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The Lost Patrol The MRA return victorious from their skirmish. From The Perspective Of Our Beloved Agents: It was the 11th of the Sun's Smile, 28 SA. 20 MRA agents prepared themselves for the first skirmish of many, many more to come. Rokossovsky’s first plan was put into motion and Petrovich was put in charge of ensuring its success. Trees were cut, sticks were sharpened, weapons ready. Walls were constructed around New Esbec’s entrance, the location of the bloody battle to come. We, The MRA agents, would hunker down inside our quickly constructed fortress, rigging the exterior with punji sticks and other small barricades. However, we kept one thing a secret, our firebomb stash we brought with us. 20 Bottles would be kept in a crate inside our lovely fortress, 20 bottles to change the course of whatever would occur. The lead RO-Agentea Rokossovsky gave the order, he knew the Ministry of Justice would be enroute. Rokossovsky’s head peaked above the wall as he stood up on a random crate they had brought. His white, slick mask looking down to his men before giving a brief few words of encouragement; "If the ein Ariskiys were here today, I assure you they would be proud of what we have done. They would tell us: ‘Onward Mercatorii! Do not allow the Orenians to hinder us! For the faith, and for the Mercatorii. Onward!’" He would pause to take a well deserved breath in his rapidly changing mind. "My brothers, we stand here today in the name of Godan, In the name of our People, In the name of those we have lost. We stand here to send back the tyrants back to whence they came, back to the Holy See of which we protected when the Pagans took their feeble attempts to take it! Mercatorii, we may be small in numbers, but large in faith. It is an honor to serve with each and every one of you." He finished his makeshift speech to his men, which all in unison exclaimed "Amen." 10 Minutes had passed since the speech, we considered playing some cards yet the Ministry came forward. Garret Darkwood, The Inspector General, on horseback, leading his men to their unevitable doom. He would shout at us to drop our weapons, to surrender in the name of GOD. Heretics we saw, not the men we served with. The Mercatorii refused the option of surrender. Crossbows were prepped, spears were being prepared to be thrown. We drew back our strings and placing bolts in our crossbow’s chambers, taking careful aim at the so called enforcers of justice. The Ministry of Justice agents would begin to flank, take cover, anything they could to withstand the storm to come. 20 Crossbows peered down the open street to New Esbec, 20 Crossbows peered down upon 60 men and women of the Ministry of Justice. And the order was given. "Ministry of Justice, Weapons free!" Shouted Garret Darkwood, aggressively firing first at us to which we fired back. We were smarter, quicker with our bolts. We knew who to aim for and when to do it! Our beloved RO-Agentea's bolts would be thrown into the Inspector General’s chest. As 18 more bolts came raining down on 9 other poor souls protecting their Inspector General they would be incapaciated. All of them. The Inspector General slumped upon his horse, rightfully deserved for the man who lead this suicide charge. Let it be known that the Mercatorii never fired first. Let it be known that all the casualties to come after this assault were led by a man who was so incapable of seeing straight he permitted himself to be shot not once, but twice into his chest. Let it be known to the Holy Orenian Empire that Inspector General Garret Darkwood continued to push his men forwards into the fire of the Mercatorii. Let it be known the Mercatorii never killed a single soul from the Ministry of Justice. 10 Ministry of Justice agents had been decommissioned not even 30 seconds into the battle. We knew this from the pocket watch of Petrovich, which ticked back and forth. After the barrage roughly 10 of us brave Mercatorii ran to the crate, drawing our bottles and lighting them in unison. We waited, letting the fuzes draw out slowly by the lantern. The order was given once more by Rokossovsky and the firebombs were hurled. 10 Ministry of Justice agents appeared to have been burnt alive, only the Ministry of Justice could truly tell if they were. 20 Ministry of Justice Agents had been decommissioned. The Ministry of Justice Leadership faltered as roughly 10 agents withdrew from the battle out of cowardice. The battle raged on, the 20 Mercatorii held on as long as they could before the Ministry’s mass assault had worked. Roughly 10 agents, impossible to count from our behalf, had dropped into our fortress from the nearby hill side. Our only exposed flank, the flank we left open on purpose. They poured in slowly, trickling in like sand from an hourglass. A scuffle began within the walls of the Mercatorii held fortress. Swords, warhammers, bottles, and daggers all clashed against one another; metal on metal, the sounds of battle had finally erupted. We wanted this, we knew we would out combat them if they trickled in our only flank. 3 Mercatorii were incapacitated by now, however over 20 Ministry of Justice agents had been completely decommissioned or worse. It was still impossible to tell as they kept on striving for our demise! The Ministry continued its assault, repeatedly withdrawing and pushing new waves of men into the fortress to their incapacitations. Failing one after another until the well of men dried up. Then he arrived. The RO-Agentea Handia, the drunkard temporary head of all operations, had arrived at the skirmish with a squad of 11 Agents to his side. The 11 brave souls that had arrived proved crucial to our battle, to our cause. These 11 brave men finally would help us finish off the untrained men of the Ministry of Justice. We finally drove back the horde of agents. We drove them back down the mountain, all with nothing but their wounds to speak for themselves. The MRA left victorious from the skirm and left New Esbec with all the resources they intended to liberate from the town, leaving 60 incapacitated Ministry of Justice agents, most in critical condition, some unscathed. They all are lucky for the generosity we contain, for their lives depended on it. The MRA left with another win on their belt and morale high. This will be the first of many to come. All we wanted was a home, all we wanted was peace. Yet the Inspector-General’s warmongering would wind him up in Hospital. Portrait of RO-Agentea "Petrovich" alongside some of his men before the skirmish. Viva la Mercatorii, Erlojuak Mesede Egiten Digu, Mercatore! Ro-Agentea Handia "Waltz" Ro-Agentea "Rokossovsky" Ro-Agentea "Petrovich"

