ne t'en fais pas, mon chou.

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's second TDM! And welcome to Paris, everybody.
WHEN? Late 1792, Paris.
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;

Paris, 1792: revolutionary france.

read the France setting infopages

arrival for veterans

For those who broke off from the army that fought at Valmy and returned to Paris, they come to a city bustling with life. Not only that, but they are greeted with nothing short of a hero's welcome. The tricolor is flown from every possible spot that can hold a flag, cockades are everywhere, and people cheer the names of the generals Dumouriez and Kellermann.

Simply saying you fought at Valmy is liable to get someone to buy you a drink, do you a favor, congradulate you, shake your hand. It's a great way to get shopkeepers to lower their prices, to get a low cost room, or just get someone to smile. Children will ask for stories of the fight. Grown men and women will ask to know what the generals were like.

Yes, you are undercover, yes, you are in the wrong time, and possibly the wrong universe, but for today? You are heroes.

arrival for new recruits

If you didn't fight at Valmy, it means you're new to COST. Maybe you agreed to work with them, maybe you don't remember. It doesn't matter. You wake up in a Parisian hotel room with a kind woman standing near the door, waiting for you to awaken.

You have none of your clothing, just black military-issued underwear, and none of your previous possessions beyond the one you chose (if you remember choosing) to bring with you.

The woman by the door speaks French, and if you didn't understand the language before, you do now. If you have questions as to what's going on, she'll answer: you are a member of COST, a paramilitary organization of time travelers fighting against the Regency, a tyrannous kingdom of the future who are trying to stamp out freedom and individuality in the name of peace.

She will provide you with the clothing necessary to fit in at this time, and show you how to use your BCE implant to look up information on this time period and its social and political mores. She won't let you leave until you're properly dressed to fit in, but once you are, she'll wish you luck.



MISSION OBJECTIVE

Unlike the last two missions you may have faced with COST, this one isn't as straight forward as a battle. This is about information-gathering, keeping your ear to the ground, and watching.

Paris during the revolution, even early days like this, is rife with paranoia. Though the heroes of Valmy are treated with huge respect and admiration, that is a huge exception to the rule, one that will fade with time.

As it stands, everyone expects counter-revolutionary spies sent from Prussia and the Holy Roman Empire, or simply French monarchists, to take what freedoms the people of Paris have wrested for themselves. Whispers abound. Suspicions mount.

It's in the midst of this that COST has received information that the Regency has placed its spies within Paris. Their aims are currently unknown, but it's suspected they have some sort of machinations for the King and Queen. Paris has declared itself a republic, free of monarchial control, but the Regency may have other aims. It's imperative that COST operatives keep an eye open for any and all signs of suspicion.

It's just difficult, because so is everyone else in Paris.



CELEBRATE

Paris is in an uproar, excited by the return of some of its great heroes, the fighters at Valmy. Even if you didn't actively participate in the battle, if you were there, if you contributed at all, someone will want to shake your hand.

Of course, there's always rumors, and there's little way to prove one was actually at Valmy in this premodern era. Accusing, or being accused, of lying about this tremendous day is an excellent way to get into a fight. Be careful.

coffee break

At this time, high spirits in Paris are a dangerous thing. So many people on the streets inevitably leads to trouble: a riot breaks out.

You see, the shipment of more coffee from San Domingo is late, and this increases the price of the coffee already on the market. This may not seem like much, but the average citizen in Paris is very poor, and works upwards of twelve hours daily, often doing back-breaking or repetitive labor. Coffee is an essential ingredient to get them through the day, a stimulant to keep them from dropping flat. Price increases are even worse, then, because of certain laws put in place to stop this from happening. In an attempt to aid the poor, the National Convention has put price laws in place, decreeing that goods such as food and coffee cannot rise above a certain price. In view of the shortages, merchants have ignored these laws.

So a riot breaks out. People break shop windows, attack businesses, and fights break out left and right. In the chaos, it's difficult to tell friend from foe, and you may be attacked by someone who, hours ago, was shaking your hand and congratulating you. You may get swept up in the riot without meaning to. Or, hell, maybe you want to cause a little chaos and break some windows yourself.

Regardless, a riot is a calamitous thing; be careful. While it doesn't cease all of Paris-- Paris is a big place, after all-- it certainly takes a fair percentage of the streets, especially near markets.

One thing, though. It's very odd. Often, when these shops are broken into and goods are stolen, money is left behind. Generally, it's not the amount the shopkeeper was asking-- often, it's exactly the lower amount decreed by the National Convention's ignored law.

WITNESS A BEHEADING

But neither the riot nor the celebration overtakes all of Paris. There are other things going on. Like a beheading.

Jacques Cazotte is one of the first victims of the Terror that will sweep France in a couple months, though he didn't know it at the time. He is a monarchist, though, the very definition of the feared 'counter-revolutionaries' everyone believes live in secret throughout France, seeking to undermine the Revolution at any cost. (Convenient, considering the definition of what precisely a 'counter-revolutionary' is constantly shifting).

Many gather to watch his death, and cheer when the guillotine falls. The executioner holds up his head for all to see when the act is completed, and some may notice the eyes still blink and roll in their sockets. The crowd gasps and jostles closer to see more, but after that, there isn't much fanfare. The body and its head are shoved into a cart and taken away to be buried. The event is over.

Still, the people discuss with great excitement, happy the filthy monarchist, the counter-revolutionary, is dead and gone, and France is that much safer.

PLANT A LIBERTY TREE

Liberty trees are popping up all over Paris, and everyone wants to plant one (if only to say they have). They're any kind of tree, and people are plopping them down in any bit of soil they can find. It's a symbol of the revolution, of patriotism, of loyalty, of whatever the planter wants it to be. Join in, or you'll inevitably be invited to the activity. It's a great way to get an ear to the ground for gossip, or just an idea of how things are going in the city.

LISTEN TO A SPEECH

France was just recently declared a republic after literally hundreds of years of unbroken absolutist monarchism. People are a little excited. Attend political clubs to listen to the speeches on the subject, all with their own perspective (but nearly all very much in favor of the republic). Or maybe you'll see someone speechifying on a street corner, throwing their ideas out to the masses. People are forthright about their political opinions, because they feel like, for the first time in history, their political opinions actually matter. It's pretty exciting, if you're into that sort of thing.

