THERE WERE MASTERS AND SERVANTS,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Prepare for the historic Battle of Valmy.
WHEN? Mid September 1792, France.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

IT'LL BE FINE;

between sainte-menehould and valmy,
1792: revolutionary france.

read the valmy setting infopage

DEPARTING JERUSALEM

The clean up of the battle is slog. A full day of piling together corpses. Noting down famous men and women. In the heat, the bodies bloat and become fetid, and the smell builds until it cannot be ignored. Insects swarm, and vultures blot out the sun, swooping down and taking back what's been left for nature. Stragglers and the poor pick through the field for scattered weapons and valuables to collect. The bodies of important men and women are taken for burial; the rest are left for scavengers, animal or human.

It's in this gruesome scene that the order comes:

PACK UP, GET READY TO MOVE OUT. THE TARGETS HAVE BEEN NEAUTRALIZED. WE MAKE OUR DEPARTURE LOCAL TIME, DAWN.

DEPLOYMENT: VALMY, FRANCE. IT'S GOING TO BE A WET ONE. WE ARE EXPECTING MORE TRANSFERS ON ARRIVAL.

The present COST soldiers that have been in strict cover begin finishing their work, if they've decided to help the army move out, tend to the wounded, or clean up after the dead. There is no sign of the Commander yet, but maybe you recognise some of your fellow operatives. They seem be taking advantage of a particular event that maybe you stopped to see, maybe you didn't.

Saladin beheads Reynald de Chattilion and his words fill the camp as much as the news of their next move.

A king does not kill a king, Saladin says to King Guy, and the orders run like wildfire through the camp: next they take Jerusalem, and it's in this march, that when the rest of the army moves on that COST slips away. A order to fall back in steady increments; when the time comes, Saladin's army is out of sight, marching toward Jerusalem.

In the midst of all of this, COST operatives begin to disappear, here one moment and gone in another. Such a strange sight, more than one native soldier muses, must be the fault of heat exhaustion.

The Time-Step

The transfer begins, and it starts like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, not painful, not to start with. Just a hum of sensation. But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomena as 'the buzz'. The sensation builds, feeling not unlike standing near a great engine, or the wind rattling the branches of a great tree. There is long a moment of motion sickness, and one cannot always be sure if it is you that is shaking from the inside out, or the world that is shaking you from the outside in. It may just be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea as the world blurs out of focus. A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Some swear they feel a touch of the divine. One thing is for sure: One moment you are here, and the next, you are not.

The soldier next to you might not have been so clever, when it stops and you find yourself standing in the green fields of France, September 1792. She or he throws up as the vibration fades. Everyone seems to stumble sideways for a second. The world turns, and then rights itself. The heat is gone, replaced with cold and wet.



ARRIVAL FOR TRANSFERS FROM JERUSALEM

It's raining.

You're inside of a tent, (another one), and it already seems to be bustling with movements, they call to you in French, which you understand if you did not already: hurry now, they say, you need out of that cuircass before they're spotted. The rest of the army will be following, and the Prussian army to meet it. There isn't much time to loiter around getting sick in this weather. You have a kit to pick up, and perhaps training to do.

ARRIVAL FOR NEW RECRUITS

The first thing you'll notice is the sound of rain. You awake in a tent that seems to be sheltering against the ruins of a farm house, and everything feels damp. It's a wet September morning in 1792, and when the woman across from you in the tent speaks, you understand it to be French. If you didn't understand French already, you sure do now.

If you ask, she'll explain: you are fighting for France, as the Prussian army intends to invade and sack Paris. You may be a citizen, you may be a soldier; you have risen up in defense of France all the same.

She asks you what role you wish to play in the coming battle, and provides you with clothes and supplies to suit. She won't let you leave until you can pass for a native of France, setting up camp in the rain pouring down between Sainte-Menehould and Valmy.

