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

Daenerys Targaryen | Game of Thrones | OTA

[dorzalta]

I. TRAINING aka KICKING DANY'S ASS
The arid desert soon becomes a distant, sweeping memory, replaced by wetness. People speak in a language she should not know, but suddenly understands, and she's left standing with a dress--puffy and ridiculous looking--in her arms. All around her, people are busy preparing. Yet she... she is frozen to the spot, in a daze.

What is this?

Eventually, after a few dark looks and urgings to hurry up, and after further struggles and cursing under her breath, she'll manage to wiggle into the dress. It's an ugly thing, entirely impractical in the setting, especially when she's handed a sharp sickle and butcher's knife. The sickle reminds her of an arakh, though much flimsier. Chase the enemy, they say. Oh, how she is ill prepared for war and battle in this way.

Still, if you look like a warrior and someone just as out of place as she, she'll likely flag you down as Generals Kellerman and Dumouriez train those unprepared for upcoming war. "Will you aid me?" The question is as awkward as she feels, but her look is earnest. At least you'll have an attentive student.


II. SPEECHES ARE HER JAM
It feels wrong to fight for a cause she does not believe in. Still, to feel so useless is not something that sits well with Dany, no matter the location. Add to that the fact that she refuses to play medic again, and there's somewhat of a predicament: what is she supposed to do?

As they travel between farms and the smallfolk villages, she notices a running theme: many of those who stay behind are as engaged as she (which is to say very little). After one man's attempts to rally the smallfolk fails, she huffs, tucking a chunk of silver hair behind her ear. Of course that sort of talk would fail! Who wishes to fight for a cause when those meant to inspire are enthusiastic, but not much in the ways of a leader? Where is the authority? He might as well've been some drunken fool babbling about the rain.

...Which is precisely why at the next village, Dany is stepping toward the gathering crowd. You may find her standing before a rapt audience, her voice booming as she speaks of fighting against the invading forces, rallying behind their current leadership, taking back what is theirs. She refrains from the Targaryen motto, but her war cry is much akin to what she might've said to her Dothraki, prior to sailing to Westeros.

Once she's done speaking, she rolls back on her heels to catch her breath, beaming at the group of people who seem to have taken her words to heart.

"It's not what I envisioned," she tells you, if you step up beside her, "But the smallfolk here are tired, just as they are in my lands. Perhaps that will make the difference."


III. I'M ON A BOAT SUPPLY CART, MOTHER FUCKER
It's still raining. She's come to accept this wretched fact eventually, despite her misery in being a water-logged dragon queen. Today, sit sits upon a supply cart beside you, nearly dozing in place after restless, sleepless nights. Nodding off would not be nearly as bad if her head hadn't thunked against your shoulder.

After a murmured apology, she straightens, shoving water-laden hair from her face--and that's when she notices it. A man, frantically riding. She squints past the water dripping off her lashes, then reaches to grip your arm. "Over there!"

If you don't listen to her, she'll nearly snarl at you in frustration, before yanking the reins away and directing the horses after the lone rider. Don't be surprised as she leads the horses with a skilled hand; she was a khaleesi, after all.


IV. HOUSE HUNTING
No matter her status in life, Dany has never been forced to survive in squalor. Even when she and Viserys lived off the scraps of generosity prior to her marrying Drogo, there was a comfortable bed, food to be had, and cleanliness. Even as a khaleesi, while dirty she might've been at some points, rain and mud were not the norm. Even upon her capture with the Khals, and as dirt-streaked as she'd been prior to their realization that she was the wife of the great Khal Drogo, she'd not been so miserable. This place, this land she's forced upon...

"No more," she snaps one morning, after another restless night's sleep. There is mud all around her, the pitter-patter of rain bouncing off the tent and seeping into the ground near her, into her pallet despite her best efforts. There are dark circles under her eyes, her hair a matted mess, despite her best efforts to keep it in its conqueror braid. She's cold, achey, and hungry as she tugs her fingers violently through her hair, freed from its braids. "I will not live like this another night."