If not, feel free to let people know. Giving public speeches is an active process, and the speech makers are expected to be able to keep up with the crowd. Heckle, argue back, debate, start a fight, whatever.

The major things being debated are what, exactly, to do with the king and queen now that France is a republic. Should they be executed? Should they be brought down to normal citizenship? Should they serve as figureheads, like in England, making France a constitutional monarchy? Is that a step backward or forward? Everyone has an opinion, and everyone wants to hear it.

However, if you're lucky, you might catch the rare debate on other subjects: women's suffrage (still unheard of), the correct price for bread and coffee, what to do about the slaves in San Domingo, and which countries to invade in the upcoming war. It's all on the table.

read the France setting infopages

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

midnighter | dc | veteran, ota.

[thingpuncher]

a. BATTLE ORDERS WRIT IN RED | celebration.

Holy shit.

Midnighter hasn't seen s city loosing its goddamn mind like this since he fucked around in San Fran with Andrew. And that was all bright colors and floats, this is just people loosing their goddamn minds. People see the pike he has tilted over his shoulder, still brown with rusty blood, and ask him if he was at Valmy. He says yes, and women hug him, a man shakes his hand, some move in to kiss his cheek. It's strange, at first, because it's so unexpected, but with time he gets used to it. It's something he can use to his advantage, a tactical possibility, so he uses it. It's just instinct.

You can find him in a pub telling stories to a bunch of dirty children. "Then the windmill came down," he says, obviously enjoying himself. The children are wide-eyed, hanging on every word. "And we were all on it, shooting down Prussians left and right. The cannonball went right though it."

Anyone at the battle who was actually on the windmill will... not remember Midnighter there. He's not the sharpshooting type, he was in the thick of it on the ground. But a good story is a good story, right?

b. FIVE LONG YEARS OF BULLETS AND SHELLS | riot.

It's not a real riot if Midnighter isn't there.

He's not sure when it starts. Someone shouts something about greedy bourgeois, about how this isn't the law, about how they'd hiding the coffee and food to keep up the prices, and all hell breaks loose. It doesn't take a genius to see things are going from bad to worse when sans-culottes begin kicking in shop windows, old women begin breaking down doors, children being climbing over carts and throwing rocks in every direction.

Someone, somewhere, is singing The Marseillaise.

This isn't Midnighter's fight, and it's not the kind of fight he takes up for fun, either. It's time to get the fuck out of here. When he sees someone looking similarly confused, lost in the sea of rioting bodies, he reaches out to them.

"C'mon," he says. "Time to split."

c. WE LEFT TEN MILLION DEAD | beheading.

Midnighter comes from a time when this isn't... done anymore. Something about the spectacle of it all gets under his skin. The condemned man, being pushed down onto his belly, the cheer of the crowd--

Midnighter doesn't cringe, doesn't flinch, but he doesn't look happy, either.

It's not exactly great for his cover, looking so obviously pissed at the execution of a counter-revolutionary.

He doesn't seem to care. If looks could kill, the cheering crowd would be dead. When a gaggle of spectators break into patriotic song, he swears under his breath and mutters, "I'm all for killing, but that was fucking sick." He's not sure why. It just was.

d. THE WORLD WAS BUSY REBUILDING ITSELF | some boarding house somewhere.

Midnighter has slept rough before; he's not eager to do it again. He can, if he has to, but sleeping in trees and park benches doesn't seem like a great fucking idea in a city constantly on the verge of a major uproar. He finds the nearest, cheapest looking place advertising rooms, and begins to barter with the management.

"You know, I was at Valmy," he says, glad he's still got that rusted over pike, hasn't cleaned it off yet. "Protecting France from the bad guys," his grasp of politics has never been great. "I think a discount is the least you can do."

The owner of the boarding house, an old woman with a face like a battering ram, just glares at him.

"You do talk, right?"

No answer.

He turns to the nearest civilian he can find. "You try," he says, grinning. It's a bit too sharp to be charming. "Maybe she'll like you better-- hey. Need a roommate?"

e. THE ARCHITECTS COULD NOT CARE | political clubbing.

If nothing else, Midnighter will join a club so he can beat someone with it.

He gets it, he gets it. He's read the briefings. Talking about shit is important right now. Real important. He doesn't personally get it-- he's more action, less planning-- but he understands it's a big deal. So he might as well see what's going on.

He ends up in a church, listening to two men tear each other to shreds-- with words-- over the king and queen. One argues that they must be killed, that they must water France with their blood, for monarchism is a crime in a republic. The other argues that France, as a nation, should be above such petty things as executions, that the royal family should be disinherited and relocated.

Midnighter turns who whoever's in the pew next to him. "You following any of this?"

f1. BUT HOW COULD WE KNOW WHEN I WAS YOUNG | life's a riot with spy vs spy.

Look, Midnighter's not great with this cloak and dagger shit, but he thinks he can kind of get it. When he sees someone acting as weird and out of place as him, he starts to tail the bastard. There's a chance their another COST weirdo he hasn't met yet, but he's met most of them; there aren't that many. He doesn't recognize this weirdo.

He eventually reaches out to grab them, getting his target in a headlock and diving into an alleyway. They're alone, and the maybe spy is compromised. Midnighter's strength is considerable, far more than one would expect of a man his size. "Quick question," he says, gruffly casual, "where were we before France?"

It's the best anti-spy question he can think of.

f2. ALL THE CHANGES THAT WERE TO COME | spy v spy 2.0

Or maybe the person he's tailing isn't, you know, you. He sees someone wandering through the chaotic mess of Paris, and tails them. You might notice somebody tailing someone else intently-- that in itself is strange, especially considering Midnighter isn't... especially subtle about it. He was made for breaking skulls, not black ops.

What do you do? Tail him back? Try to help?

g. THROUGH STRIKES AND FAMINE AND WAR AND PEACE | wildcard.

[got an idea that isn't on here? there is a 98.9% chance im ok with it. do whatever, mix and match, have fun, I don't care. if you've got questions, you can find me at wehwalt or pel#5780@disco. see u on the flip side.]

f1.

[maximstress]

Among the chaos, turmoil, and confusion happening around him...and quite honestly, playing an internal role in his own responses, David makes an effort to maintain a sense of understatement. He's not entirely certain if what is happening is a nightmare or the result of something improperly digested and he's now in the thralls of a very vivid hallucination. Incredibly vivid. He's not familiar with revolutionary France outside of history books and he's never been to the country, granted the only country he's been to outside of America is India for reasons obvious to himself alone. It's difficult keeping himself in check and as subtle as absolutely possible when you're on the verge of cultural and situational shock, but it was inevitable that his visibility expectations would be compromised.