MISSION OBJECTIVE

The forces of COST have gotten word that Regency operatives have gone to Revolutionary France, intending to turn the tides in one of the most historically important battles in European history. The Battle of Valmy, which decided the entirety of the French Revolution and all that follows it, must be won by the French army, as it was in history.

Unlike the incident in Jerusalem-- you may remember it, you may not-- COST has managed to get here before the day of the battle. Make no mistake; it's coming soon. But this time, you and your fellow travelers have time to prepare.

The French Army has managed to get ahead as well; they've maneuvered around the Prussians, cutting off their supply lines. You and your fellow soldiers are now chasing the invaders as they head for Paris. This is time to prepare and ready your forces. The fight is coming soon.



STAY DRY, STAY SECURE

A few things are strongly remembered about the Battle of Valmy; one of them is the rain. It's really pouring out here, and you're in the thick of it. Rain is a dangerous thing for an army such as this; during this era of warfare, gunpowder was an essential commodity, and wet gunpowder is useless gunpowder. Secure the supplies, rescue supply carriages from muddy sinkholes, steer the horses, check supplies, and try to keep the essential materials for victory dry.

TRAIN UP

General Kellerman and Dumouriez are training peasants in basic military tactics. While veterans make up the core of this army, there are a substantial amount of peasants, and most here have never seen battle in their lives, or ever held a gun. Many are equipped with only rudimentary farming equipment. Help train or be trained so you're ready when the Prussian army arrives.

MEDICAL

Plenty of people need medical attention, not from battle wounds so much as malnutrition and overwork. These are mostly peasant laborers, and they're not entirely fit for battle. Help people get as rested and ready as possible.

ESPIONAGE

We have reason to believe some of the 'peasants' are actually Regency spies. Root them out by seeing keeping an ear to the ground for suspicious activity. They don't know all the words to La Marseillaise? Off with their head! Be careful not to attack time travellers on your side, though!

MORALE

Keep spirits high! Sing, dance, and generally try to keep people from succumbing to fear. Despite the rain and the mud, despite the seemingly impossible odds, the average soldier is full of excitement for battle, ready to fight to the death to defend their freedom.

SUPPLY AND SEEK

Since the French army is behind the invading force, they've cut off the enemy's supply lines. This means that, should the Prussians become encamped here for any amount of time, they won't be able to send for food and munitions from their home country. It's your job to make sure it stays that way. You may see someone riding on a swift horse in a Prussian uniform, attempting to sneak through French lines and try to get word back to mother Prussia. Chase them down, and make sure they can't get their reports back home so a second force isn't sent-- or worse.

BE A COMMUNITY ORGANIZER

This battle is one that's widely known for its popular support-- for the most part, France unites against this invading force with alarming cohesion. Someone gifted with a clever mind, or perhaps a clever tongue, may be able to use that. The French army passes farms and peasant villages along the way-- make rousing speeches, and try to recruit more to the cause, secure donations of food and weaponry, anything you can get.

read the valmy setting infopage

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

Jacob Frye | OTA

[trainwreckoning]

a ) we're feasting on a lord today

Jerusalem was... intense. He's never really had to be in the aftermath, witness that many bodies. Toward the beginning of their trip to France, he just... doesn't have an appetite. He's wondering what the hell he's doing here, wondering if he's left Evie to the chaos he'd unleashed upon London.

The class difference here is keenly felt, especially for Jacob. It seems time doesn't heal all wounds. Jacob is swept up in their cause, listening to anyone who will speak with him about freedom for France. He's civilian, and he wears red, white, and blue things whenever he can, wears a cockade to show his support.

So when it's night, and the army is trying to keep from thinking too hard about what's next, Jacob starts up a song, getting the people to sing along once he taught them the lyrics. It's a clever song, and it seems to be talking about the difference between classes in a humorous, bitter way. Still, none think too hard on the lyrics, enjoying themselves singing and dancing to it. He stops to sit by your character, noticing they aren't dancing. "Not enjoying yourself?"

b ) leave them underground

Jacob's been busy. He hasn't even had time to deal with his grief, his frustration, his hurt. Weirdly, though, as he sits down in the shared tent, he thinks of his father and his mother. He never even got a chance to know the woman who died birthing him.