"It is good to see new faces. Especially canonist ones - Viva Mercatore.", remarked "Waltz", as he read over the missive.

David Espinoza, as a fellow Hyspian statesman, would rejoice at the news of his friend's death, "Ah, ya valio Vicente. Que DIOS lo protega en los Siete Cielos, y que guie su alma en el mas alla.", spoke the Hyspian, as he signed the Cross of Lorraine in remembrance of his comrade.

What is a Pagan’s Purpose? Tick… tock… tick… tock… With futile war comes futile loss, With futile loss comes futile grief, With futile grief comes futile anger, And it all comes down to revenge. Revenge. Pagans speak of revenge as if they have any sort of feelings. Anger, anguish, purges and genocides, death and sorrow. They speak of “Evil Canonism” and “Typical Orenians”. It is a sadness that the mind of the Pagan is warped with such a stereotypical view. Warped. Or indoctrinated, by barbaric leadership and warmongering beliefs. Actions have consequences, and those consequences are finally arriving to Elysium. To Varhelm. To your homes, pagans. Your families, your cities, your towns and your jobs - none of them can halt the Infernal Clock. And as these consequences arrive, pagans speak of honorless soldiers... Honor. Pagans speak of honor as if they had any themselves. They employ sadistic Ferrymen, and ally other paganistic religions to aid them in battle. They begin wars attempting to obtain that god forsaken honor they lack - but seem to simply fail. Over and over. War is a double edged sword, and this is the payment. They speak of when the Mercatorii run from battle. A feeble escapade for what is a planned escape, mind you. And they speak of these escapes as if the Mercatorii are running from battle - hm. Outer Arentania saw the true honor of Mercatorii, fighting against pagan forces for the protection of the Holy See. Not a step back. Brandings and assaults came uncontested by Elysian forces, too incapable of even caring for their citizens, and all further attacks came without even a slight sight of guards. Not a step back. Even when boredom overcame awaiting MRA agents, waiting for even the smallest force to take them out… they never came. Honorless soldiers in honorless nations, hypocrisy of pagans. Why guilt others as honorless, when Pagans cannot understand the word “Sacrifice”? Sacrifice. Men, Brothers, Comrades, Family, Mercatorii. These are all people, united under one banner in unison. These brave fellows lay down their lives, acknowledging the threats and circumstances around them. Norlandic Pigs state how much we are cowards, yet I do not see guards outside of the cities. We do not see them alone, always packed together as pagans cannot trust one another to complete the job they are tasked. They can not protect their own, They can not protect each other. Mercatorii act as family, trusting one another to do the bidding of their commanders. They do not rally in mass numbers over a few men watching their homes. Yet, the Mercatorii cannot stop… What has begun is unstoppable. The fury, the wrath of the Mercatorii has only recently flourished to maturity into what will become the new cycle of life. The new cycle of life. More brandings. More fires. More deaths. More civilians. More guards. More officials. More Pagans. No one is safe. You are not safe. Your leaders are not safe. And as they flee their own lands, flee to the icy mountains to meet inevitable doom, leaving behind blazing homes of Mercatorii Inferno - the Mercatorii shall ask: What is a Pagan’s Purpose? And I will tell you, my friend. A Pagan’s Purpose is to die. Tick… tock… tick… tock… The Clock hits two, my pagan friends. Fear the Nightmare, for it only begins. Unstoppable ticks, unstoppable hours. GOD save Norland, for no one else can.