The suit he wore resembled neither courtly or commonly clothing of this time period, he wasn't cleanly shaven (not a requirement), but more than anything else he did not look French in any physical regard. So whether he wanted to or not he stood out, despite his efforts to be an unassuming presence on the margins of the street, he still drew looks that he did his level best to ignore. He could understand the looks, what he didn't think would happen was a tailing, David simply wasn't that interesting as far as he was concerned...and he wasn't trying to be. So he was taken off guard when he felt himself being dragged off of the main street and into a subsidiary street--dark, disgusting, abandoned.

The assault was too quick to even form an awareness of otherwise he would have reacted sooner, but instinct did drive David's response. He turned his head towards his assailant's chest, tucking his chin and grabbing at his arm to relieve some of the pressure and protect his face. He also made an effort to keep his base as stable as possible, body low, and the stance of his legs wide...if he could find an opening to defend himself or drag the stranger down with him he needed some leverage. He was so busy trying to keep his head clear and his options open (because the man was abnormally sturdy, normally David could at least handle something like this, but he couldn't budge this person) that comprehending the question was not the most important thing on the agenda.

"Where were...what?...We weren't anywhere," it came out like a choked growl as he wondered what that had to do with anything?

c

[handsomefoil]

Most would consider anyone within Henry's line of profession as an executioner of sorts. He takes their life after stalking them and cornering them when they least expect him, and the deed is done. In some ways, this display is really no different in essence from what he does. This scene doesn't turn his stomach in any way, but for some reason he can't find any enjoyment in this either. How excited the people are around him is definitely baffling. Perhaps it's just the brazen act of treating it like a show for all the see?

That being said, he isn't as frowny as that guy over there. A familiar face, actually. Hasn't he seen this guy around before? He sticks out from the crowd, unfortunately for him (maybe), so it wasn't hard to pick him out from the crowd at a short distance. As the crowd starts to disperse, chattering loudly in a language he is actually familiar with, he weaves his way through them to see if memory still serves or if something weird happens to people's memories every time he jumps from his timeline to this one.

Look, he's watched enough sci-fi to expect the unexpected.

"A gruesome spectacle, no?"

In his time-appropriate wear, plain face, and ease with the French language, he could easily pass off as a local should Midnighter not remember him.

A

[horsepowered]

Chiron found himself fascinated by how the events of Valmy have already become stories. Legends. The things that become a part of a collectively history regardless of truth. It is his nature to find interest in it, given what he is, but there is also just a genuine appreciation of telling a good story mixed in there.

So it goes with what he hears from Midnighter's lips. Coming in halfway through is hardly an issue, and Chiron listens intently as he continues. There's no reason to interupt, or to say anything at all until all is done and those listening have dispersed.

"You've an impressive way with retelling events," he says. It's a compliment.

c. beheading

[excelsus]

"Delightfully barbaric, isn't it?" Comes a voice in Midnighter's left ear, all velvety smooth and filled with a sardonic kind of amusement as he watches on, equally disgusted, but much better at hiding it. Lowering his voice and leaning a little closer to his fellow dissenter in the manner of a conspirator, "your mutiny is showing, by the way."

Just something the mage thought he should helpfully point out, he's four square for self-preservation after all and it would be a shame if anyone took notice of his surly response to the beheading and decided to add another head to the chopping block.

"I do not understand exactly how you feel of course," again, his voice is low and his expression pleasant, undermining his feelings, "but there is nothing to be done for it at the moment...unless you intend to do something...unwise?"

Not that Dorian was in the position to stop the man if he were thinking something unwise, he certainly looked murderous, like he might try something if left to his own devices. Or maybe not? Either way he could try to talk him out of whatever was going on in his head or distract him from the unpleasantness, momentarily. Dorian isn't a pacifist, by any means, but he does avoid killing needlessly...unless of course someone deserves it. Spectacles like this are familiar to him, in some form or other, but he's used to maintaining himself in the face of it.

Ah, how the Grand Game makes all of those who play it suffer...it seems to be a constant between worlds.

mordred | fate/ | newcomer, ota | any format is cool!

[bloodings]

everybody was riot-fu-fightin' | anywhere

Try that again, you stupid hag!

[ The out of place language is enough of a giveaway that something isn't right here. That something is Mordred, fresh from her arrival and already getting into fights. As a newcomer, she doesn't earn the immediate reverence that the Valmy veterans enjoy, and the first time someone pushes her, she knocks them into some scaffolding that crashes down with a loud bang.

There's a crowd gathering around her now, angry and shouting. Mordred doesn't know which side they're on, and she doesn't care. They're not on hers. She smirks, and raises her fists. ]

don't lose your head | execution

[ Whatever's going on here, she wants to know. At 5'1, Mordred can barely see above the crowd at all: eventually, she pushes and jostles her way to a spot to see the execution, only realizing what's happening at the last second. But when the blade falls, the bloodshed doesn't seem to bother her. In fact, she just looks bored. ]

Why don't they just use a sword? Or an axe? Jeez, talk about excessive.

[ Inside, she feels some disgust at the cheering crowd around her, but that's just humanity. She hates them for a reason. ]

think outside the box | on the streets

[ For all that she was involved in the politics of her own era, she couldn't care less about all of this. Good or bad, the king doesn't sound anywhere near as good as her father, and that's what it takes her earn her respect. Besides, France is — or was — Lancelot's homeland. That alone drops her interest level down into the basement.

So given the choice between planting some stupid tree or hauling boxes for food, of course she chooses the latter. Given the riots, walking down the street with crates piled higher than her own head doesn't sound like a wise idea, but strangely, people seem to give her a wide berth. Maybe it's the fight from earlier. Maybe it's the sense of brutality she seems to radiate. Maybe it's the— ]

Get out of the way, you idiot.

[ —whenever anyone blocks her path. ]

keep those boxes movin'

[horsepowered]

My apologies.

[That was the initial reaction at any rate as Chiron side stepped a moving herd of boxes who clearly dwarfed the person carrying them. But then the voice of said person clicked, and Chiron turned his head.

Well.

This was a surprise.]

execution.

[trample]

Believe it or not, this is the more humane option. [ His brow furrowed. ] It's not so much the execution of it that's excessive, but the fact that it's being turned into a spectacle.