He looks around, sees that no one's watching him, and snaps out the hidden blades in his sleeves, studying their sharp edges. Maybe he's just like his father, in a way. Maybe this whole agreement to fix the future is just Jacob's way of running away.

c ) the scene wherein they disagreed on who should live and who should bleed

It's dark, the scent of rain still lingering from an earlier downpour. Jacob's been on the track of false allies this entire trip so far, and his main source of intelligence has been urchins.

He happens to be nearby when one man catches one of his urchins going through his things and gets incredibly angry. Jacob sprints between them, and tries to talk him down before getting punched right in the jaw. He manages to calm down the situation fast, though, with his quick tongue. The man stomps off, and the urchin sprints away.

"You're welcome, you ungrateful shit," he mumbles, holding his quickly reddening jaw and watching him disappear.

d ) wildcard

[Make your own option! Contact me at everlark for plotting!]

b

[acchakat]

Drogo's own item from home is a weapon as well--his arakh, long and curved, and something he keeps on him at all times.

He likes his tent, although having to share it is mildly grating--tents, at the very least, remind him of home. The weather, too, when the rains come along the great grass sea. He spends time in his tent when he isn't training--mostly because he can remove his shirt, he can feel grounded, and his hair is free and no longer tucked underneath his jacket.

Currently, he sits cross-legged, rebraiding is as best as he can himself. When he glances over, he spots a gleam of metal.

Daggers.

"Mihesof." He points.

[trainwreckoning]

Jacob looks up, blinking and sliding the blades back into his sleeves with barely a movement. He hasn't really gotten to know his tent-mate, but he is curious about him.

"What was that?" he asks, and then glances down to his sleeves where Drogo's pointing.

"The blades?" And he flicks one out of one sleeve again, looking up for confirmation.

[acchakat]

Drogo nods, the movement sharp and sure. He hadn't spoken much at all--he hadn't really been there in general, despite the rain, mostly because he'd been around the training grounds. When he'd been in the tent it would be silence, or sleep.

Now, though, he's found something he has in common with someone else: weapons. Weapons that are not guns.

"Blades," he echoes in the ugly common tongue. They look smart--like they're easy to hide. He cranes his neck to get a better view, and then nods, chin pointing to him.

"Show."

[trainwreckoning]

Jacob nods, and puts them back in his sleeves before taking his jacket off and climbing over to Drogo's side of the tent. With his jacket off, he can see they're lodged in arm bracers. The bracers seem to have more spots for things, but he doesn't have the actual devices (He wants the darts and the grapple hook back so badly.)

He unlaces the bracer on his left hand with quick fingers. "Here," he says, offering him the bracer so he can inspect the mechanism. There is a pressure switch on the inside of the bracer that he can flick his wrist against that activates the blade.

[acchakat]

Strange men, small men, use things like poison and hidden blades because they are not strong, Drogo thinks. Even if the man before him looks just fine, he is a coward, hiding in shadows.

But they need all types. Perhaps this is how war works in his world. Maybe he is not a coward where he comes from. Drogo, eyeing the bracers, can't help but be impressed either way, but he shakes his head, declining to touch it.

"Show."

You do it.

[trainwreckoning]

Jacob would argue with that if he could hear the man's thoughts. He's also a brawler, and has a lot of pride mixed in with his talent for using his fists.

He raises his brows and ties the bracer back on. As he stands, he flicks the blades out, stabbing the air with one, rolling back to slice the air as he would a second man's throat. He's quick with the blades, practiced as he is. His father taught him well, and it's why he's a master assassin. He can slice one throat and then stab another person in the back a second later, using the two blades easily. He stops after a handful of pretend-kills, flicking them back in his sleeves and looking to Drogo curiously.

