̓͆f̶̥͕̱̘͔̼̐̇r̴̦͑̏͜ö̵̭͍͍̙̞͍m̸͙͕̔̆ ̴̮̼̩̺̈́̚h̷̯̏̈̓͗͒̍i̴̩̯͊̾́̕s̷͎͖̘̲̞̈́̑̇͋͝͠ͅ ̸̹̥̹̟̋̈̅f̴̥̜̬̤͎̀̐̓̆͘͠ä̷̺͚̓͆͊͛n̴̻̜͕̈̓̍͂͜ẗ̸̨͇͔̄̓̒̈́a̷̢̫̺̗͕͗͒̈́̕͘s̶͇͓̫̿̃i̸͎̭̦̓͑̔e̶͎̘̔̇s̶̡̠̣̫̱̿̒ ̴̟͋-̵̧̯̜͐͠ ̸̡͇͕͇̮̃̆̊͠p̶̺͍͋e̴̳̬͑͌̋͐͠r̵̢̼̪̰̭͈͛́̿h̵̢̺̍̆͠á̴̜̗̏͊̈́͗̍p̴̯̔ş̴̠̘͎͙̟̐̀̍̓̕̕ ̸̬͍̹̇̌ḯ̷̘t̸̡͈͛̾̓̍̉͝ ̷̤̜̉̆̈́̔̒ẇ̶͕̩à̶̗͉͒̚s̴̖͎̲̜̞̰̐ ̵̲͕̲͔͂͝t̸̢̥̱̠͋̾̉̍̆͝h̸̢̰̠͇̞̃͠e̷͇̠̥̺̮̍͗̔̆̍̊ ̷͎̀͐b̵̧͓͇̭͚͘͜͝ḯ̴̲̮͚̐r̸̺͕̀̊ͅd̴͍̮̣̓̍͜ ̴̢̼̙̹̂͋t̵̰͎͓̞̮͑h̴̖̭̩̪̥̠̾͐̈́a̴̟̐̄̽̽̚͘͜t̴̮̗̺̞͚̬͑̃́̀̚͝ ̴̡̖̔̋̂̀̀͋w̷͔̜̱͓̹̻͌͌̿a̶̢̼̠̤͉̽̄̆͠͝s̸͇̋̑ ̷̢͚̘̪̖̥͗̅̀͝p̵̣̤̣̈̆é̷̥͈̝͓͆c̴̡̹̯̙̈́̍́͋̇ḱ̸̬̑͒̈́́͊ȋ̷̹̰̣͙͋̓̚͝n̸̨͖̾̂̽͝ǵ̷̨̞͇̭ ̴̛͕͎͕̺͇̝͋͊̀ạ̸̳̟̌͂͂̍͝ͅt̸̨̧̗̭̭̰͒ ̵͕͈̃̃̅͛͌h̵̻̗͔͍̫͓́͂̂͋͝i̶̜͉̘̠̋͝s̶͚͑͆͌̊̍͑ ̴̖͙͔̫̝̼̈͂̀͂̌̕h̴͍̘͍͉͗a̸̼̞̞̳̎͆̏̉́͜ĺ̴͔͙͕̄f̵̡̢̩̫̬̘̈̑̕-̸̠̥̝̾̉́̓b̶̤̝͚̺̅̏̕ų̶̰̣͗̉̀̽͌̍r̶͚̩͈̋̅͊̒̚i̵̳͍͙̦̮͆͂e̸̛͓̘͑͂̂̅̀d̶͈̼̿̈͊̕͘͝ ̵̡̼̠͐̔̉̕h̷͎̬͉̮̺̪̓e̴̗̫͓͕͕͚̐̚á̵̻̿͌̌̆ḑ̷̻̭̜̗̑͆̍̅͝,̴͓͈̖̲̥̊̓̀̈́́ ̴͍͇̌̆o̴͕̓̈͒̔̄̚ŕ̵͖̩͎̥͜ ̵̝̞̜̊̀̂͂͒ţ̴̓̀͗̋h̸͚̜̀̾e̴͕̦̲͇͊̊͒̎͝ͅ ̵̯̖͓̉̾̆ẗ̴͍͚̦́̂̊̎͠ě̷̘̭͙n̴͖͔̩͉̠̙̈̒̃d̶̫̈̓̓̈̂ě̵̛̛̝̂ṟ̵̨̫̥̬͕̃n̷̟͉̖͐̄̌͛̈ę̷͎̟̝̣͋̒ͅs̴͓̟̭͛͌̈͛̓̑s̵̨̙̿ ̶̞̥̙͒̑͊͒͒́o̶̡̡͎̩̻̊̔f̵̪̞͓͓͉̈͒̐̅͊͘ ̶͉̭̖̱́̂ṭ̸̪̩͌͐́̆̆h̷̤̟̔͂̑͘͝e̶̢̱̺̼̯̒̽͋ ̶̥̺͑̋̐͐͑̕ͅg̴̙̘̜̩̮̓̈́̈́́͝ͅa̶̧̪̗̯̓̄͘͜͝ś̷̮̜̙̝́̐͆͆̊h̵̰̤̦̋̇ȅ̷͉̩͋s̷̝͒̀ ̸̱̖̇t̸̢̖͈̪̻́́ḩ̶̛͈͐̄͠͝a̴̡̎t̶̥̬̪͎̥̒̒̓̎̔͘ ̶̺̰̮̎o̶̦̳̗͙̤̮͠p̴̪̏̃̀e̶̱̹͇̔ṉ̷̡̞̽̓͊̄̏e̷̹͐̉̏d̵͎͈͍̺̄͛̀̒ ̷͙̿͂̇̓̕͝t̴̲̤̣̮̮̐͜h̸̡̬̽́̄̐̏̂r̶͙̝̟̂͜ō̶͔͐̏u̸̧̟͕̜̐̑͘͘͝ğ̷̬̪̹̼̎h̸̖̣͑̈́͛̾͠ ̵̼͙͆̎͑ḣ̵͈͚̩̹͍͊̏̂̕͠i̵̟̮̼̱̓̾̈́̂̉̚s̷͖͇͝ ̴̡̹̬͕̜͊a̷̱̞͛̒b̴̡̾̊́̅̇d̸̟̤̫͛͆̿͛͆͝ǫ̵̜̱̱̼̰̏m̶̻̦̳͐́̕̚͘ę̵͈̖̤̾͑͌͜ṅ̵̮̰.̷͙̖̖́̇̇̎̐ ̷̧̌͛͒͒͘͝B̸͔̈́͋̏ạ̶̢͙͗̾͆̒r̵̛͕̳̖̯ͅȅ̶̡̱̈̑͋̈́l̷̤̟̠̼̥̑͋̈́͂͐̇ŷ̷̙̹ ̴̘̹͖̟̊̋́͜͠͝ṃ̸̨̛͔̊̓̅͌͝a̵̟̺͈̯͗̅̿̍́͝ǹ̴̖̦̋̀̋̚͘ͅḁ̸̧̬͕͈̉͆͌́͌͘g̸̈́̉̏̀̎͜͠í̵̱̮̀̒̽͜ņ̷̺̤͉̲͒g̵̩͕͉̫̪̎͛̚ ̵̘̰̗͖̞̲̋̅͒̃͛͘t̴̛̖̜̂̅͗͝ō̷̪͙̥̼͓̂͗͌ͅ ̸̠̥̥̃̾͛̕͝d̴̡͙̫͇̝́͆̋̓i̷̩̰͖͑͋͛g̸͇̱͖̰̑ ̴̡̧͚͖̪͒̐̏̀̿̚ͅh̶͈̳͚̐ị̴̾̄͑̕m̷̤̻̥̯̟̐͗̉̈́́͝ş̸̺̜̃̈è̸̞̥̰͋͛̚l̷͔̩̍͛́͊f̷͙̺̼̳̪̏͆̄͜ ̶̜͚̙͎͎̒̃͋͜ơ̷̮̝̞̭͉̙̔̓͝ư̶̩͐̃͝ͅț̵̛̥̙̘͑̒̉̎͘ ̴̩̺͙̘͙̔̓̈́͊̚͘ǒ̶̺̮̤̄̌͗͝f̸̤͍̜͊̓̌̅ ̴͙̣̂̑ḧ̴̡̖͆̂͒̋̚ĩ̴̧̧̪̖̘͕̉̈ṣ̴͕͂̊͝ ̷̭͓͠s̸͖̳̩̥̜̎̃̓͌h̶͍́̀͆͊͘ȃ̶̻̮̝̮l̸̝̓̃̆̀̆̈́l̶͚͈̏͑o̷̬̠̹̼̾̇̏̒̊͜w̸̱͖̠̥̒́͗̃̆͜ ̷̦̘͙̺͎̮̈́ḡ̵̞̤̟̀̓̆ͅr̸̢̛̘͖̻̬̆̉̌ä̴̦́̉͛̉̐v̶̭̭̺̓͠ḛ̴̢̡̙̖̘̏͌͗͌̀͠,̶͉͖̒̓ ̶̮͈̬̩̤̺͊̓̇̂h̶̙̼͙͍̭͇͋̄̏̒̄͝e̷̛͕̩͔̼̊͛̓ ̴̨̞̙͙̗̞̾̓̆͝f̴̝͒̉͋̕͘o̵̢͉̼̭̮͗̂̊̑̆͂͜ų̶̹̫̤̪̬̅́̀̄̄̕n̴̰̯̤̒̽͝d̶͔̞̫̗͆ͅ ̴̛͖̹̹̤͂͑̃̎̕ȟ̵̪̲̦̲͉͊̚͝ḯ̴͓̺͔́͘m̵̢̩̪͎̤͕̚s̴̞̦͍͓͠ë̸̩̔l̵͉͑f̸̢͈̣̤́͛̀̂̔ͅ ̴̧͑̐o̸̞̱̬̜̺͠n̶̛̞͇̰̱̿̔̚ç̸̝̱̻̾͂͜ẽ̴̼͓͛̆̒ ̸̢̺̈́̾͜a̶̛͙̙͒̆̀̉̑g̶̦̱͚̳̖͉̓ǻ̷̧͚̺̬̃̏̚i̷͈͐n̵̻̮̹̹̎̈ ̶͍̖̾̋̀͊̓̓g̴̺̔̒̐͘͝͝r̵̭͓͔͗̈́͆͜ͅe̶̢̬̱͒̇ė̶̟͈͈̹̙͆̈́̂͋̌t̶̡͊̓͜ȩ̸̬̫̂̋̀̈d̴̼̼̣̈́͜ ̷̢̛̟̠̘̣͕́͗͊̋͝b̸̛̮́̓͝ý̴̻̦̦͗͛͝ ̷͔͑̎t̴̠̆͛ḧ̸̡̛͖̯̺̠̅͛̒͋ẹ̴̪̻̳̈̅́͝ ̸̧̧̬̻̞̔̄̕s̴̙̱͓͇̠̓̒̐̔͘ţ̵̗͔̭̜̩͐̀́̔̒̽ą̵͎̝̫̠͍̎̈́̀̋̿r̴̭͎̺͌̿͝s̶͖̊̏̀̿̑,̵̢͍̱̽̓̂͗̈ͅ ̸̛̘̻̙̺̱̂͐̂̕̚p̴̱͐̽̓͝ṟ̷̯̜̩̥͎̃o̷̹͈̩̳̻̫̅͋̓͑̚͝v̵̛͖̥̫̭i̷̢̔d̵̢̤̑͆͌̚͝͝e̷̠̹̗͊̌̒͆d̶͖̅̌̄̌̇ͅ ̷͈͛͆͜t̵͈̿h̸̹̪̱̻͗̌̌̔̌͘e̴̳̩͍͔̪̗͛̇̋̆͘͘ ̸̹̟̞̞̬͙̀̾ṧ̸̤̙͚͌͘͠ḧ̷̼̣̫̯̪̞́̒a̴̡̡̗͐͠ḓ̶̢̡̬͕͎͋̓e̶̩̊͗ ̸̛̟͔̼̣̺͖͐̎͑͝ǫ̵̣̞̩̺̋̽̓̃͘f̶̝͕̀̽͑͠ ̷̫̺̂̕ț̴̑́̈̚h̴̤̝͓͊͜ê̶̟̜̹̹̹̈́ ̷̤̂l̴̗̼͉̭̊ą̶̛̥̤̑̆̌́͝r̸̪͙̞͋͑ġ̴̥̫͕͝è̸̹̞̼̜͉͎̌͌̃̓ ̵̂̎̄͋̐͜o̶̪̲̪̗̭̖̐͋́̾͊͛ä̴̘̹̲̈́k̸̢͉̈́ ̷̭̝̱̲̗͆͆̿̏t̷͔̫͇̲̘̲̉̈̈́r̴̢͔͉̂e̷̛̻̪͛͆e̷̡͓̯̒̔́̍ͅ.̷̡͍̯̗̋͐̿ ̸̳̈́̓̓͘Ţ̷͒̓͐́h̵̲̙̺̠͑͛̃̕e̵͖̯̞̭̤͒̆̾̾̓̆ ̵̩̣̐̀̒̍s̶͕͉͚̱͖̑ȩ̷̭͎̽̈́a̷̰͈̪͉͛ ̶̫͇̞̞͍̈́͜r̸̢͔̤̪̘̙̈́̈́̀͊͒̃à̸͈̙̗̘̙̎̇̃g̸̻̘̜̹͐͑̐̈ë̴̡̙d̷̛͖͚͖̦̜̃̎̃͜ ̷̧̳͈̝̤͇͌̇͆͌̈́͝o̵̠͍͈͙̲̰̐̃f̵̠͛̅̈͗͘f̶̗̓̚͠ ̵͉͑̊͝͝ȉ̵̛̜̀̓͘̚n̵̛̞͇̗͂̐̈́̈́ ̶͙́͌̆͝t̸̢͍̮͕͉̱͛̎̈́̀h̴̢̺̣̙̩̽̉e̶͈͈̜̮̓͗̿̕͜ ̸̥͉̲̞̣͇̑͑̽̊͘d̴͖̭̗͔̫̾̐̇̎ȉ̸̛̹̗̅̉̾s̴̜̰̬̄̍ͅt̴̘̯͖̄́ͅa̴̗̠̍n̴̛̹̻ͅc̵̛̪̘̱̣̆̒è̵̠͚̻̓̂̌,̶̧̻̠͙̙̒ ̸͆̈́̕͘ͅa̴̙̖͇̿͌̇͂̏͜ş̵̫͓͉̺̪̀̔͆̆͝ ̸͈̾͑w̸̛͍͕͖̒͆͝î̷̼͊̌͂̉n̸̝̠͇̤̗͎̈́̈́d̴͈̜̩̦̬̒̊ ̷͙̳̫̋̈́͐̿̀͊h̴̭̤̪̔͗͛͐ͅo̵̡̹̣̓̃w̴̨̰̹̱͈̘͊̋̓͊̓l̵̨̡̫͍̜͔̐́̍͌́ẽ̸̯̘̰͐̋͊͒̋d̶͔̯͙̲͛̂̍̄ ̷̢̧̹̰̜̳̎͝a̸͖͓͍̱̙̅c̷̨͎̤̘̞̭͋̽͑̏̽ř̸̮̖̬ô̶͈ş̷̬̮͎͎̏̿̐ṣ̷̎̂̑͝ ̷̧̣̻̝̬̭̽̈́͌ẗ̶̗͎̭̩̝́͠h̸̢̠̮̦̓̒̇͠e̸̯̔̓ ̷͓̹̒͒̐̅̕p̷̡̫̙̠͍̯̀̋̓͝ļ̷͖̫̋́͆̀̿ả̴̗̖͝i̷͈̽̐̅͘͠ň̸̢̯̋͜͠ş̶̥͌ ̸̭̳̎͠ţ̶͉̹̑̃͗̈̃h̴̡͇͚͇́͗̄͋͝ã̴̳t̴̬̥͎̠͈̎̒̀̾ ̴̺̰͒̅͂̇s̷̗̳̬͎̤͕̑͌̀́͘u̷̟̿͋̍̈́͘r̸̜̻̙͔͉̝̀r̴͚̠̭̱̱͑̈o̷̝̰̹͂u̶̞̬͊͘n̴͖̩̗͂̈́̿̐̇͜͠d̶̝̀̒̓̉̌́ë̸̟͔̞̝̥̅͛̄̓͊d̷̢̼̺̞͎́ ̴̛͍̟̝̫̜̤͂̉̂̋h̸̖̻̹͒̋̆̿i̵̜̜͈͈̼͌͐̊́̈́m̸̦͕͉̬͗̀.̸̢̟̲͐ ̵̧̤̪̪̰̯̇T̷̨͎̳̭̎͐̊ḫ̴̞̥͌̇̈́̃͠e̸̫͖̊r̵̺̫̭̩̅͂̊͗͑e̴̥͓̩͉͑͠ ̴̺̙̊w̷̡̞͎̓̽͘a̷̗̩̟̞̳̫̚ŝ̸̘̘̻̠̮̱̔ ̸͚͓̱̀͊͆͑̉a̴͔͓̒͊ ̶̜͊̎͗͗͝ͅń̴̥̥͗̌̏o̵͈̟͐͗̈̌͊͑t̵̡̡̖͈̯̞͂͊̀̈͠ȩ̸͈̯̪̾̀ ̷̛̘͉̲̣͔̀̃̔͜t̷̮̮͔͔̬̐̌̔̕͠ụ̴̖͔̞̦̮̏̿̊̅c̶̡̜̦̲̃k̵̹̯̰̜̽͛̀ͅè̵̡̛̮͈̟͐͝ḑ̵̘̜͉̌̀ ̷̭̪͍̾̎̓͋i̶̥̝͎̎̎͝ń̷̜̤̮̪͖̗͊͗͂͊̌ț̴͍̪̀̇͆̉̏͠o̶͕̱̯̺͒͜͝ͅ ̸̦͔͇͌̊͜h̴̡̹̥̓̽̀͘i̵̜̜̅̈́̃́͘ṣ̷̐̐͆̀͑͘ ̴̨̺͈͓͑͑͜ͅh̷̜̍̍e̷̮̦͚̬͐̃̍l̷̳̈̅̓̚ṃ̶͎̫̘͓̣͌e̸̡̦̝̳̬̾t̷̢̊͠͝ ̵͇̿̔̃̌̀͠-̷̰͊͋̿̔͗ ̴̗̤̩͖̟̿͂̏͒̚ͅȯ̶͚̺̫̻n̶̫̞̜͔̫͍̆̊̑͆̆̐e̷̻̦̱̿͆̒́͠ ̴̣̊͂̓͠h̷̨̗̼̮̝̾͑̽̅ě̴̟͍̞̓͂͛͌͝ ̸̢̛͙͐͝d̸̥͎̯̙̆̉̌i̴̧͎̣̦̹̠͊́̊͠ḏ̴͓̈͝ň̷̢̤̹̝̅'̶͕̫̥̘̬͐̔͜͠t̵͕̲͖͕͕̃̑͘̚ ̴̩͒̏́ṉ̴͇̍͋̌͘͝ē̷͉͈̅ḗ̸̛͓͓̖͚̀͊͝d̴͉̀́̓͠ ̷͓̼̘͙̱̏͠t̴̝͖̺̉̉̇̓ǒ̷̭͛͗̉̔́ ̶̡͍͌̕͝r̵͖̘̩͆̓́͘ė̵͕̬̫a̸̧͖͗͗̍͘͝͝d̶̘̿.̶̻̍̋ ̸̮͍̠̈́F̵̛̖̲ǫ̵̤͔̫͙̟́̈́̓̂͋r̸̤̱͚̙̰̬̿̀̋,̸͎̫͉̼̊ ̴̗̩̞̇̃͗̉r̸̬̀̇̅ë̵̢̨́̐̂́͂g̷͕̙̲̮̾̕͠ͅa̵̛̩̰̅͛̚r̶͖̣̓͐̿͊̔͝d̴̢̙̙͇̪͈̑̈́͝l̵͈̼̑ͅe̴̖̒̃ŝ̷̱̦͛͑͘s̶̞̠̫̓̋,̵̛̛̖͇̼̮̜̀̍͐̊ ̷̺͍́̈́̈́͑t̶̩̞̮̰͋͜ͅh̸̨̳̺̞́́ę̸̛͓̼̯͋̏̾͝ ̴̢̢͇̖͂̏͂̄̐w̸͓͖͙͖̆̌ò̶͉͖̯̳͍̜͊̅r̸̡̥͈͈̱̥̒l̵̛͇̮d̴̯͎̱̆̚ ̶̲͎̙͎̱̺̈́͌̇̊͝s̷̟͆̉̀̎̿̚õ̵̢̧̱̝̮̆̊͝ȱ̴̹̬̦̫͇͑̅̔n̷̨̬̭̺͖̓͊ ̷̗͒̓̈́̇̃͘͜ͅk̵̪̖̀n̴̨̘̯̙͒͊̒̽̄̐e̴͔͕̬̩͋͆͜ͅw̵͚̖̑̂̓̍̕ ̵̗̔̏̋͘͝h̴̡͚̯̋́̃͗í̸̻̹͔͔͂͊̀̓s̶̲̜͆͐̈́ ̴̟̟̬̱̭̅̈́͂̆́g̸͇̭̃́̊́̈́r̶̠̭̊͒̉͂̆̕i̸̛͎͍̽̈́̕̚͠ę̷̠͓̜̿̾̅̄f̷̮͇͖̉̍̀̏̾̔,̶̗̭̘̀ ̷͍̱͉͎̪͑͗̋̆̕ͅa̷̧̼̮̫̺͓͒ș̸̰̮̗̝͌̆͝͝ ̴̠͇̒̌̌͌͜a̶̼̗͈̼̠̫͗̏̂̈́͠ ̵̦̭̠̫̮̈́c̷̡̺͙̗̐̀̈́͑̒̿á̴̺̰́̽́c̵̯̓̿̏̊ȯ̷̡͙̺͓̺̂̄p̷̘͖̍h̸̯̰̲̣̩̞̊ọ̴̧̦̗̮̺͆̄̏n̶̨͆̽͊͝y̶̡̧̤̱̹̰̆͗͛̑͘ ̵̧̻̖̩͒́ȍ̴͔͒̍͌̑̚f̸͎̭̹̺̉̏́ ̶͔̪̓̆w̷̝̪̞̃̐a̴̺̩͑̇̓̓͐̀i̴̭̙̲͕͇̭͗̾̓̍ĺ̶̮̝̦̔̓͝ï̴͖͇̊̄͛̃͝n̸̨̦͚̻̘͌̈̀͋g̵̨͕̩̤̣͍͛ ̵̡̛̗͎̰̟̄͗ḩ̵̫̙͉̬́̊̽͂͗̔ǫ̷̬̾͌͋̓̒w̸̖̏͌̕͝l̴̢̀͠s̴̺͕̍̊͘ ̴̦͕̋͛̈̇̈́̔ͅȓ̷̠͕̀ă̴̺̫͋̍͆͜͝ͅn̷͍̰͇͎̥͛ͅģ̸̦̪̫͕͇̏̿͘͝ ̶̠͇̣̮̃͌ò̵̩̹͐̈́́̽u̴̳̖̜̎̒̋̀̈́t̷̞̜̾͂ ̷̼̦̫̏̊̽ạ̸̡͛͊̾̈́͠c̸̻̽̔͒̋͌̃r̴̫̗̉̆̃͆́o̶̘̻̜͛̊̓̈̕ͅṡ̶̰̖̼̹̪͒̃̔͋͂s̷̛͎ ̵̯̦̭̼̱̤͑̒̈̂t̸̗̟̱̽̉͑͜͠h̵̘͈̖͌̃̒͜͠ę̶͕͈͖͉͙͒̂̾̔̚ ̶̢͔̤̣̬̒͆v̵̮̓̎a̸̦̾̀̍l̷̩̳̄̋͆̃̉̓l̷̪̀͜ẹ̴̆̈́̐̂y̴̳̘̔̇͂.̷̺̥͔̔̚ ̸̻̺̰̯̿̉͝O̸̢̢̤̙̳̜͑̾̈́̕n̸̫͉̗̞̟͛͆̒̌e̴̲̻̹͖͌ ̷̢̪̹̣̗̉̋̈́͋̀ͅl̴̡̲͎̬̈́̆͂o̶̲̺͎̦̩̓̿̈́̄͠ņ̷̝̺̜̦̃̂͗e̸̮̪͖͌̄̍ ̵͕̔͋͒̇͝v̴̝͚̪̤͈̏̃͆́̈́ͅö̷̙̟̥́̈́́̀̏̀i̴̟̳͋͒͐̔͐c̶͕͈̪̰͕̈́ͅe̴̫͔͆̊͐̄̓,̴̞̂̀̃͠ ̵̘̚s̷̻̠̲̺͛̒͘͘ͅq̵͓̗̰̟̋̎͂ṳ̸̯̯̲͍̿́̔̈́̕͝e̸͈̮̤̥̳͛̋͌͋̈́͠a̴͍̞͉͕̻̿́l̴͈̻̙̲̬̇̉͋i̴͙̺̼͋͑́n̵̨̙͖̜͆͑̌̚͜ͅģ̵͕͍͚̹̓͛̅̕ ̴̞̳͎̦̗̫͆̓̔i̵̗̮͊̈́͛̓̅n̷̗̩̒̅̃͜ ̷̛̻̟̗̹͕̓ģ̸̥̣̺͊̇̋̑̇r̸̛̖̯̣̝̈́͠ȋ̵̺̏͌̚ȅ̵̙̲̓͂̾f̴̞̗̰̈́̒͝ ̵̨̧͙̤͐͐̋͛a̴̛̬͋̀̉͆͝ń̷̞͎͎̜̾͠d̴̠͝ ̶̭͑̊̅͝ͅá̸͕̦̙͉̖̝͂͋͂́̌n̵̠͆̈́̾͝g̴̪͓̅̍̈́̕u̵̡̨̧̦͓̤͑̈́̕i̷͕͎͓̰̳͊͐͊̀̂͆ͅs̵̬͉̭̰͐̀̊̕̕h̷̫͇͇͑̓͆̆̕,̵̢̢̬͓̐̆̇́̅͌ ̵̢̥̼̟̬͈̋̇̌ḍ̵̯́r̸͖̠̔̓̌̔ő̸̥̮̱̟͔̊̀w̷̫̪̉̏ņ̴͍͇̟̳͛̑̈́̀͐̽͜ȩ̸̡̪̥͌̿d̵̖̳̝̮̤͊̃̿ ̶̗̫̈͝o̶̢̥͊̄̑̌̕̚u̸͈͉̦̺̼͒̑t̴͇̞͕̟̆̄ ̸̫̠̃͋̒̊b̵̰̺͎̓̏̊͠ý̵̆ͅ ̷̬̬̑́̾͝t̴̛̟̭̞̏̊̆͐̑h̶͍̯̾͒̉͊̎ë̴͔̎̄͂̒ ̵͎̖̬̌̕w̶̪̞͑̈́i̶̥̰̽͆̀n̸̢̮͂́͛̈̐̂d̷̈ͅ,̶͖̦̋̕͘ ̷̙̄w̶̨̛̲͖̑͘̕͝a̷̛͙̼̬͎̅͆̈͂̓͜s̷̹͙̍͑͐͛͠͠ ̸̭͓̯̩̦̼̃́̈́̎̑c̵̱̟̱͔̔̋a̸̡̧̘͔͖͛̆̽͘͝ŝ̶͖̜̮̥͋͑͜t̸̺̦͎͎͆̄̏̃̈́͝ ̵̨̯̻̇̐͆̽f̴̠̦͇̤̣͉̀͒̋r̴̰͇̪͓̈́̾͐̉̈́ǫ̷̫̦̭͒m̶̼̌̆̇̎̄̚ ̵̬̮̔͒t̸̝̲̘̮̝̄̇ͅȟ̴̨̧̯̘e̴̛͇͈͑̏̔ ̴̪̘͇͛̀͗̈́͜s̷̡͉̱̜̠̦̊h̸̞͍͊́̑́̈́a̸̘̹̔l̴̟̂͌͠l̸̰͖̪̤̳̝͊̅̓͋͗̍o̷̢̟̟͇̮͔͊̾̈̿̇̓w̵̪̟̽̉̉̈́ ̶̲̖̈̕g̴͕̀̏͠r̸͈̯͚͐ą̷̥̓̈́͜v̶͚͎͉͖̇͗͆̕ê̵͔̼̦̂̕.̶̨̨̣͇̇̌͆ ̵̧͑̃͒̓̌Ḧ̸̛͚́̔ę̸͈̙͒͐̒̕ ̷͔̑̆͋m̴͙̳̠̏̎̇̐u̶̪̝̓ẗ̷͖̫̳̱̲t̴͈̦̳͚͒ḛ̸̹͇͓͖͌̃̃̈́̋͆ͅr̷̡̡̡̹̤̲̚e̶̡̡͓͓͋́͑ď̸͔̑̏̐̐ ̸̨̙̗͕̤̼̄s̴̨̛̖̮͉̝̑̓͊̐o̸͖̹̙̪̼͖̍͗̓̚ḿ̶͕̙̙͌̓͂e̵̠̬̤͔͕̓̄͛͂͑t̸̤̥̣͠ḩ̸̰̞͎̜͒̓̓̚͘i̴̫̘͎͒́ñ̷͓͉g̵̨̻͒ ̸̰̹͈̰͖̔t̷̖̀͘͝ǫ̵̡̢͇̲̏̓͊ͅ ̴̧̩̤̯͆̏̅ͅh̸̲́̒͜i̸̻͍͕̰̲̓̀͐̀͠m̸̨̡͍̜͚̖̆̾̅͠s̸̗̭̦̤̓̑̆̑̕e̶̛̻͂̊͑͝͠l̸̢͕͚͖̼̹̈́f̷͈͍̞̘̩̍͐̓̔̆͜ ̶̨̩͍͍̲̦̈́-̷̼̝̓͘͠ ̷̛̘͎̓̄̕͠b̵̢̙͊̿é̶̯͗͐͊͗f̵̧̛̳͇̥͙͙̑̒͑̽͝õ̵̡̼͓̘̺̥̒̃̂͐r̵͕̊̂͌̂ë̷͖̮̯̲͎́̚ ̴̨̪̞̺̻͖̍f̸̱̭̖͓͖̎͗̊̊ͅa̶͕͕̲̎̂͝l̵̪͇̈͐̄l̵̡͈͎̭̅͗̕ͅi̴̢̳͎̣̪͖͐̇͗͝ṇ̸̏͐̏͘͝g̵̠̾̈́̊̔͐ ̴̼͂͂a̸̧͎̔̏s̶̥̓̀͗́̈́͝l̸̠̽̅̇̈͂̈́ẹ̴̡̢̜͈͉̒̀è̴̛̕͘͜p̶͖͎͒̔͘͝,̵̣̼͚̘̮̝̃̆͂͘ ̴͙̳̂͜͝o̷͈̤̹̭̹͔̾̌̐͐̂́n̵͙̳̪̪̊̾̽̍͝ͅc̸̥͈̼͎̄͜ẹ̶̞̥̔̎̍ ̴̬̲͉̝̇͋ͅm̸̤͕̖͈̎́͘͜ō̴͉͋̍̓͐͌r̴̥̰̈̽͜e̵̜͓͕̘̠̬̔͗̐͘...........̶̈́͗