[ For a moment, he wonders if the girl's boredom comes from expecting too much or too little of the display. He figures it's the latter, and takes her for someone that's doled out enough capital punishment herself to be disappointed by what was otherwise the greatest excitement to commonfolk. ]

Where I come from, most would find their ends on The gallows. The guillotine was sparingly, if ever, used. [ He paused and considered the risk of being just a touch anachronistic before shrugging it off and continuing. ] Though if one were in the military, they would have the luxury of their own personal firing squad.

Execution

[gotobed]

[Chris has seen a lot. Even in terms of people dying, there's bullets and falling debris and burning. But this - the guillotine, the clean separation of head from body. It's new to her, and it's enough to make her wince, look away from the sight. The cheering crowd doesn't help. Are people really like this?

... Well, of course they are. She just likes to forget sometimes.]

Yeah, this really needs to last even longer. That'd make this so much better. Dumbass. [She's uncomfortable, so she does the 'natural' thing - snipe at someone who really hasn't done much.]

I'll give you the thing's creepy as hell, though.

mordred no

[triplebuster]

[There's Mordred, ready to kick ass and take names.

And there's her stupidly handsome half-brother, ready to clean up her mess. Grudges aside, he's certain picking fights with the crowd is outside Mordred's scope of responsibilities. He has to take action. She's not too hard to spot, so when Gawain hears the familiar vulgarity (and oh, how unpleasant it is to his ears) he makes a beeline for the center of the crowd. He steps in front of her, placing a hand over her fist, prepared to force it down if need be.]

I apologize for the commotion my comrade has caused. The journey to Paris has not been kind to her. If you would have it in your heart to forgive her, I would be most grateful. We promise it won't happen again.

[Although he gives the crowd his trademark smile, he gives Mordred a pointed look.]

that brit was fast as lightning? idek /o/

[iaidou]

[ ...Hey, was that--?

What a pain. This was Baiken's first mission as well, but the reception had been a bit different. Rumors began spreading due to her lack of an arm and eye that she was a veteran to be lauded which is why she had a bit of a posse following her around. When she spots the group of people all swarming around one person, something sparks in her. She's not exactly a good person per se, but she couldn't just leave the small woman by herself.

Plus she needed something to beat up on, given how frustrated the aforementioned rumors were making her.

One by one different members of the crowd get punched, kicked, and headbutted until their fists don't become good enough. Once the crowd begins picking up rocks, sickles, and even mattocks, Baiken downs one of them and chucks their billhook Mordred's way. Soon after, her own military saber is drawn and she moves to position herself at the other woman's side. ]

Try not to murder any of them if you can help it. It won't be my ass on the chopping block if you screw up.

Yoshitsugu Ōtani | Samurai Warriors | Veteran, OTA

[hakanai]

A. Celebrate (until we all fall down)

It's nice of them to show such appreciation, really, it is. But Yoshitsugu has never been much of a fan of crowds and the hugs? The kisses? He'd rather not, especially when the fever still creeps under his skin and makes his head spin if he's jostled too much. Sickness does so love to fill him up and weaken him at the most inconvenient times, doesn't it?

The first one to notice the pink in his cheeks, a woman who embraces him for a whole two seconds before pulling back, looks hesitant at first when she asks him if he's alright. Nobody wants to get sick. But Yoshitsugu smiles, putting on what is to anyone who knows him well a completely alien expression of softness and nobility.

"The wound is taking a while to heal," he says. "But it will pass, as it must. My body belongs to this fight, and I shall see it ready for battle as and when is needed for the glory of this country I have come to love, this beautiful land of France!"

It's completely ridiculous, but again, you only might know it's so if you know him well or are possessed of the best kind of people reading skills. Yoshitsugu looks a lot more frail than he is so that softness, that nobility, sits well on him as he weaves a completely false impression and those around fall for it hard. Soon he is seated with a drink in his hands in a warm establishment while his 'great deeds' are lauded; a young woman with pink cheeks of her own places food before him, insistent with a smile that it's on the house.

No doubt this warm welcome will fade in time as things get back to what is currently 'normal' for this country, but Yoshitsugu will take advantage while he can for himself and his allies.

"Some for my friend here, please," he says to his server, pressing money into her hand with a smile as he looks at the latest person to walk in. "You have given me charity enough; let me offer it to another citizen of France."

He beckons the newcomer over, saying nothing else immediately, just looking at them with thoughtful eyes. Yoshitsugu stands out here through nationality alone. What about his 'friend?' It's difficult to tell what Yoshitsugu's assessment is right now.


B. Just a spark in the riot
He's in no condition to deal with this. Takatora will no doubt scold Yoshitsugu later but Yoshitsugu had simply gone with the flow, carrying out an errand for the one he is renting his room from to keep up the image he is presenting. Which happened to be getting her coffee.

Sadly she's not going to be getting it anymore.

Glass shatters and breaks, voices are raised and what had been tension had exploded into violence with considerable swiftness. He'd expected something like this at some point, but getting caught in the middle of it while he's still recovering from his illness is... inconvenient. Yoshitsugu is pushed to the floor by a rather burly man who snaps something ugly down at his 'victim,' so high on anger and adrenaline that he clearly has no intention of listening to sense right now. The crowd moves around them, tight and ugly, as the attacker raises his foot to stomp down hard...

But he doesn't manage to, because he screams in pain instead. Yoshitsugu narrows his eyes and gets back up as said attacker's right sleeve bursts into flame; it takes a few seconds to pull himself back up but he's quick to try and flee before the commotion gets worse or his attacker smothers the fire.

Making yourself noticed with magic is not wise, but in a crowd like that, who will think about its source? How it came seemingly from nowhere? Certainly not the coffee hungry mob, and probably not the person he bumps into as he tries to slide through a gap in the bodies.

"You ought to leave too," he says, not even bothering to meet their gaze as he tries to get away.

b.

[thingpuncher]

"Holy shit," is what Midnighter says. He's left blinking at the guy with the singed foot, limping away like a cartoon character. That... was not how Midnighter was expecting that exchange to go.

The computer in his head can't predict magic, after all. It read this guy as baseline, normal human, below average health. Due to that reading, Midnighter was, actually, reaching out to help him, before some poor fucker got set on fire.

Holy shit.