Are you the unfortunate soul that has to listen to this venting? The one who watches as she first braids that hair, then gathers her meager belongings in preparation of finding better living accommodations?

Good luck trying to stop her, pal...


V. WILDCARD
Not feeling these? Hit me with your best shot! I'll match your format :> Feel free to poke me on plurk or discord if you'd like to hash out some details, as well.

A LITTLE BIT OF THIS AND THAT

[northerndragon]

[These people. They have forged weapons, they have farms, but aside from that, they're not so different from the Wildlings. If they'd kneeled to their king before, they aren't kneeling now. But who the leader is in all of this, Jon isn't quite sure, and anyway, negotiations and compromises are not what COST is asking of him. Nothing he'd done as Lord Commander or before is needed here except for what he'd done in the training yard and what he'd done at Hardhome.

So he stands watching on the sidelines as Daenerys gives them all a rousing speech... something about their lands, their homes, whether or not they have enough food to fill their bellies, the fact that their spirits will lead them to victory. It's along the lines of what he might have said, and his attention is rapt. This is a dangerous place for her, but when she'd told him she had faith in herself, some months ago, he'd gotten a taste of this kind of speech. He's never seen her deliver something like it to a crowd, but it's clear that this isn't the first time.

As she passes him, she comments that the smallfolk are tired.]

They are. War will make it worse, for a while, but I think they believed you.

UNTZ UNTZ UNTZ, WE DO WHAT WE WANT

[dorzalta]

[ This is a dangerous place, true, but so too had Jerusalem been. So had Westeros, and Essos, and all that awaits them in the future upon their return home (and they would return home, she'll see to that through whatever means necessary). To be viewed with strangeness due to her status as a woman is not new--many men underestimated her in their world as well, and they lived (if they lived) to be proven wrong.

Jon stands nearby, watching, and the look in his eyes is both familiar and foreign. It brings to mind the hot sand beneath their feet in Jerusalem, the confusion his touch summoned... not because it was unwelcome, but because it spoke of familiarity which went beyond their encounter in the caves, or her demands for guidance prior to her attack on the Lannisters.

Still, he is a familiar and welcomed face, and she smiles in greeting as she steps near enough, folding her hands in front of her. The rain continues, as it has, and she feels weighed down with the water's hold. Likely, she looks soaked to the bone as well. He, at least, is still handsome no matter the setting. ]

War makes many things worse, but if it brings with it change for the better, it's worth it. [ She had to believe that. ] Having something to place their faith in and fight for is what most people need.

[northerndragon]

[The weather is miserable, but he's seen and lived through much worse, though he thinks the people here could use better boots and better shoes and thicker cloaks to keep the wind and wet away. They dress more flamboyantly than people do in the North, but less practically. How much of that is by choice and how much by circumstance, it's hard to say yet.

She isn't used to this kind of weather either, he thinks, and she's not wearing enough.]

Aye, so they'll fight. What do you think of this king?

[As little as he understands of it, it's an inherited position here, and the smallfolk seem to regard the queen as something like his own family regards Cersei Lannister. These people need someone like Mance and don't have him, though from what Jon can gather, the King of France is not a monster.

Before she can answer, he adds,]

You look cold. Let's get out of the wet for a while.

[dorzalta]

[ She's not used to the wet. The hot, dry air? Oh yes. Blistering heat which darkens the skin and chaps the lips. This sort of wetness leaves her chilled to the bone far more than the winds by the cliffs at Dragonstone. ]

Mn, so they'll fight. And some will die for their cause, while others live, but they will have something worth fighting for. Something to distract them from the suffering war will cause. [ It has to be enough.

She shakes her head at his question, and steps closer to him, slipping her arm through his. It might seem like a lady merely holding on for balance, but it's far more nuanced than that: warmth, privacy (as much as they can achieve in this place), and also the touch of something--someone--familiar. ] I don't know what to make of him, truthfully. The stances between this king and queen sounds similar enough to our own world, in some ways.