"Yes. This is good.", proclaimed Waltz, as he took a good read of the missive, "Very good."

"Ah, joy!", exclaimed David Espinoza, as he took to read the missive, "Times are to change in nuestra tierra! Finally..."

Mother Mercatore Loves Her Sons Ama Mercatorrek Bere Semeak Maite Ditu ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The MRA March to the Battle of Outer Arentania, 25 S.A. ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Mercatorii Revolutionary Army is a steadfast defender of Canonism, Democracy, and the Mercatorii people abroad. From its creation at the infantish start of the Second Age, and its unconventional war against the Orenian Empire, to its present day incarnation, of which it currently fights on the side of Canonism in the Orenian-Norland Conflict, committing to both the front-lines, and its guerilla war against the Norlandic homefront. The Mercatorii are without homeland, without families to return, though this is needn't, for the Mercatore need only of which is essential to them, steel, and faith. Steel of which they sharpen after dulling it on the enemy. Faith of which they have, have in GOD, have in Mother Mercatore, have in the Clock, and have in the promise of Homeland. They have marched eternal as traitors, though they know one day, they shall be heard singing their anthems once more: Mother Mercatore Loves Her Sons. The Sun began to peak on the fateful day for the MRA. Six men, clad in the stripes of Red and Black, walked along the empty road of Urguan. Not a single soul encountered them, a perfect position to gain some leverage and take something dear to Urguan. They walked in unison, a perfect formation as the flag bearer of the small platoon walked with the MRA’s flag risen high. With such desolate roads, they entered the capital unseen, unheard and unknown to the Dwarvish Pagans. They entered the tavern, three with firebombs and another 3 with lanterns. They huddled close, away from the door to speak their plan once more. “We burn it to the ground, if it collapses in on itself we’ve done our job, if it stands unusable we’ve done our job.” One proclaimed ‘leader’ of the group would remark to the rest as they turned to take their positions. One stood upon the withered planks of the highest room in the inn, lantern and firebomb at the ready. Two went further down, to the bottommost area they could find in the tavern. They readied themselves for their first major attack of the war giddily, smiles seen beneath their skull like masks except for two clad in all armor. The order was given by the one at the very top. “Burn it!” Glass shattered, fire scattered, Men began withdrawing. All six men left the tavern unscaved, as they began rejoicing their actions upon withdrawal. “We hate the pagans, We hate the pagans!” They chanted in unison, Men, Brothers, Comrades, Friends, Terrorists, All under one banner and one cause rejoiced for the actions done that night. Their first major attack of the war with many more planned to come. Upon their retreat home, that damned anthem drilled into their God forsaken minds begun to sing to itself: Mother Mercatore Loves Her Sons. Night was upon the MRA agent scouting out Leumont for the attack on the following day. The bright moonlight simmering on the cold Norlandic water as he boated around, all was peaceful until a cry for help was heard, a man was drowning in the Death Trap of Varhelm. The MRA operative, uniformed in the red and black stripes, rescuing the infidel from its own death trap. Having pulled the man from the water and seeing that he was clearly of pagan origins, the operative dragged the man across the roads of Norland. The Unprotected, Desolate roads to Elysium. He threw the man into the snow, the rightful treatment of a pagan. The Mercatore would have had the genius idea of that of his friends, to brand a pagan. The Branding Iron would begin to heat up in the fire, turning orange from the immense heat. The Lorrarine’s Cross now a bright orange, standing out against the flames it sat in. The operative would take the branding iron, glowing and look to the man’s head. Branding the Lorraine’s Cross to the man’s forehead, the only way to show the pagan it’s fault. Pagans are simple yet barbaric minded people, and don’t accept their faults unless their own kind is forced to look at their faults. First of many brandings, first of many to come. And that is why, when returning to their beloved homes, the Mercatorii sung once again: Mother Mercatore Loves Her Sons. And with the dusk’s peak arriving, the Mercatorii saw opportunity. Taking the late dusk’s fading advantage they rode in slowly through the Norlandic harbors. 3 Small rowboats with Five MRA agents. Two landed, then another two, and the final one docked at the shore of the Pagan’s Harbor, with feeble infrastructure laid before them. The small Pagan Town of Leumont. The Mercatorii once more took advantage of the slightly withered walls, climbing up them with ease. Reaching the top, they would whisper among themselves. “Make sure everyone takes a firebomb, burn it to the ground.” They all did so in unison, each taking their own bottles and rags. The smell of Pine Tar filled the air around the bottles for mere moments. Then two men stole lanterns to light the infamous weapons of the Mercatore. The light would bounce off the chest pieces of those holding them as they walked. As they all rushed the lanterns, lighting fuze next to fuze, brothers in arms, they all shouted in unison. “Viva la Mercatorii, Erlojuak Mesede egiten Digu, Mercatore!” The sounds of broken glass and fire sparking were all that could be heard as bottles shattered, the brave men withdrew from their positions. Backing away from their scenes one by one till no more wall was left for them to follow. They jumped, some into the Pagan Settlement, others into the water where they retrieved the boats. Those inside began to light the seawall, wishing it destroyed post haste. Those in the boats awaited under the seawall, for those inside to jump into the contraptions. As the Agents left the scene, shouts of victory, of celebration could be heard - as did the anthem time immemorial: Mother Mercatore Loves Her Sons. And with all the joy of Mercatore, the brothers of the MRA stand at the edges of victory once more. The brothers of the MRA, with steady footing, march towards the Inferno of the new Age of Terror. The Second Hour of the MRA is hereby declared. And all fools who dare stand in its way shall suffer the consequences, shall all suffer the fiery inferno of the Mercatorii Clock. For we are potent, by the banners we rise. For we are potent, for the anthems we sing. And the Mercatorii could be heard, for the first time in ages, sing their folk songs at the doors of destiny: Mother Mercatore loves her sons, Mother Mercatore does not forgive, With raging fire she shall punish the pagans, Mother Mercatore loves her sons! We shall baptize them with fire, As soon as let them come nearer; Mother Mercatore loves her sons! Mother Mercatore loves her sons! Mother Mercatore loves her sons! Mother Mercatore loves her sons! Humbly, Ro-Agentea Handia "Waltz" Ro-Agentea "Brick" RO-Agentea "Morado" RO-Agentea "Petrovich" RO-Agentea "Rokossovksy"

