Nouveau_Chateau

Ezio Márquez would mutter to his Captain, Winchester. @Gambit  "To think we had time for this along with everything else done today."

Ezio Márquez would be set aside from his comrades celebrating the wreckage they'd all caused.    He had thrown the molotov which had ripped through the wood, igniting the front of the manor in flames which he narrowly had escaped from.  The boy had also scavenged some books and equipment, all of which he'd place on various shelves and bookcases within his room.  "Should father come, he'd surely enjoy some of this, right?"  He'd question to himself before leaving to go party with the rest of the guard.

A certain Mercatorii celebrates with his brethren after the battle.

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!"

"We've won!  Know your godan damned place Imperial Constabulary!"

The Marshal would shout aloud upon reading the news.  He'd finally won against the Ministry of Justice, after amany battles and plenty of close calls.  The Mercatorii Revolutionary Army could now be laid to rest peacefully.

"Gentlemen.  The Holy See has just been attacked.. I do believe it's time we leave the crippled Ministry be and direct our much unneeded but necessary attention on something more worthwhile. The pagans shall pay within Holy Fire."

A certain veteran who also loved to burn things would state to his comrades around him, looking each of them in the eye as some terrorist tomfoolery would probably ensue.  Regardless of whatever antics would ensue, some searching was needed to be done.
@chacmul@mosscowi@megavoltar@Viraj Dobrial@FranzFerdinand

"Musin Rights Activists.. Yknow, That's funny."  The marshal would state to himself, sliding the missive to the side of his desk.

"Martial law over some idiots who advocate for Musin Rights.. How funny indeed."

There sat the 'traitor' in his dead brethren's eyes.  He had done what was needed to save not himself but the MRA as a whole.  He valued his men more than a dead one that of which a lunatic was in shambles to find.  Willing to throw hundreds if not thousands into perilous situations just to find a hint of his existence.  Upon hearing the news of his beloved friend, Prüsian Ksiæzect's disappearance, his once cheery and bright smile dripped to a frown.  A crippling one at that.

"Till death do us part.  That was the oath he swore me under.  And it appears that may have been taken in a literal fashion as it was with Prüsian.  What drives a man so mad to wish death upon himself or others to find nothing but a dead corpse that of which we've known has been dead for years.  I'm baffled, Where is he to go?  To find the corpse himself to only return to us with his sorrows of the truth the hardliners could not comprehend?  To die trying?  To kill someone in the search of it?"

The man had many more questions to ask but alas he couldn't bring himself to say them.  He was a tough man, but when it came to his beloved friends and the Handia who turned him into what he was today.  To that he'd shed a tear.  The Marshal would stand up from his seat, his steadily shaking hands finding himself a drink to attempt to calm his nerves, but to no avail.  The bottle would gently be placed back down upon the ledge where it was rightly taken from.  The Mercatorii veteran would go back to his favorite chair, slumping down in it as a temporary state of depression would kick in.  His Handia, His veteran friend who'd saved his life and vice versa, His mentor, His Comrade in arms but most importantly his friend

was dead.

There could be no other explanation as to the ex-Handia's disappearance more simpler than he had died.  And it would be one of the fates they'd all come to expect to arrive soon.  He didn't want to bear a burden that his friend could still be alive, that his mentor could still be endlessly searching for a dead man who'd tell no tales.  And the shaky hands of the man would reach over for his Cross of Lorraine, and he would sign it for his fallen comrade.  The man's trembling voice would state something beneath his breath.

"May we meet again Prüsian, in the seven skies."

"I have heard Sutica is lovely this time of year!" 

The Handia would state from his seat with a smile on his face.  The aging Rokossovsky would look over to Petrovich, handing him the missive.

"Get the canoes, Get the partisans and Get up, We're going to Hyspia."

The Marshal would state to his comrade.  He probably owed something to Carlos that he could pay off with this.  The Mercatorii would then stand up from his seat, placing his hands on the table.  His head drifted over to Petrovich a moment, before he took out a pen and begun writing. @chacmul

"Come to think of it I was wondering what had happened to him.. "

Rokossovsky would state into the room abruptly, breaking the silence between the lads.  The veteran's hands would ever continue to shake as he held the missive.  He's then cast the missive into the middle of the table, leaving it up for grabs.  The Handia's mind begun to think of something as usual.  Something actually fun rather than leaving Orenians dead by the side of the road or heisting some valuables out of another unguarded house.

"Gentlemen.  I think I owe this man a thank you for delivering me from a no one to the Handia of the Mercatorii.  Whether it be a letter or in person, I do owe it to him." 

The veteran would state to his comrades with a dastardly smile from ear to ear.  The man who'd delivered him from a lonely nobody in the MRA to the Handia of it did deserve a thank you.  The aging man would get out of his chair, and leave the room to find his beret.  The beret that'd been with him through all of the struggles in combat, he'd reenter the room and place it down onto the table.  The well kept hat covered the few papers, pens and cigars that'd been left on the table from times before.