She reminds me of a maddened queen, from the whispers I have heard. [ After a thoughtful silence, she adds: ] My tent's not far, though it's hardly and dryer.

[northerndragon]

Mine neither. [He says that a little ruefully. He's used to conditions poorer than this; he's camped in the snows under a cloak near a fire beyond the Wall. But sometimes rain can get into your bones in a way that's more miserable than just the cold, even when the land is green and seems warm to him.] They say there are barns along the way, but I've left them to others.

[Those who are habituated to more comfort, he means.

There's been something different about her since he saw her in the first place, Jerusalem... something different than the woman he'd chosen to sail with to White Harbor. He can't place it, but it's a distance in her. The way she loops her arm through his and stands close to him is the first sign that she means to close it, at least for a time. He glances down at their linked arms, and his expression brightens a little as he looks back at her... pleasure, but mostly interest and relief.]

I will fight for these people. Some of their weapons are new to me, though.

ii-ish

[acchakat]

She is a khaleesi. She is everything he remembers and everything he loves, full of fire, full of battle, and when she bares her teeth and instils hope through words alone, Drogo feels a swell of pride.

Of course the moon of his life is here. Of course she is rallying troops. She is light and fire and Drogo is reminded of Vaes Dothrak. The world is watching her like he had watched her in the hallowed halls, eating a horse's heart.

He waits, patient, as Dany speaks with another. She is a conqueror, but with words as well as force. She is everything, Drogo thinks, her brother pretended. His lip curls into a pleased grin, moving to her.

He is wearing clothes that feel tight, too small. They are foreign, but they are not Dany's strange dress. His hair is still braided, bells tingling softly, tucked into his jacket. There's a tricorder hat on his head, squashed to fit, but he's never felt more at home than laying his eyes on her.

"You speak like one of them."

[dorzalta]

Many a moon has passed since she consumed the horse heart. Many a day since she'd smothered him after making a terrible mistake. She's made many mistakes since then, learning how to walk and lead on her own, facing betrayal after betrayal along the way. It's an exhausting journey, made more so with the knowledge that, last she recalled, she sat perched upon Drogon's back, burning her enemies.

To speak to the smallfolk is not a new phenomenon, though the strangeness of these lands does add a surreality to it. The last straggler of this crowd she speaks with soon pales during their conversation, staring aghast over her shoulder before excusing himself and scampering off. It's a strange thing, and has her glancing back curiously.

Drogo.

The siren's call of battle, of victory through inspiring others--both bleed together with newfound adrenaline as Dany stares at him, surprise clear in the widening of her eyes and the way her jaw goes slack. But he smiles, oh how he smiles! So pleased, her warrior is, and she thinks to herself: I did that.

She does not understand this, how he is here, how she is here, when days ago she'd been in Jerusalem; nevertheless, there are some things one must attest to magic, however difficult it is to accept this as true. Is that not what her allies on the sands had said? And magic has been kind in the form of her children. If it's brought him back to her...

Dany beams at him, laughter in her eyes and throat as she steps closer. A puddle splashes her ankles, but she pays it no mind as she observes him in the fabrics of this land, reaching out to run her palms along his chest when they draw near enough (partly to prove that he is, in fact, real).

"You look like one of them," she teases. "And yet they still recognize a fierce khal and know to flee."

[acchakat]

His moon laughs, and Drogo's lips curl into another smile. IT is no surprise--not to him--that she is here. She is fierce, she has a way. Together, they will fight. Together, they will amass their army.

Drogo seeks power, but more importantly, Drogo also seeks power for Dany. Her wish is his, her laugh, too, and the Dothraki wastes no time. Even if he grunts and it sounds suspiciously like an annoyed groan at the fact that he's not wearing what he's used to.

