XOCO

The two recruits advanced as one, hacking away at a certain Private Specialist with wild abandon. Recruit Vladrick's practice blade flashed once, then twice under the sun, and the poor instructor lurched forth with a howl of pain, to face his other assailant. He now stood face to face with Recruit Ezekiel. Yet, the burly recruit made no motion to swing his sword - rather, he unscrewed his pommel and flung it with all his strength, leaving a dent in their instructor's helm, and another unfortunate case for the medical corps. "Where did those years go?" Sir Ezekiel Moores pondered, a wide smile stretched across his lips as he looked over the training yard, a new batch of recruits wielding their first swords. He had not heard of the tragedy that had befallen Vladrick and his two brigadiers, not yet at least. "We shall duel, I think, at least once before either of our brittle bones give in to our mortality." He mused quietly in his thoughts as he stepped away from the fields and into his office, "It'd be a spectacle to behold, and a mummer's farce at the same time. Two of the Army's finest swordsmen, duelling four decades past their prime. It'd look a proper jest, with two old men hacking away at each other." Sir Ezekiel could not help but laugh at the notion, slipping his cloak off his shoulders and settling into his chair.

Captain Sir Ezekiel Moores reads the missive with glee. Slowly, his eyes rise to meet Sir Duncan Vuiller's. Both men offer a single nod to one another. "Time for a career switch."@Duncan the Fearsome

"Holy crap-" Pisspot howls in laughter upon seeing the missive, accidentally pricking himself on his razor.

Rain lashed against Corporal Ezekiel Moores and his thick wool cloak, as his steed pounded against the black-brown mud of Outer Arentennia. Up and over the vast, looming mountains he rode, and then back down and across the length of the lake, taking note of the field. This was, after all, where high command had predicted that the Nordling field army would march, and hence, where the Imperial State Army had decided to end the war once and for all. It was the next Saint's day by the time the weathered corporal had returned to Providence, yet he did not waste a single minute. With great haste, he hitched the horse by the front of the Bastille's officer block, the great white mass of quartz bearing down upon the young Moores with expectation. With his cloak still dripping with rainwater, he barged through the all-familiar steel doors, and into the Galbraith's office. The sound of wet parchment slapping down onto the Captain's oaken desk reverberated about the cramped office, and Captain Robert Galbraith offered the young scout a rather dubious look. Regardless of how soiled the report had been however, the officer peeled one wet page from another, and read the report in full. With each line, the man's eyes grew wider, before finally looking up to face the young corporal in full. "We could win the war with this!" Captain Sir Ezekiel Moores stirred from his brief nap as the annual meeting of Orenian high command came to a close. His eyes drifted to the single empty seat within the room as another brazen young soldier concluded his speech. Major Sir Robert Galbraith he quietly noted to himself. Yet, his disappearance was not out of place - for many months now, the old man had spent his time away from the Imperial State Army, doing things only God knew. Perhaps it was the Rivian guard that kept him occupied - yet still, the grizzled Captain could not help but miss his presence. The man was practically his father at this point - and if not, at the very least a mentor and a stark figure for all of his years in the Imperial State Army - having seen him rise from a blundering recruit all the way to an esteemed Captain of great renown. He rose from his seat as the meeting came to an end, moving swiftly towards his tower, and hence his office. There, he would begin his routine examination of his notes from the meeting. Slowly, and meticulously as ever, he poured over the many pieces of parchment, until he was interrupted by a courier bearing grim news. The small flame dancing on the wick of his candle flickered for a moment as the world came to a screeching halt. Major Robert Galbraith is dead. The thought pounded at his head, threatening to cave in his skull as if it was some roaring stallion, thrusting and thrashing its hind legs about in a most vicious manner. His eyes bulged and swelled, as salty tears threatened their charge, and the man's hand let go of his quill and clenched into a fist. Caught by Haensers ... Slit his own throat. The boy's words slipped in and out of his ears, the Captain only registering one fact. Robert Galbraith is dead. Robby is rotting, six feet under in some unmarked Haenseti grave. Maggots will infest his corpse and tear away, leaving nothing of the man you once looked up to. The man is gone. "Enough!" The captain snapped, rising from his seat, his voice carrying a ***** trembling. "Get out of my office!" He crossed the room - or rather, more accurately, shambled - towards his liquor cabinet, yanking a single bottle of whiskey. Robby's favourite. He poured two glasses that night, and drank one. The other, he placed beneath a polished cavalry sabre that hung proud in a mantle in his office. Death and glory... and beautiful wenches. ~ Somewhere, in some shamble of a tavern, Pisspot feels a pang of remorse.