"You think he'd like a beret?"

@chacmul@mosscowi@Gambit

why wasnt i invited to the mra beach episode

33 minutes ago, chacmul said:

"So..." Petrovich looked at the usual suspects at his table, Roko and Morado, sliding a missive towards them. "Is this just... propaganda?" He said as took a drink from his glass filled with liquor. Leaning forwards he then spoke again. "If this isn't, we going to do anything about it?"

The aging veteran of the Mercatorii sat across from Petrovich.  His head rested on his hands, his elbows rested on the table, and his burdens rested on his head.  His mind was only racing more and more, even though they hadn't done much in a good long while.  His mind would keep acting up until it was interrupted by Petrovich's abrupt statement.

It surely wasn't his old desk, but it was worthy of replacing it.  The Marshal of the Mercatorii picked up the missive, going to reach for the lantern.  However this wasn't his old desk, and thus the lantern wasn't present where it aught to be.  The stack of missives, the lantern and all the other items were still at his desk.  Regardless of this, he looked over the parchment.  Once, then twice, then a third time.

As he arranged his thoughts, he spoke.

"This is the same woman that talked to us in Oren.. The one who stated we branded and killed children.. I'm almost completely, utterly sure that this is exaggerated.  Sure some of it may be true, but it must be exaggerated.. And what happened to Oren being the Viper of the South?  These people.. are surely difficult to understand.  I leave it up to Morado for his word." 

And with that the Marshal slid the missive over to what he considered one of his closest comrades along with Petrovich.  The unstable man's hands shook slightly as the paper was slid across the carpentry, his condition continued to manipulate him.  Nonetheless he looked to Morado, and then to Petrovich.  These two had served with him through thick and thin, and now it was up to them to decide what to make of it as their Handia was off.. Somewhere.

@mosscowi

A certain veteran of the MRA begins to smile and almost cough out a laugh upon reading the missive at his desk.  His aging hands sliding the missive onto the slowly growing pile right in the corner.  His mind wonders, is this serious or just a simple way to hide their past mistakes?  Regardless he stays seated, wondering if he should read over the missive again just in case.

"Look at this!  They can't be serious can they?  There is nothing left to salvage of the Ministry... Unless of course the Inspector General returns." 

Rokossovsky would remark to himself quietly.  He slid a small map over to his desk and went back to work, planning.

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

"Let's trust in our allies this won't continue on, aye?  We're on such a good run in Oren's backdoor, we'll have them soon enough." 

Moskau would remark from the lonely piece of carpentry in his office, looking over the desk to his comrade yet again.  His hand lifted up the missive and reread it, to be completely sure he hadn't misread it.  His tired eyes slid the missive across the wooden surface, before lifing it onto the pile.  @chacmul

"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

16 minutes ago, Nouveau-Chapeau said:

A Veteran's attention was brought to the soothing Aristocrat's tune, and sought to inform all his comrades about it:

 

First, he spoke to the MAN WITH THE BAYONET (@KindOfToast);

 

"Zergatik? Zergatik kantatzen diogun ERNEST COLBERT-i, bere herrialdearengatik bizia galdu zuen estatu aberats aberatsa, erabateko presaka heroiko batean,

 

Oi garrantzi gabeko gizon baten oroitzapen xumeak, bere epitetoari balio ez zion ezer."

 

"Why Oh Why, let us sing for ERNEST COLBERT, he Wealthy Statesman who lost his life for his country in an act of complete heroic haste,

Oh humble memories of an unimportant man, who bore nothing of value to his epithet."

 

Next, he spoke to the MAN WITH THE FIREBOMB (@chacmul);

 

"Zergatik? Zergatik, abestu diezaiogun GEORGE GALBRAITH-i, bere herrialdearengatik bizia galdu zuen presako heroiko erabateko ekintza batean aberastu zuen estatubatuarraren alde,

 

Oi garrantzi gabeko gizon baten oroitzapen xumeak, bere epitetoan "jauna" besterik ez zekiena."

 

"Why Oh Why, let us sing for GEORGE GALBRAITH, the Wealthy Statesman who lost his life for his country in an act of complete heroic haste,

Oh humble memories of an unimportant man, who bore but a 'Sir' to his epithet."

 

Finally, he spoke to the MAN ON THE TOP (@Gambit);

 

"Hala ere, Zergatik, Zergatik, kantatu behar al diogu SARKOZY-i, sakrifizioa existitzen ez den aristokratarentzat, baina hezurrezko altzairuzko tiro bat?

 

Oi garrantzirik gabeko gizonen oroitzapen xumeak; Helvetia-en Grace, Viktor-en Brawns eta Warwick-en Wit-entzat eta sekula abestu ezin zituzten doinuengatik."

 

"Yet, Why Oh Why, must we sing for the SARKOZY, the Aristocrat whose sacrifice is unexistant, but a shot of boomsteel to his bones?