Still, none of that matters, not when he leans down and kisses her, warm and inviting, arms strong and looping around her. To any, they are a pair of peasants, and yet those who look closer can see they are so much more.

"They recognize strength. You have such, moon of my life. It is known."

[dorzalta]

The warmth in her gaze crinkles the corners of her eyes, turns the blue in them to something akin to the bright summer sky. That grunt, she recognizes it; most would not, but most are not her. How many moons had passed while she'd learned the nuances of his silences? For all that he is a man, sometimes, he reminds her so very much of his mount--even her dragons, with their grunts of pleasure and displeasure.

She doesn't think he would appreciate the comparison, however fierce they might be. Still, the giddy laugh escapes her anyway, swallowed by a kiss that she readily leans into. Even with the patter of rain pelting her, the dampness cannot extinguish the rush of warmth and happiness seeing him summons. Hands cupping his cheeks, she presses her forehead to his when the kiss comes to its end.

"My sun and stars taught me how best to bare my teeth." She has so much to tell him, so many stories she thinks he would appreciate. That time would come, though. "I didn't see you in Jerusalem."

[acchakat]

The word is foreign. So many words are foreign, and Drogo dislikes that fact. If this was a trading center, if this was where one goes to barter or sell, it would be different. But it is not. It is unfamiliar languages (some he can still understand) and unfamiliar smells mixing with ones he recognizes but still seem off. It's enough to make ones head spin, though Drogo will never admit it, and he wonders if this is the same feeling his wife had upon first wedding him.

"Jeru--" Drogo's face pinches, just a tad. "Jerusalem," He echoes, trying to say it properly. It is a name--a place--he automatically distrusts. He glances up at the rain. They should probably move, Dany is small, she may fall ill with too much water from the sky on her skin. He doesn't.

"I am here for you," he says simply. "So you may cross the poison sea."

ii;

[handtowels]

Takatora doesn't intend to stop and listen, but finds himself doing so. Maybe it's that the pride and fire Dany possesses as she speaks reminds him of Ina, one of his fellow Tokugawa vassals. She's good at this; a born orator.

"It will. They're already standing taller."

He glances at her, curious.

"You've done this before."

[dorzalta]

Dany meets his gaze, chin lifting in pride. "I have. Many a time."

She does not recognize him, cannot tell if he's associated with COST, as she does not recall seeing him on the field of battle in Jerusalem. That's not to say he wasn't there, however; there were many a warrior who blended in rather well with their environment. Still, he's a look to him that seems somewhat out of place--much akin to she, Jon, and Drogo: not one of the smallfolk of these lands, and not one of the generals, either.

"It's one of the few skills I can boast about in this setting."

[handtowels]

"Morale plays an important part in making or breaking an army. We'll have to overcome our collective gap in fighting ability with fervour. Wet and hungry, these people need to keep the fire in their bellies stoked."

Despite those words, Takatora is confident. He's attired like a civilian, including a cockade and phrygian cap, but he has his saiken at his hip. It's a little more ornate and eastern than the sabres the military men are wearing, but not hugely dissimilar or out of place.

"My last battle was under much warmer conditions," he remarks. "Do you plan to fight?"

If she's with COST then surely she'll read more into that than a native will. If she's native, then no doubt he'll have to answer more questions about China, despite never having been.

[dorzalta]

"They will do what they must, and we will provide what we can." This, she is fully confident in. The smallfolk are not the sort to enter a battle without the promise of something to gain. Something to improve upon their lives.

Hadn't she been told once that they care not for who plays these games, so long as they have warm food in their bellies? Oh Jorah. How she wished he were here.

"There's hope. You can see it in their eyes, waiting for someone to inspire it to life."

Warmer conditions? Something sharpens in her gaze, though there is a whisper of doubt about whether he is with COST. It's rather difficult to distinguish natives from non-natives, when she's no experience with anyone outside of her own world. "The heat and lack of mud was indeed preferable." After a careful pause, she shakes her head. "I cannot battle, I've received no formal training in it and would likely prove a liability."