 

"...Archie!" Ziegfrid cried out, running over to the submerged suit, yanking at the helmet, until it finally popped off. Underneath of it was a head covered fully in grimy, dirt-stained bandages, only broken by two black slits, and the noticeably darker stains that trailed down from them. "Archie, wake up!" he'd cry out, shaking the suit. "No! No..."

"....Don't shake me too hard, now. I was actually just getting up."

"...Who did this," the man asked, his tone quickly shifting from concern to malice. He'd grab at the blade by his side, continuing to shake Archie as he did so.

But Archie shook his head. "I'm... not telling you. Not worth it - you're going to get yourself killed."

He'd hold the blade before Archie's still body. "I've taken more lives with this than years I've been alive. Last thing my pop gave me, and I'm going to make it mean something. Who did this to you?"

"...I'll tell you. But first, I need a favor."

"What?"

"...Can I use your bathtub?"

 

For the twentieth time, he crumpled up the letter. It was the same one every time - but each time he got to the end, he realized everyone he knew he could send it to was either dead or hated him. So he'd just trash it, and start over, hoping he would have thought of someone who'd take his word by the time he finished it again. But no. Too many were dead- and once this was over, it was finally time to finish what he had started so, so long ago. The copies were all there. It was a matter of making sure he knew people would read them.

 

Spoiler

packwatch RIP PYRO

wish i got to see more of mister Madron, bless up

https://imgur.com/a/dwXYYW7

 

[JoshBright 3014]

Captain Sir Jarad Munnel Vuillerian salutes the fallen soldier "We did not get off on a good start however, you are an prime example of imperial loyalty.. damn basted... why did you die to soon" he would start weeping for his fallen friend

Spoiler

pyro you did me dirty ;-; 

 

[Aehkaj 1244]

Sir Vladrick var Ruthern would read it over before leading the Military in a ceremonial cannon-fire “Wait, he has a kid?” he would state, drowned out by the blasts of each cannon