There isn't much time to dwell on it, though. He grabs Firestarter's hand and gives it a yank. "This way. Got an idea, if you don't mind a fireman's carry." A beat. "Pun unintended."

Elsa | ouat | newcomer | ota

[cryogene]

I. Riot
Elsa hasn't had an incident with her powers in a long time. Her powers are dampened here, leaving her with a sense of security that helps increase her confidence. That boost does little to help her when she finds herself in the midst of a riot. She's heard of things like this happening, she's even read of it. But she's never seen it up close. The reality compared to what she's read and heard can't even begin to compare.

She tries reasoning with people at first. No amount of pleading for reason to rule out over the violence that explodes in a matter of seconds. As glass shatters around her, she becomes increasingly anxious. That anxiety turns into a skittishness that turns dangerous as she tries breaking through the crowd. She's trapped in a sea of bodies and mayhem, the commotion causing ice to creep up on her fingers. Roughly getting an elbow to the face causes that ice to appear beneath her feet.

The warmth of blood combined with the tingle of ice propel her forward. She's no longer an asset here, she's a liability. Elsa pushes her way through the crowd by force and runs toward the nearest hidden corner. A sheen of melting ice with splatters of red lead the way right to her. It goes unnoticed by the rioters, who keep looting and fighting.

II. Beheading
She doesn't really believe that they'll actually behead someone at first. It seems so unnecessary and brutal to do to anyone, no matter what their crime is. The fact that she's present at a beheading is strictly to gather information only. The mission is to observe and obtain as much intelligence as possible. Her aversion to violence can't get in the way of that.

Her eyes scan over the crowd and their behavior more than the actual event itself. She slowly moves through the crowd, making idle conversation as she goes. She ends up next to another agent of COST right before the blade falls and a head rolls. Despite her need for personal space, she stands in close and presses her hand against their arm.

"It's so barbaric," she whispers to them.

Images of being executed this way by her people because she isn't good enough flow through her mind.

III. Speech Listening
"Is execution absolutely necessary?" Elsa speaks up over the crowd the second there's a lapse in shouting.

Discussion of what to do with the king and queen make her uneasy, but motivate her to speak up and participate. She's quiet and refined as always, but there's an icy edge to her voice.

"There are plenty of other ways to punish someone that prolongs their suffering."

She isn't actually hoping to torture someone, but is hoping to lead the conversation away from violence.

I (I got a little carried away so please don't feel obligated to match length!)

[courtintrigue]

In raven form and perched on a rooftop when the fighting breaks out, Morrigan is barely surprised. The talk she heard from her perch was volatile, the mood smoldering like a bed of dry kindling on the verge of catching flame. It is her thought to stay well above the conflict once things turn violent, having no reason to get involved, but something unusual catches her eye.

It looks like a patch of frost abruptly blossoming on the ground, initially unnoticed by most.

Pinpointing the source takes her a moment, but one of the figures pushes free of the thick crowd, ice shining on the ground in their wake, and scrambles for cover. To the very best of her knowledge, the only magic in this world is magic brought by COST recruits... or perhaps their enemy, whose capabilities are largely a mystery to her other than their ability to remove their own from this world, piece by agonizing piece. If this person is an ally, their magic makes them more valuable than the average recruit; if an enemy, knowing what they can do will be useful.

No matter what the allegiance, their feelings on the riot are clear: they want no part of it. Wings spread, she swoops down from the rooftop and quickly takes on her own form again on the other side of the building. Dressed more or less like a man native to the time and place, she has put no effort into fooling anyone: her shape is obvious, her hair is only loosely pinned up, she does nothing to alter her voice. Walking around the building puts her at risk of flying fists and shoved bodies and broken glass, and while she would greatly prefer not to be in the middle of such ridiculousness she weaves along the riot's edge until nears her target's hiding place. Two rioters nearly wrestle themselves to the ground in their effort to bloody each other's noses, barely paying attention to the woman hiding within arm's reach. Morrigan's hands make a quick gesture in the air, casting Horror on the pair, and within moments they begin to separate, voices rising in panic, and run in fear from what is all in their heads.

She meets the woman's eyes.

"You will not remain safe here. Are you in control of yourself?"

A trail of ice is not exactly discreet.

inquisitor lavellan | dragon age | newbie | ota

[soulean]

i. witness a beheading ( heads will roll. )

Isene has never attended a public execution before. She has done her level best not to participate in one, in fact — she's enacted the Rite of Tranquility rather than have someone executed, and some might call that a fate worse than death, but the fact remains that Isene can't stand to have blood on her hands that wasn't put there by her enemy's own choice. Those who surrender, who come to her for justice to be dealt — that's different than battle. It is.

She's drawn up in the crowd, shuffled toward the scaffold in a sea of people. At first, she's vaguely interested — so much of this world is so unlike the one she came from, she wants to learn as much as she can — but when she begins to realize what's happening, her stomach turns.

"They can't possibly — what did he do, except disagree with the rest of you?"

It's the wrong thing to ask. A few of the people closest to her turn their heads toward her, and — oh. It's been a while since she was this afraid in a gathering of humans. Isene forces a laugh and begins to try to duck out of the gathering, but someone catches her sleeve and holds her there. She casts her eyes about, looking desperately for someone who might help her — if someone else can't get her out of this, she'll get out herself, and it will be considerably more obvious.

ii. plant a tree ( in a garden you'll never get to see.)

This, at least, is something familiar. The Dalish plant trees for their dead, so it's a bit of a reversal, true, but still — a community coming together to plant a symbol in the ground, one which will grow and thrive and be there for millennia to come... Yes, Isene knows this well.

She follows the group, ostensibly keeping an ear out for any noteworthy gossip, but really she just wants to take part in something she recognizes. Maybe this tree will be for Jacques Cazotte, beheaded for disagreeing with public opinion, or maybe it will be for the relatively simple Dalish life Isene is starting to lose hope of ever returning to. She'll think of something for it by the time it comes to planting, she's sure.

When she's given a sapling, Isene makes her way to a plot slightly further away from the group than some others, but she smiles at anyone who comes over.

"How exciting, no? A beautiful symbol for the rebirth of —" she pauses a moment, trying to remember where the heck they're supposed to be — "France!"

Nailed it.

i. heads are rolling

[pointedlook]

[ Of all the things he thought he'd be able to check off, see a beheading was not at the top of his list. Actually, he's pretty sure it wouldn't have made the list at all, had he not been drafted– er, kidnapped– by this mystery organization to fix history. And fight the Regency. That usually went hand in hand.