"You." He wants to see what the other man can do now.

a

[rappels]

By comparison, Aloy misses Jerusalem. It felt more familiar to her, or at least it did now. Having France as a comparison is the only thing that makes that clear, because from how organized the place was to just how people interacted with each other, it was... different. She didn't know how to explain it, not really, but she had to wonder if it was because this was closer to the world that Elizabet lived in more than her own. It feels strange to say that the "older" time feels like home, but she guesses that's the point. They had lost so much that humanity basically had to start over.

So she doesn't interact with people readily in this case. Where she'd felt she could maybe relate to the people of Jerusalem, she takes an observer's view here in France more. She listens to the songs, watches the dances, and it's interesting to her in the way that it had been when she first came to Meridian. They were people so different from her, and it's fascinating, but also not quite something she wants to participate in. She's not the kind of person that likes to slow down and enjoy things. Really, she's not used to even being invited to.

Aloy is surprised when he comes over, and she lifts her head from her hand as he does. There's an expression in her face that's almost wariness, but it does soften when he asks the question. She gives a lazy shrug, then looks to a group that's happily engaged in the celebration.

"I mean, it's fine. It's..." she pauses, trying to find a good word, but shrugs again, "—different."

She looks at him a bit more than just a glance, then realizes he's the one that started it in the first place. It gets her posture to relax somewhat, though she hadn't quite realized she was so tense. "You're the one that started the song, right?"

[trainwreckoning]

His expression softens a little when he realizes her head had been in her hand. He nods, rubbing his cold hands on his thighs.

"Just a song I learned in the pubs of London. These people..." He shakes his head, smiling as one dances by. "They deserve a little happiness."

To say he's relating is an understatement. But his gaze goes back to Aloy, concerned by her tenseness.

"Are you alright?"

[rappels]

Aloy's brow furrows slightly at the word "London" as if she's trying to recall something about it. It's probably an unexpected reaction, and it's actually quite true. London is a city she felt like she heard about in the ruins, but she's not completely sure. With how she tended to approach the mysteries of the past, it was broad strokes first. So things like cities' names weren't something she always remembered well. Regardless, it's a thought to herself, not really one she's planning on sharing.

The expression quickly shifts to one of mild surprise instead, since Aloy hadn't expected him to ask. Truth be told, save for Rost, it wasn't a question that people often asked her.

"I'm fine?" Though there's a questioning tone in how she answers, as if the question caught her off guard. She shifts slightly where she's sitting, and her attention turns towards some of the people singing. "It's not usually something I see."

There's a pause as she watches and listens to a few more notes, but it gets her to crack a small smile. "They do seem happier."

[trainwreckoning]

He sees her brow furrow but doesn't think much of it. It seems half and half with people that do know London and people that don't. Maybe she just doesn't know London. Which is a shame, really. Jacob's pretty sure he's in love with it. All those people, the sights, the sounds. It's not perfect, but at its core are good people.

Her next comment makes him frown. He can't imagine not growing up dancing at parties. Curious about her, he brings up a foot on his seat, braiding his fingers together and holding his knee.

"You don't usually see dancing?"

[rappels]

"Well— Sometimes," she quickly corrects, and is almost embarassed for once about how out of touch it makes her sound. It's one thing to plainly state the differences between pretty much anyone else's time and her own, but dancing is different. That's a sort of thing she'd only ever seen from a much greater distance than this until recently.

"There's dancing at festivals and celebrations. Plenty of it." Aloy sits up a bit straighter instead of casually slumping forward, and as she continues, her tone is flippant and slightly dismissive. "I just usually wasn't invited. Outcasts aren't really welcome at parties."