Oh humble memories of unimportant men; for Helvetia's Grace, for Viktor's Brawns, and for Warwick's Wit, and for their tunes that could have never be sung."

"Oreniarrak emakume aberats baten estatua jarri duten adimen ahuleko gizabanakoak dira. Traizioaren ondoren ez dut ezer entzun."

The man would reluctantly respond to his comrades.  His hands pressed onto his head, as he listened and nothing more.  His eyes wavered around the room, taking notice of everything inside of it before turning his head back to the person speaking.

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.

The veteran of the MRA who fired the round sat at his desk.  His eyes darted across the missive selectively, reading only what he had wanted to read.  The man placed the missive on the 5 other pages of missive he had collected over the months and years.  His hands shuddered as they laid silently upon the mostly barren, old piece of carpentry.  His mind raced, looking up and down the crevasses of the wooden desk.

The lantern brightly lit up the room around him, as his eyes began darting all across the room.  His back felt as if it was being watched by some presence, but none was there.  His head shifted, looking around for a presence of which didn't exist.  The feeling would drop, numbing himself by believing he did the right thing.  It was alright to blow them up.. It was their fault.. It wasn't his.. They were in the way of greatness..

"Such a weapon.. Such a power.. We told them to surrender and they paid the price.. If this is what I must do to continue the liberation of my people.. Then I must continue to be hailed as a monster.  Not for my sake, but for my brethren."

Moskau would state to himself silently in his room.  As his mind begun to flow adrift into a slow slumber, he needed rest.  And so he laid his head down on his desk, falling into a slow slumber with the damned crossbow that fired the shot leaning against his leg.

"To think we were once soldiers.. Must be a force of habit for the Ministry to immediately attempt to beat whichever souls it is into submission after their use has been done.  And they attempt to prove it was fair using their sight of justice.. Disgusting how they cower behind their justice system and won't wear their actions like medals of war.  Even so justice is already a horribly defined word, everyone sees it differently."

Moskau would sit at his old desk once more, taking the flier and placing it before his put-out lantern.  He'd forgot to light it and couldn't be bothered to light it again.  Now in the fairly darkened room, the veteran of the MRA stood up from behind the old piece of carpentry.  His footsteps could barely have been heard as he made his way to the door. Gently thrusting open the door to the breeze the outside world had to offer.  His battered eyes read the missive in the daylight once again, to make sure he was correctly understanding it.

"My view of justice?  I could blow up the entire Imperial Palace and call that justice, and to some it would seem well deserved.  Others would see it as terrorism, and that those responsible need justice.  People may define justice all they want, yet people will still see it how they want it to be.  I don't want justice.  I want the wrongdoing to be right, and if I must continue to withstand the Ministry then so be it."

Moskau once more resides at his desk, his scrapes recovered from the encounter with the Ministry's buffoons.  His hand once more takes up the missive, holding it before the lantern.  His shaky hands place the missive back down, reading the missive he had helped write with his version of the encounter.  For once he isn't disappointed, he is proud of his men.

"To think I could give these men a chance.. The Ministry continues to flood these imbeciles at me who I think wish to live and not die on this hill.  But this has shown me that they are mentally incapable of reasonable thoght.  That they think we are evil, that we must be put down like rabid dogs on the street.  No more chances.  They can't learn, They can't see I have given them chances plenty to cease.  No more I say, No more."

The Ro-Agentea taps his fingers against his desk, pondering what more is to come from the Ministry.  His mind begins working overtime, thinking and contemplating about what these deranged men would finally throw at him now that he wouldn't continue this charade.  His hand would slide the missive to the side, a stack soon to grow as time raged on.

The Ro-Agentea of the MRA stared over the missive, he couldn't remember anything from the battle but was told the scenario by mouth from those who survive.  His guilt was immeasurable, those who had died were now another burden on his hands.  He would accept this distasteful fact, as he re-read the missive that had now been posted throughout Orenia.  His leadership wouldn't falter over the propaganda spread, he couldn't permit it to.

"I feel I must apologize for my lack of leadership during this battle.  I was not able to make due with what I had, and that is my fault.  I had  driven 60 Ministry agents to their fates with 30 men, yet not 60 of them with 50 of our beloved..  What didn't work this time?"

His mind boggled at these numbers.  How could he win with such little before?  His mind raced to comprehend these numbers, the words he was told versus that of which he read.  A few minutes passed and he had finally composed himself at his desk, raising his head from his hands.  His sleep deprived eyes would widen, as something had struck his mind that hadn't before.

"Petrovich and I have things to discuss, So let us be on our way Kosomov."  Moskau would state softly to the lantern in his room, his villainous hands swept the lantern upwards into his palm.  The door to the small office would be opened and shut swiftly, with Moskau on his way to discuss their next series of conflicts.  His mind still racing with the hallucination of his brother beside him, cheerily walking to meet his most trusted compatriot.

Viva Mercatore.