But hey, it's hard not to see a beheading during this period in French history, of that he's fairly certain. Arthur's read and paid attention enough in history classes to remember these facts. Nobody ever mentioned the palpable blood lust that seemed to hang around the crowds in a haze, but he figures that's a first-hand experience sort of deal.

Currently, he's watching them set the chopping block with another victim, hands in his pockets. Call it a morbid fascination, but he does want to see this happen. Unfortunately it seems he won't be able to this time, since someone nearby asks a question–a bad one– and he's zeroing in on them just as they are scanning for a way out.

Well. Alright.

Slipping through the crowd, he puts his hand on her shoulder, promptly giving the civilian who's got a hold of her sleeve the kindly fuck off expression. ]

A very major disagreement. Very. I think we're starting to lose track of them all, so maybe it's time for a break.

[ With that, he's giving her shoulder a pat that indicates she should follow. ]

jotaro kujo / stardust crusaders / newb

[abstersive]

I. RIOT.

[ the problem with riots is that sometimes people who didn't want to get involved in them in the first place get dragged to it anyway, which means that jotaro is now doing crowd control so that kids and old ladies pass by through the busy streets unharmed. this was all going so well - he's tall and intimidating enough, after all - until one of the old ladies whacks him with an umbrella for not showing enough moral fibre. so jotaro just snarls. ]

Fuck's sake. I'm going to beat you up if you don't stop that, then you'll know where my moral fibre is.


II. BEHEADING.

[ he'd heard about this event, read enough history books and comic books to actually grasp it, hell, seen enough cartoons every sunday to know what it is. it's very different to watch it, however, and jotaro glances at the podium with the brim of his cap pulled near half-way down his face because he's terrified of what he's seeing, although he's not one to voice out exactly how that feels. his face is pale and grim.

the blade of the guillotine falls, and jotaro flinches as he watches the man, unable to tear his eyes from the spectacle; he hears a loud noise that grinds through skin and bone that was eventually drowned by the excitement of the crowd, but it sticks into his head. it's one thing to get into a fight. it's another to witness something like this, and try as he might, he can't forget it at all. can't put it behind his thoughts.

he staggers out of the crowd, as if in a dream, nauseous, angry that he couldn't do anything. right, or wrong, he only ever believed that true evil was the one deserving of death and what he just saw was a man like anybody else, only at the wrong side of the political spectrum. was that true evil? was that just?

when he thinks he's alone and there's nobody around him, he makes a swift turn to an alley to lean against the grimy wall. if he doesn't do anything he's going to puke his guts out. he takes out a cigarette and lights it and settles for smoking one after the other, a burning, sullen smokestack despising the crowd. ]


III. WILDCARD.

[ throw me anything. ]

riot.

[trample]

[ That very same old lady then receives a nudge to the small of her back with the far end of a crutch. ]

It's right here.

[ Surprisingly nimble for someone so aged, she manages to collapse in a fantastic display without heading into the ground face first. Eren might have clapped if his hand wasn't predisposed with holding something. Doing a quick few hops to regain his balance before swiftly bringing his support back, he shot Jotaro a dull glare that quickly turned into an even duller look of amusement as the hag started running away, screeching in angry French. ]

She did have a point, though. You should respect your elders. Just...not if they're breaking into your personal space.

locked to labeled characters

[pointedlook]

i've got a new addiction for you– daenerys

[ If there's one thing that he's glad for in this godforsaken city, it's that there's coffee.

Ok, the happiness lasts for about thirty seconds until he realizes it's going to be almost literal hell to get a cup of the damn stuff. Because just like everything else in 1700s Paris, it's a hot mess. The lines are long, people squabble and argue and even break out into some truly spectacular fist fights.

He thought waiting in line for Starbucks in the morning and having to listen to some self important businessman yell at the barista was an awful time. Clearly, he was wrong. Arthur amends his wrongness and adds this to the list of things he never wants to have to deal with again, the length of which is getting longer by the day.

Through some serendipity (or rather, quick hands, quick thinking, and even quicker feet), he manages to snag two cups of coffee from some unsuspecting people. He doesn't feel too bad about it, since they sounded like assholes and also he's a heartless bastard. Coffee is his now, not theirs.

But maybe he'd gotten carried away with getting two cups, because after days and days without caffeine, the first cup hits his system like a bomb. Feeling extremely awake for the first time in a while, he tracks down a very specific person, since this seems like the kind of thing she'd be into. ]

Hey. [ Is all he says at first, as he drops into step next to Dany on the street. ] Got you a present.


drop it like it's hot (all down someone's shirt)– achilles

[ With his first coffee experience having gone exceptionally well, he tries his hand again. It's risky and crazy and he's possibly an idiot, but he's made his peace with his coffee addiction. And also his idiocy with the matter.

This time, there aren't two bystanders with loose hands around their cups. Every patron seems to have their fingers curled in the loops of their cup handles, something that irritates him to no end. Still, he does his best to remain unobtrusive, keeps his posture more on the slouched end. At some point, he gets lucky and a delivery boy leaves the back door to a shop open just enough. Arthur sneaks in, feeling like a pre-teen trying to shoplift for the first time.

When he emerges, he's got a small bag of coffee beans tucked away and a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He avoids the main road, intent on looping back around after he drinks and depositing the cup onto a table waiting to be bussed.

Except as he's looking in one direction, he misses the sound of someone nearby, who he collides with when he turns sharply. Coffee sloshes out of the cup, now unfortunately caught between, spilling out in a spray onto their clothes. ]

Fuck!

[dorzalta]

[ Paris offers a number of new experiences and sights to behold. A beheading in such a fashion as she'd just witnessed reminds her of the brutality that the smallfolk can embrace when pushed far enough. She's both pitying and apathetic to the one who had been executed--and that... is problematic. To understand both sides of this strife shows that her time in Meereen provided more than she'd ever believed possible.

It also reveals that she cannot remain fully objective in this place. Her speeches to the smallfolk in the countryside already revealed that she was growing somewhat attached. Attachment when she hadn't the faintest inkling of how long they would remain in this place would prove nothing more than a distraction.