The last part comes matter of factly, and she doesn't seem to hold any particular shame over that title. She's bitter about it because the circumstances had nothing to do with her, but at this point, not being one of the Nora is almost more a point of pride than one of shame.

c

[lonelywar]

When he had first been informed to keep an eye open for any abnormalities in the people around them, for they might be afflicted with Regency spies and saboteurs, Ashitaka's first response had been uncertainty. It stretched his mind to its limits to even begin to understand the place, time, and culture they had been thrust into, and the machinations of COST and the Regency were further nuances that he was consistently reminding himself of. It was enough energy spent to make himself not appear suspicious (usually done by seeking out to be overlooked rather than partake in many cultural forays he knew would look awkward if he replicated), let alone seek out others apart from their own that stood out.

Certainly, with how the Regency had been cast in their eyes, they would be better prepared than that.

So Ashitaka was not exactly participating in the hunt, but his keeping out of sight and out of mind did land him nearby when the altercation occurred. He sits up straight as the punch lands, an internal restlessness entreating him to act but without any straightforward impulse to act upon. He usually responded quickly to such things, but he had usually felt strongly about what was the right thing to do. This place and what they were called to do had complicated that greatly.

So he remains an observer until after the man had been pacified. He storms away, the child scattering in the same moment. Ashitaka approaches a moment later.

"Are you alright?" The first and most important thing to ask.

After a moment's thought and rumination from the words he had caught as he approached, however, he adds, "The boy would appreciate you taking a blow in his stead, even if he doesn't show it." Or maybe it was just wishful thinking, the same he had used in convincing himself he'd done the right thing, forcibly taking San out of Irontown, even as she held his blade to his throat.

[trainwreckoning]

"I'm fine," he breathes, still watching the kid run away. He turns then, to Ashitaka, his expression softening.

"Yeah, I know," he mutters, looking down. He did seem to like to lash out at other people when he messed up. And he's wondering if he messed up here.

He holds his hand out to shake Ashitaka's. "Thanks. For checking on me. Jacob Frye."

[lonelywar]

The young man doesn't look so convinced, though he gradually comes to relax. It seems that this man can take a punch well enough, though he's a little concerned with what that would mean, in the grand scheme of things. It's not really his business, though he supposes it was a boon in a situation like this. The conversation doesn't dwell on the consequences of the altercation, though Ashitaka imagines that the soreness from the punch wouldn't fade so quickly.

The name sounds strange to him, though most that he has heard do—and then there's the matter of being able to understand and speak a completely different language, but that's beside the point. At the thanks, Ashitaka shakes his head slightly. "It is a poor substitute for not being able to help earlier." A beat, then he continues, "I am Ashitaka."

The extended hand, though... the young man merely looks at the gesture, hesitant and confused, the gulf of a massive disparity in cultures existing between them. His expression is less judgmental and more one of bafflement as he finds himself at a loss with how to respond.

[trainwreckoning]

Jacob's used to punching and being punched. It comes with being a gang leader, or master assassin, really. He's upset that he got the boy in trouble still, but he smiles as Ashitaka introduces himself. He's just as confused when he doesn't shake his hand immediately.

"Oh. You don't shake hands where you're from?" He asks it, but he's pretty sure that's what the problem is. He drops his hand to his side, not sure what to do.

"How do you greet someone new where you're from?"

[lonelywar]

The boy was in the middle of an army marching to war. He was lucky to have escaped this unscathed, and surely he was grateful within his heart of hearts that Jacob had intervened on his stead, but there would always be more battles fought. Even separate from the mortal peril, he stood to lose more simply being here. From what Ashitaka had seen, war did nothing but take.

Ashitaka seemed a little wooden in response; the social mismatch had him a little off-balance. He shakes his head at the question, looking vaguely apologetic in his confusion. Now that he says it, he thinks he can imagine what shaking hands would be, but it seemed strange to even think of.

He seems to pause again, for a just a moment, before giving a short bow—the type for respectful greetings, not nearly to the severity of a bow that might've been given in the beggaring of forgiveness or mercy. "...If you wish to be formal. In my experience, when meeting someone, you merely speak."

It's okay, Jacob; the culture shock isn't unique to you. He's been getting it in waves ever since Jerusalem.