[handtowels]

"I prefer crossbows to cannons as opponents. Though at least we have some cannons of our own."

Takatora turns a little more towards her, crossing his arms.

"You might find yourself drawn into fighting. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to learn enough basics to keep you alive if you're cornered."

I. even queens can't avoid an asskissing I MEAN ASS KICKING

[pointedlook]

[ He's fluent in French– one too many jobs in Paris, also Mal would've kicked his ass if he never learned– but he doesn't expect to be dropped in wartime. In the rain. With a pushy french woman asking him questions rapid fire. Blinking, he gains his ground enough to answer what's needed and is soon rewarded with a musket in his hand, a satchel of gunpowder, clothing, and hasty directions to where the rest of the necessary tools for riflery are.

Perturbed but too professional to let it show, he strips out of his obviously modern clothes and pulls on the garments he'd been handed. It's. Charming? In a peasant way. There's stockings involved and they're itchy. He desperately wishes he'd worn sock garters so he could've snuck them under his trousers. Arthur tries not to think too hard about who might've worn these clothes before; garments so rarely came freely unless the body that had needed them was six feet under.

Getting out of the bustle a little, he starts inspecting the gun, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to remember his firearms history. Angling it towards the ground, he peers down the barrel, adjusting to the sighting and knowing he'll have to make corrections. It's as he's looking back up that he sees someone flagging him for attention. ]

Sure. [ Why the hell not. ] What d'you need?

he likes that booty don't lie

[dorzalta]

[ He holds a weapon with confidence many lack in this space. It's one of the reasons she approaches, requesting his aid. There's a look to him, one which speaks of foreignness, despite the garb he dons. Perhaps its the way he's so singleminded in his focus, whereas the smallfolk around them grow flustered easily. Or perhaps it's his ease in which he handles the... what had they called it, again? A gun?

She stops before him, linking her fingers together, watching the way his fingers glide along the metal as if he plays an instrument and not a weapon. ]

You're familiar with battle, are you not my lord? [ Perhaps she should refrain from formalities. She'd not heard the peasants addressing each other as such. ] They've given me weapons, but I'm not skilled in hand to hand combat.

he'd have to be cold blooded not to appreciate

[pointedlook]

[ Setting the rifle on the ground, muzzle first, he casually uses it to lean on. The dirt here is damp from the rain but not enough to be completely soaked.

She stops just close enough, seeming to choose her words carefully.

Arthur's eyebrows climb towards his hairline at an alarming rate when she calls him lord. Wow okay. Not something he expected. ]

It's Arthur. [ Let's get that out of the way first. He extends a hand out to her, a formal greeting, like a business transaction. ]

What have they handed you? I know enough to get by. [ That's an understatement. ]

bless him and his armani suits

[dorzalta]

[ Ah, so it was a mistake to address him as lord. She casts a wary glance around them, studying those who stand nearby; they pay the two no notice, prompting Dany to take another step closer. Distraction. There needs to be distraction to draw his focus from her blunder.

It comes in the form of an extended hand, one she considers for a beat too long before she reaches out. Like Yara, this is what his offering reminder her of, and yet they do not discuss transactions or alliances. Still, she reaches for him, her fingers curling around his forearm to lightly squeeze. ]

I'm Daenerys.

[ Soon, she's pulling her hand away, the pads of her fingers grazing his inner wrist before she reaches for the arakh-like blade, as well as the butcher's knife. ]

You've experience in battles, Arthur?

he's rocking turn of the century French fashion for now

[pointedlook]

[ Her motions are wary, nervous. The title had been a mistake, that he can see easily in the way she reacts afterwards. Sliding his gaze to the side, he notes that everyone else is ignoring them. Good.

She takes the offered greeting and he only jerks a little bit away when she clasps his forearm instead of just his hand. That's. Unexpected. Weirdly invasive? But it probably isn't intentionally rude.

