Nouveau_Chateau

Rokossovsky reads over the missive with many thoughts filling his mind like scorpions at his brain. His feet resting on his desk as he head, with the lantern shining shaking his shakily hands that held the missive. His eyes would skim over the missive selectively as he looked upwards to his comrades. "Who is this man.. I want to find him before Oren does. Whatever comes next is up to us." He'd remark. @Nouveau-Chapeau@chacmul@Gambit@mosscowi

"I do believe he was at Dobrov.. Shame he passed, Fairly certain he was a good fighter, No?" The Veteran would remark to his comrade in a neutral tone. His hands tapped his desk rhythmically, as thoughts crossed his mind as to why the man had actually killed himself. @chacmul

Rokossovsky would be woken by the missive being placed on his desk, his eyes slowly opened to peer down at the page. He wiped his eyes awake, raising the page near his lantern shakily. Slowly reading it over completely, nodding as he realized it wasn't a dream. This had now pushed his personal kill count of Ministry Agents to about 24 now in total. His mind raced with the thought of all the agent's faces, all the people he had killed, all the people who couldn't go home to their families. Their faces, their last words and their voices. It haunted him, that he single-handedly was such a danger to these people. That he had wanted peace, and now was being forced into such desperation he had to begin blowing people up and ruining lives. The sight of Ernest collapsing specifically drifted across his mind, his friend had died at his hands. And it was his fault, he fired that round. Yet he was able to reconcile with the fact this is what he had to live with. That he would eventually atone, whether it be in his death or future actions to come. "For the greater good of my people.. I must wear the burden of us all.. All these actions become heavier and heavier, and yet here I stand continuing on. For the Faith, And for the Mercatorii. Viva Mercatore." The Ro-Agentea would remark to himself, for once he hadn't seen something from his sleep deprivation! Rokossovsky's hands would slide the missive on top of the treaty from prior, adding to the stack of papers. The veteran leaned back in his seat, as he got back to scheming, no longer would such atrocities weigh down his work. If his people wanted a chance at freedom, this would be their shot to take. Viva Mercatore.

"Why do they never tell me these things until its too late?" Rokossovsky would remark tiredly, placing down the copy on the stack of papers to the corner of his desk. He'd then fall back asleep on his desk, he was to tired to deal with politics.

Moskau sat in his respective chair in the room. His hands concealed his face, hiding it for a few moments as his drowsiness ate him from the inside out. With a sudden jerk, he'd wake up. The dirty hands of the Ro-Agenta pushed back his hair, so he could see and remember what was being talked about. He read over the missive briefly, hearing the Veteran's words. "If ink is so costly we should raid one of their wagons full of it.. Lads don't guard their convoys now do they?" He'd remark with a hint of a chuckle in his tone. His emotion would snap, his demeanor would change. His overall tone would become serious yet drowsily. "We now must fight the Oreners face to face. No longer are they distracted by the pagans, their full attention will be diverted to us. We're no longer in their peripheral vision. We are the center focus. So I ask you all, shall we poke out their eyes?" The Tactician's heart would begin to grow uneasy. The battle-hardened hands of the mentally disrupted begun to shake, to which he promptly hid them behind his back. A plan so devious formed into his head, a plan of murder, a plan of brutality.. It would be his Magnum Opus. A plan never to come, A plan to create his street that could never be built. A plan to make his younger brother proud. The clock is with us. Viva Mercatore.

The Ro-Agentea Rokossovsky would have returned to his singular desk. Not cheering, not smiling like the rest of his men and Petrovich in the rooms beside. He'd have taken the missive he had helped write, and edit. Sliding it beside him, this time he'd pick up the drawing of his brother, Kosomov. An older, folded piece of parchment to that of which he loved dearly and always kept on his desk. His voice would lower as he stared to remember the good times they endured, versus the times they now were forced to thrive in. "It doesn't feel good to win this battle. It only furthers the rift between us. I didn't kill anyone because I didn't have to, I would not kill men who did not want to die on our hill. It reminded me of us as kids. I never would've thought to kill you during our fights, but rather to stop it one way or another. I hope this will turn out the same way, that eventually we can be friends once again." He'd take a breath as he'd continue his insane rambling. Gripping the parchment tighter as he continued to speak more and more. He would shudder at the fact they had become so well at terrorism now. That they were so well at injuring, bombing, torturing people. It haunted him, it was his nightmare that kept him up at night. "The leadership of the Ministry has faltered, and my disappointment outweighs everything else. To think I served with these men and women frustrates me in the fact that they all were injured. Oh how I wish I could see you again, so our plans may once more prosper in these dark times brother. So that we may finally be at peace with a home we may proclaim our own. So that we could have the street that could never be built." He'd remark to himself finally, with his insane tendencies running through his brain. He was glad they had won, but not by the means of it. All the innocent men and women he had to have injured, incapacitated, burnt alive even! It wouldn't gain him personally anything, but it wasn't his choice to determine that. He had to follow his orders, he had to continue his attacks. For the Mercatorii, and for his brother. Viva Mercatore.

The man dubbed Rokossovsky would peer over Vladosvitch's shoulder and read over the missive again, as he had done to the Elysium missive. "They can't, they're not nearly on our level of intelligence." He'd remark with a smile as he went back to doing something, somewhere.

The man dubbed Rokossovsky would peer over Waltz's shoulder, also reading over the missive. "Very good" He'd remark.

[[RP]] First Name: Exeter Surname: N/A Age: 26 Reason for Interest: Mercatorii Goon [[OOC]] Username: Nouveau_Chateau Discord: Toast#0516