Dany's in the process of mulling these things over when a familiar figure falls into step beside her. The inhabitants of this city cast them both with apathetic glances, swerving to the side before being barreled into. ]

Well met, Arthur. [ His words earn a curious glance, a tilt of the head. None have thought to get her anything, not when they were preoccupied with this place. ] A present?

lup | the adventure zone | newcomer

[tommygunned]

i. coffee break

[It's kind of funny, honestly. Lup's sure that if anybody back home was here, they'd have placed bets long ago that within a couple days of her arrival she'd end up in the middle of a fight. Sure, they might not have predicted a riot, and technically she didn't start this one, but damn. Maybe she's getting predictable in her old age.]

[Whatever. If barfights are classic Lup, then a coffee riot counts as classed-up Lup, and she dives into it with all the excitement and pent-up energy she's got in her. Which is a fucking lot. Just because she's not actively breaking windows with the rest of them doesn't mean she doesn't get into it as much as (or more than) anyone else. She makes a quick habit of oh-so-accidentally bumping shoulders with the biggest, nastiest rioter she can set her eyes on--and when he turns around, punching him square in the jaw.]

Man, this'd be a lot more fun if you guys knew how to fuckin' fight, you know?

[He swings at her, she ducks. He charges towards her, she dodges. He tries to turn and come back for her, and she twists, picks up the nearest chair, and swings it with an absurd amount of grace at the middle of his back.]

[He goes down.] Timber, [Lup says, dropping the chair on all four feet in front of her and sitting down, one leg crossed over the other. She spreads her arms.] All right, losers, who's next?

ii. plant a liberty tree

It's kinda flowery, isn't it?

[Not that she's knocking the concept necessarily. It's just that . . . she was invited to this thing, this tree planting, and she's pretty sure it's supposed to be a morale-booster. But it's so goddamn metaphorical she's choking a little. Lucretia would like it, maybe, but it's too much for her.]

I'm just wondering if there's something more constructive to do here? Maybe it's a cultural thing I'm missing. I mean, shit, elves don't actually care as much about trees as people think we do, okay?

[The media lies.]

iii. listen to a speech

[Lup's gotten good at talking in the last--fuck. Decades. So she'd like to think this is her element. The thing is that she seems to be on the wrong side of this particular debate. These people are beheading-happy, which is a new thing on her and she's seen a lot of shit.]

[She's quiet through the speeches, for the most part. This is about information-gathering, after all, and while she's never been a particularly stealthy person, she does want to try. At some point, though, she hits her limit both of silence and standing still, and she elbows her neighbor in the side--someone she recognizes by face, if not name, as from COST.]

I don't know about you, but I feel like these people maybe need their guillotines taken away, hm? No more guillotining until you've proven you can use it responsibly.

iv. wildcard

[I'm flexible! Hit me with any kind of prompt and I'll work with it, or PM this journal if you like.]

dos, jk im taggin u now and with Two Boys

[pummelling]

You think you could raise a stink with COST over elven racism?

[it's not totally apparent how serious jin is.]

It's just politics. All of this is just a long song and dance of revolution that the organization's putting us up to along with the more important stuff. We have to influence the sentiments around here. The way it all looks. We can't always be getting our hands dirty.

[He pauses to lean on his shovel, then digs out a tree-sized hole in the dirt for Lup to drop the sapling into.] Metaphorically speaking, anyway.

Kitagawa Yusuke | Persona 5 | Newbie ota

[flatbroke]

Celebrate

[ Celebrations were always inspiring to an artist. Emotions high, wild, and flying free were the subjects of more post-modern art than it was of this era. The art of the French revolution was centered around the battles of freedom and lady liberty stark and bare, leading the rebels to victory. Yusuke's learned all about it in school despite it not being an era he takes particular interest in. Being able to live in it and be surrounded by it is another situation altogether.

Paris was washed with excitement and Yusuke was taking it all in. His hands were poised in front of him, pointer and thumbs out in a frame. With the colors, roars of excitement and celebration, why not see if he could gather inspiration from the lively gathering? Despite his agreement to help out with the time troubles, Yusuke was an artist first and foremost. From the neo-classicism and the rococo, he could find inspiration in all of it so long as the emotions were there. Of course, he didn't have any of his supplies, so envisioning the art would have to do for now.

The way he was dressed was very plain, except for the strange, fox-like mask tied to his hip. Drawing no attention to himself, he stayed on the outskirts of the excitement, silently watching with an almost somber look. ]


Coffee Break

[ This was dangerous. A riot was far more than he wanted to deal with in his state. With his mask on his hip, he could use his powers in a pinch, but they wouldn't do here. With all of these people here and the situation, he was almost helpless.

His hand missed the weight of his katana. At least if he had his weapon, he could protect himself. French swords were too different and foreign. The weight, the handling, the blade, everything was so different he couldn't use one as a substitute even if it came down to it. Anything even remotely like his gun was right out in this era. With a huff, Yusuke kept one hand over his mask to protect it and held the other low in front of him to ward any attackers off as he tried to make his way through to safety.

There was a yell behind him, causing the teen to jump and step to the side. He tried to find and press himself into a wall but found another body instead. Quick thinking made him duck and move forward quickly, trying to avoid the hit he knew would have been coming if he didn't move quickly.]

This is a terrible time to be unarmed.

Wildcard
[ Choose any of the above or make your own! I'm open to anything. ]

YES.

[ryuji]

[For a few moments, Ryuji is just standing there with his arms crossed, looking out at the crowd going absolutely wild at the victory fanfare closing in all around the two of them. His eyes wander upwards to Yusuke, and he sees some of that passion igniting inside him. It's enough to make Ryuji feel like he's back home, in Tokyo, waiting to hear from Joker just about what the next infiltration had in store for the team. He knows it's not coming, but when he sees his friend here, unmistakable even by the merits of his silhouette, he almost can't believe that the powers that be took at least two persona users into the ranks.

So Ryuji is going to play this off cool, despite the obvious excitement stirring in his heart. He steps forward, standing parallel to the artist for a brief stint as the other takes in the beauty and the aesthetic of the French Revolution in its nascent stage. The blond's been here long enough for this sort of thing to be... not as exciting anymore, so forgive him when he's not joining the rebel rousing and cavalcade of brusque excitement and jubilee.

Instead, he just taps his foot, wondering what type of painting that Yusuke is going to make out of this.]

Y'know. They ain't lobsters.

carmilla | fate/grand order | newcomer + very ota!