Pisspot the Foul squints at the fancy paper in his hand. The man did not know how to read.

A somber Captain Sir Ezekiel Moores sighed deeply as he mourned with the rest of his men. General Erik Var Ruthern had been there to see him progress from a mere recruit all the way to a mighty captain of one of his brigades. His throat, he realised, was dry - parched to the point where he could not speak. Or perhaps, more accurately, he could not will himself to speak. He had served for long years with the old man - first as his one of his grenadiers, then a proud member of his officer corps, and finally, in the closing decades of the man's life, one of his captains. It was when he was all alone atop his steed, riding home that he realised the words he meant to say. "You shouldn't have died," was all the man could utter, as selfish as the remark might have been, "You should have led - ten, twenty, thirty years more at least." His eyes began to water, though no tears fell. A soldier is strong in spite of loss. A weak stomach is a weak man. Yes. That was it, he thought. The words that Erik had told him that cold evening on the gallows, when Ezekiel had executed his first man. "Dulce et decorum est, prop patria mori." He replied aloud, as he had commented that night.

Pisspot the Foul offered Duncan a dark grin upon hearing the news. The man was a villain, through and through, and had no regrets regarding the ordeal. "If he actually had gold hands, I would've hacked his hands off and have been done with! A shame the only gold about him was his hair."

The trebuchet creaked... and creaked... and creaked... and suddenly, with a brief shout from Captain Ezekiel Moores, lurched to life, launching a grey mass that bashed through the tall trees of Haverlock and into its walls, ripping through brick and flesh alike. "Reload, reload!" The man cried, as his soldiers Lieutenant Obedia and Corporal de Murat toiled away at the great machine. ~ The air atop the wall reeked of sweat, blood and death as the men of the trebuchet poured through with the vanguard, clambering up the ladders to put Haverlock's defenders to the blade. The Captain, though brittle in his old age, brought down man after man atop the wall, before barreling into a small side room to slaughter the Sedanites who had run from the battle. Fueled by adrenaline, he continued his march with the rest of the rally, his white enameled plate stained a deep crimson.

"Are you really leaving the army for the Ministry of Justice?" A bewildered Corporal Ezekiel Moores queried, as the two newly promoted soldiers walked down the grand corridor of the Officer's Building, towards the always familiar set of steel doors. "I'll be damned if you get a higher pay than I do, Madron!" Captain Sir Ezekiel Moores grimaced as a squeamish young squire delivered the news, running off as fast as he had arrived with it. Old brown eyes glossed over every single word; the captain sparing nothing from his mournful gaze. Stone digits drummed steadily against the neatly kept spruce desk, before coming to an abrupt halt as the man's deep brown orbs finally reached the bottom of the page. Ezekiel opened his mouth to speak, but for once in the cunning rogue's life, he had no words to offer. Nothing sharp, nothing witty, and certainly nothing profound. Just a plain, deafening silence. An old man, asphyxiated by a sudden sense of overwhelming emotion. And lo and behold, finally, the stoic figure wept for the second time in his long and arduous life, his digits curling into rageful fists, assailing his poor, poor table. It was morning when his men had found him, slumped and unconscious, his office in a mess and the putrid stench of liquor wafting from him. "Madron..." He murmured, in his drunken stupor, his eyes flitting awake as sun filtered through the torn curtains, "... You were one magnificent bastard..."