David Espinoza, a Hyspian by heart, takes a bite off his enchilada as he reads the missive. "Andale, all these Northern folks are getting really crazy, are they not?", spoke Espinoza, as he handed the missive to his dearest friend Carlos Mendez (@ArizonaRanger), "Caramba, perhaps neutrality is the correct decision. What an intuitive man, es el Rey, eh?" As he finished, the Espinoza would take yet another bite off the enchilada.

In his humble abode, David Espinoza, whom had spent all evening working and running, would rejoice with a yawn of fatigue in his seat. With a clenched fist, the Espinoza would take yet another drink of the Hyspian Tequila as he observed the lettering of the missive. "Ay, now they've had it. DIOS nos salve a todos.", spoke the Espinoza, as he clutched the Lorraine Cross hanging from his necklage.

LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Absolutely based, redpilled dare I say.

wabungus lore

"This is out of the blue.", remarked the young Edrich Bishop, amazed at his cousin's sudden marriage.

Godspeed, friend.

IGN: Nouveau_Chapeau Character Name: Edrich Bishop Age: 14 Place of Residence / Street Address: Karosgrad, Koenastriet III Position: Alderman

[[RP]] First Name: Frank "Doc" Surname: Fassnacht Age: 26 Reason for Interest: Representing the Mercatorii as head of the MRA, and blowing **** up. [[OOC]] Username: Nouveau_Chapeau Discord: Nouveau-Chapeau#0769

[ ! ] Not far from where the original announcements remained, sheets of paper containing a small poem would lay about, dancing with the wind as it spread their radius further. "The Mercatorii Clock Remains Still, Hail the Nightmare, Those who Ally Oren Shall Fall, Those who Oppose it Shall Rise, God save Oren, for no one else Can."