MaltaMoss

Simon was first brought news of his old friends death after the destruction of the rest of the fanatical devotee's to his rhetoric, the old scout staring out across the E.O.A.M report sprawled before his desk with a certain dread mounting in his features. The slow churn of his stomach brought him back down to the reality that was his world, the men of his organization now free from the tyranny of those that had once promised to guide them. Silently he would stand, pacing from just behind his aging desk, the memories of their triumphs and their greatest losses playing over and over in the depths of his mind. Irony struck his thoughts, the man that he had once stood alongside, the man that he had once pledged to give everything for, the man that he had spoke with as the walls of the House of Commons burned in flames set by their hands, the man he had shared so much with would die just the same. Surrounded, by the biting flames and sparks of fanaticism, and in that moment Simon would crumple the paper up into a ball between his gloved palms, turning to toss it into the similar fire that sat before him now. "I'm sorry old friend, it was never meant to end this way." And once more, as all the others had come before it, the Fourth Hour of the Mercatorii would ring true alongside the audible crackle of flame. "Viva Mercatore." The partisan murmured as he had so many other times, solemnly signing the cross of Lorraine across his chest.

Julian sighed as he saw the poster strapped to one of the Orenian lamposts outside the Bastion's doors, his jovial tone and expression dropping into a solemn frown. "Already, bai? This has got to be a joke, by the Mother's blessing we have already helped crush this rebellion? Good Godan, what a mess."

Skin Name:Candice Discord Tag:MaltaMoss#1647 Bid(s):200 Mina

Skin Name:Candice Discord Tag:MaltaMoss#1647 Bid(s):100 Mina

Simon Roberts rose from his bedside, the missive lofted between his callused fingers as he muttered haphazardly beneath his breath. Sighing deeply the older Mercatore shuddered as he read the first descriptions of the battle, rocking slightly before his eyes lit up in shock and surprise. "By GOD, we are vindicated. Their betrayal repaid, ten fold comrades, ten fold!" He shouted, raising his hand upward in a thrust as he tumbled from the makeshift resting place, and began to search for his MRA uniform. A new fire burning in his soul.

Simon peered down wearily at the paper now placed in front of him, the words melting into plies in his eyes as his head swirled with agony. "What are they doing in there, anyway?" The Original MRA scout muttered beneath his breath, resting his head back on the table as his eyes shut closed once more.

Simon paused for a moment, feverishly searching through the sheaf of papers laid across his desk with beads of sweat trickling down from his brow.. Upon coming across the missive the pain in his head would strengthen, a pounding headache reverberating through his body. "The horror of the pagans, can only be met with a horror much greater than their heresy." He would then relax his tensed shoulders with a soft muttering escaping his lips, leaning back over the leaflets to continue his work of mismanaged scribbles.

The Clock is Ticking, the ball is in your court. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The streets were unbearably cold that night, the pounding of feet and crackling of flames accenting the darkened night sky as the orange glow illuminated their faces. Dressed in black, plating pressed against their chest as they heaved beneath the plumes of drifting smoke. Men, women, young and old, standing side by side as the marker of injustice burned fervently before their eyes. They had come inside under a cloak of darkness, fulfilling the oath they had taken alongside their comrades at arms to purge the holy city of all that stood in the day of true freedom. And as the mockery went up in flames, the passion in their hearts spiraled into an elation. "Alexsei, my friend, we did it." One muttered beneath the rag obscuring the lower half of his face, trying not to cough as the thick smoke whirled around them. One Simon Roberts stood among the enflamed structure, his eyes widened with awe as the flamed licked and danced their way up the walls. Sparkling displays of ember stricken wood came tumbling to the ground in splashes of splintered fragments, shattering upon impact with thunderous noise. When they gathered together in that room, all seemed to now be worth it. "Of course Simon, of course we made it." The taller of the pair speaking said in the same muffled tone, clasping a tough callused hand upon his fellow militiaman's shoulder. As they spoke the others began to erupt in cheers, staggering backwards from the increasingly violent fury bubbling up from the once stagnant and sturdy flooring of the Ministry of Justice. To them, it held an almost catharsis. It had all been building up to this, a valiant declaration of war and escalation of their conflict wrapped in secrecy. No nobody would call them, petty vandals, miscreants, or misguided, they were a threat. And they expected to be dealt with like one, what was once a joyous organization of dutifully dedicated detectives had turned against the blade that had struck them down. A product of Tyranny, a product of injustice. "The time for celebration comes later, brothers, for now we must go. Our message has been sent, and the pigs shall soon hear our voice." The one called Alexsei shouted out over the amassed band of terrorists, rallying them around his command and to the sound of his booming speech. The footsteps started once more, clattering to escape what was rapidly becoming a hellish inferno as the same men in black came streaming from the front of the building and across the streets of Oren. They all ran in the same step, trailing behind one another as they flew from the fire they sparked. And as screams erupted around them, calling for soldiers, calling for water, the perpetrators were already gone. Into the forest, out the back gate they ran, satisfaction plastered across each and every one of their usually grim and solemn faces. Simon had simply done as he was told, the book he scribbled in and the etchings in the rubble left by their knives making their voice heard. And as the dust settled, and the fire died, all that was left was their reminders. Their message. On a large stone brick, engraved carefully into its front facing side, in broad scratched in lettering it read, K "The Clock Strikes Six, and we march one step closer to freedom. The Nightmare will come to a close, a new dawn will rise. Viva Mercatore, may God Save Oren for nobody else can." The same message, plastered upon nearby walls, under benches, and in the stumps of trees. A war had begun, a quiet war. Only time will tell of it's conclusion. For now, the secret was revealed, the game could begin.