A certain Captain toils away with his work as the captured nobles are brought to the gallows, having left the group in Sedan long before the fighting began (certainly not because his skygod had to go to chemistry class). "A missed opportunity." He muses quietly, glancing out of his window momentarily to watch the execution.

Captain Sir Ezekiel Moores grinned madly as he rose from the ground, having just killed his final dwarf of the battle. The man thrusted his bloodied blade into the air, with a rather triumphant and resounding "AVE ORENIA!"

MC NAME : Xocolataphobia RP NAME : Ezekiel Moores AGE : Absolutely lost count. Maybe 70. Are you an Orenian Citizen or Ally : Citizen Are you an ISA Soldier or a Knight of the Empire : Knight and soldier If you are from a Noble House, which one : N/A

"...Sedanians." Captain Ezekiel Moores remarks as he continues to trot back to Providence ahead of the formation.

"Long live the Empire!" cries a passionate Captain Ezekiel Moores as he thrusts his tankard of ale into the air. "May this be the first of many to come!"

"How the turn tables..." The old Captain Ezekiel Moores would murmur, before one of his younger soldiers quickly corrected him.

Sir Ezekiel Moores reads the letter with a wide smile, instantly springing to his feet. "I wonder if he's a whiskey man?" He murmurs, perusing his collection of liquor.

Captain Ezekiel Moores waves the missive around the 4th Brigade offices, screeching like a bat from hell. "Get up! GET UP! Off yer arses lads, you've got a job!"

"Surprised it wasn't one of the majors." Captain Ezekiel Moores remarked from the quiet confines of his office as he sorted the papers on his desk. "Well, I suppose congratulations are in order." The officer rose from his seat and began the long and arduous 2 meter journey across the corridor to the newly appointed Lt. Colonel's office to offer his congratulations.

+1 BIG UP THE HOMIE EXUL

During a quiet night, some many miles away from the battle in which his old friend was slain, the veteran Captain Ezekiel Moores would read the missive delivered to him by his squire; a list bearing many names and ranks, Orenian patriots whose lives were tragically cut short. His brows creased ever so slightly as the soldier's shrewd brown orbs glazed over one man's name: Senior Corporal Arthur Galbraith. Apathetic to the woes of war after many trying years, the man knew he would find no solace in tears or emotional outbursts. Slowly, the officer rose to his feet, pacing across his rather grand field tent to a small liquor cabinet. He filled two glasses with rich amber liquid, downing both with a sorrowful frown stretched across his face. It was not the last drink the Captain would down that night, though it was by far the night's most memorable one. "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori." He would utter, a tinge of bittersweet lingering in the back of his throat as he returned to his station.

Captain Ezekiel Moores can't help but smile at the missive, as he thinks back to the time he was kidnapped while waiting to witness the Imperial Navy's first showing. "There's a joke to be made here..."

"Robby me lad, my sincerest congratulations..." Captain Ezekiel Moores mumbles with a grin, setting the missive down from his desk as he strolls down the hall of the Tower to speak with his Lieutenants. "Georgie, find me the finest whiskey you can!" He barks, before turning to his other Lieutenant, "And Duncan, get me a beautiful sabre for our man Robby!" @Duncan the Fearsome

"Splendid," Captain Ezekiel Moores simply states, a thin smile spreading across his lips as he read the missive.

"A travesty!" Captain Ezekiel Moores cries out in anguish upon reading the missive, "How could someone do that to such a poor creature?"

[!] A missive is pinned to the ISA's general noticeboard, accompanied by a sketch of a suit of armour. A Missive Regarding Stolen Uniforms To all soldiers of the Imperial State Army, immediately arrest any man that wears the armour pictured in the accompanying sketch. The armour was stolen during a kidnapping on the wharf, hence, any man that wears the armour is to be accused of impersonating an officer and the kidnapping of an officer. Upon recovery, the armour is to be taken from the culprit and destroyed immediately, and the culprit subjected to a trial under Orenian law. The armour in itself is composed of regular Fourth Brigade armour. Its helmet is a modified variation of the standard lobster-tail helmet of the ISA; sporting a plume and a visor with six breaths.