Though immediately that's banished as her fingers drag on his wrist. Brow furrowing, he drops his hand out of the grip, primly tugging his sleeve further down. ]

Nothing large scale. I've seen my fair share of fights, though.

[ Another glance around before he meets her gaze. ] Here, let's walk.

I

[rappels]

It's an image that doesn't quite match up, because the young woman that she ends up addressing looks just as much out of place. She's wearing very similar clothing and looking very uncomfortable with it, but the clue why is in why this image is so incongruous. There's a large hunting bow on her back. That alone doesn't really fit with what she's wearing but even more, the bow itself is odd looking. There's very little wood, but all metals and plastics that would surely look quite strange and alien to Dany.

She doesn't seem thrilled by the circumstances they're in between the odd, restrictive clothing and the oppressive rain, but she's not so visibly upset or stand-offish that it seems like she's unwilling to be helpful. When Dany catches her attention, Aloy actually looks a little surprised, but it's followed by a slightly more friendly smile. Only slightly, because this is not her ideal situation, but whatever. She puts a hand on her hip then nods.

"Sure," she responds, though she does seem to rethink it slightly as she looks for any weapon that Dany might have or if she has one at all. "What are you looking for help with?"

Though after a very brief moment, Aloy does add a bit reluctantly, like it's a blow to her pride to do so, "I... haven't taught anyone before, in case that matters."

[dorzalta]

She would not be alone in this sentiment. These circumstances are less than ideal; one moment, she'd stood within Jerusalem, and the next, she was here. They expected her to battle, but she's never lifted a sword to cause harm. The only harm she's ever caused was to Viserys and Drogo all those years ago, and how much had she truly caused at that time?

No, her power is with her children, and they are not here. They slumber upon the cliffs of Dragonstone, awaiting their time.

"I'm familiar with battle, my lady, but I've never participated in it. They've given me these--" Here, she proffers the arakh-looking weapon, as well as a knife, holding them loosely in her hands. "--but..."

A sharp shake of the head. She would not doubt. She cannot doubt. It would do her a disservice here.

"It doesn't matter, at least not to me. So long as you're willing to guide me."

[rappels]

The formal way of being addressed surprises Aloy, and it's quite open on her face. It's a politeness she's very rarely afforded, since as an outcast of the Nora, there aren't many people that would give it either in or outside of the tribe. And naturally, it's even more of a surprise coming from a pretty woman. A small lump knots in her throat from a sort of flustered awkwardness, but she powers through it and tries not to acknowledge it at all.

"Uh, well," she starts, and her surprise leaks through, but as she continues speaking, her tone evens out, "It's at least something. With how they've been training, it seems like a fair amount of these people haven't even picked up a weapon before."

Aloy looks between the sickle and the knife and frowns, since she doesn't think either is really ideal for someone that hasn't fought before, but she can't think of better options either. A bow is safer for the person using it, but it requires the kind of skill that won't be learned quickly. She shifts to cross her arms, but it's more a thoughtful gesture than anything else.

"How are you familiar with battle if you haven't participated, exactly? That's probably a good place to start so that I know what I should be teaching."

[dorzalta]

[ ooc: ugh sorry for the slow response, it's been a week... lots of work changes that meant overtime and exhaustion. ]

"No, it would seem these people are much akin to the smallfolk. More concerned with daily life, until daily life's turned unbearable." She's watching some of those attempting to fight. It's clumsy and not at all graceful like those she surrounds herself with. "This is likely suicidal for a great many of them."

And it does not make her happy in the slightest. That COST expects them to aid in all this...

Dany glances back toward her companion, then at the weapons in her hands with furrowed brows. "I burned armies with my dragon, burned khals with nothing more than a brazier. My guard, my armies, my dragons--they all battle in my stead. And I fly into battle on my son's back, offering his aid in any way I can."

But he is not here, and she is practically useless in the art of hand-to-hand combat.