[skincares]

WITNESS A BEHEADING

[The revolution occurred long after her death -- and a great shame that was. Royalty and nobility alike were seized by their fancy hems and jerked into the mud with the rest of the pigs, true. If Carmilla had lived during this period, the increased unrest towards the upper class might've caused her little "secret" to unravel much, much sooner.

Ah, but the guillotine! The mass executions! Though the blood spilled mixed both men, women, and children (far too muddled for her tastes) the sheer ruthlessness and chaos of the period deeply appeals to Carmilla's twisted heart. The deaths were far too quick but quantity over quality, she supposes. The crowd cheers but she keeps quiet. The way she smiles makes it clear she's enjoying the show.]

Fashion, food, and death. This France has truly has reached the pinnacle of its artistic spirit.

COFFEE BREAK

[A riot of all things! If Carmilla had it her way, she'd swing her iron maiden and knock the unruly masses down. Perhaps crack open a skull or two. But orders are orders. She is to be discreet and no self-respecting woman of this time period would stoop to such rowdiness.

Carmilla keeps to the sides, tsking all the while as she tries and determines what the best escape route would be--

--when one of the looters grabs her by the wrist and yanks her back.

She's more angry than afraid. It's clear by how she immediately backhands the offender.]

Keep your filthy hands off me...!

[Uh-oh. Maybe she'll wind up killing someone after all.]

LISTEN TO A SPEECH

[Carmilla watches one of the public speeches from the stoop of hotel, a long finger tapping against her pale cheek as she listens. She looks bored. Politics is the burden of nobility, yes, but more troubling is--]

All talk and no brain. These peasants know nothing in regards to sustaining this country.

speech!

[trample]

And you do? [ He's doubtful. His voice makes that very, very clear. ] Go on, tell me the way you'd handle things.

[ Though it's at first rather judgmental, his expression quickly becomes calm before he continues his rhetoric. ]

It's the first chance in years people have had their own voice. Though you might not agree with them, I imagine having a little agency after so long must be...nice.

arisato minato + persona 3 + n00b + ota

[sonant]

CELEBRATION ( past the point of no return; )

[ there's a lot of questions going through his head, but Minato decides to take it in stride. time cop? really? the whole time that the woman was explaining things to him, Minato's almost expected someone to pop up behind her with a camera rolling. if it had worked out that way, it would have made things so much easier. well, he just has to be thankful that he's seen his fair share of strange and weird by now. his current level of courage should be enough to handle it.

the clothing laid out for him is plain, dark and unobtrusive, but it's rough and heavy in a way that's more real than anything else has been so far. the outside too, is heavy and rough, the press and pull of bodies around him as they gather and cheer for the troops. nearly everyone is smiling, there's a cheap, sour smell of wine and sweat in the air, and every other second someone steps on his foot.

Ow, he mutters quietly, and steps aside to make room - but in a street as crowded as this, it just means that he's getting in the way of someone else. ]

SPEECH ( there's no rewind now; )

[ if information-gathering was what they wanted, then that's what he'll do for now, even if Minato honestly didn't think much of what this particular person was going on about. what exactly did the import of dried fish have got to do with anything, really?

> stay and listen
> find someone else
> "is this related at all to the republic, or do you just like to talk?"

maybe he should just stay silent .... ]

WILDCARD ( made a deal with you; )

[ because i suck at coming up with ideas, if you have anything fun HMU and i will roll with the punches! ]

celebration!

[ryuji]

[Let's be real here. No one knows how the hell any of this is supposed to fan out, and there's a 50-50 shot that, at any given moment, these soldiers running around trying to play mom to the unruly child of time are going to cause something horrible to happen. In fact. Isn't that kind of encouraged around COST? France is no exception to the rule here, and as people rush in and sing praises for the heroes of the day, Ryuji is more or less fed up with how intensely packed the streets just outside of the bar he'd been working and staying at is. This isn't Tokyo. Move the hell along.

But he knows that the owner of the establishment is going to be pissed when his errand boy hasn't returned with the sack of baguettes that he was ordered to retrieve from the nearby bakery. Mobs are still mobs- and even worse when they're hungry mobs who are in dire need of some wine and spirits. It's just his luck that he manages to dodge out of the way of a burly man, raising his fist in the air, only to smash right into....





Oh. Hi Minato.]

Dude, watch where the hell you're goin! [One or two loafs fall on the floor, and he crouches to pick that up. 5 second rule. Hygiene hasn't been invented yet, right?

He looks up from his lowered position beneath Minato, and immediately notices that he doesn't belong here. Well, to be fair- neither does Ryuji- but it's exceptionally weird to see another person from the far east in revolutionary France. Which means...

Looks like he's found another agent.]

Lady Deirdre Skye | Alpha Centauri | Newbie - OTA

[planetdeath]

a. Liberty Tree

[Not just any soil would do, for her. She needs to find a rich sort, the kind that leads to roots that never end. Such soil would be difficult to find, in a city such as this, where the people crowd around equally crowded buildings built on the shoulders of the previous people and buildings. Still. There are always green places, if one is willing to look. Soon enough, she finds one such place, and digs into the earth beneath her feet. The dirt clogs her fingernails. Alive with potential and promise.

She spreads a seed into the shallow channel, covering it back up as neatly as she can. She lingers, kneeling, muck and grass and worms underfoot, as she thinks of what this tree should stand for, should it grow.]

They stand for promises, don't they? So mine will be to remember, for as long as this tree grows green.

[As long as she does.]

b. Debate

[It's rather difficult, listening to speeches when one knows how little things will change. Oh, heads will roll, Deirdre knows that much, and for a moment the future will gleam full of potential, before the same struggles blot out all the light. People are alike all over, it seems, not only in different places but in different times, and it throws her, just for a moment, hearing the echoes of drums and cries for war, as if they were said yesterday, a thousand years from now.]

[And then she turns, realizing she's standing on someone's shoe as men shout their opinions from the street corners.] My apologies. [She shifts her feet, slightly, and though she would much rather stand here taking in the words with silence, she also cannot help but speak up. Something in the atmosphere.] It's an awful lot to take in, isn't it? How much things have changed, in so short a time. I wonder how long it will last.

Liberty Tree

[servant]

[and he thought that camelot's marketplace was bustling with activity. he still remembers the first time that he saw it, how it was equal parts exciting an overwhelming.

merlin feels that ten times over now, so maybe he was seeking a place with a little more peace and quiet himself. he comes across her as she's covering the seed up, and crouches to offer his help. but it doesn't look like the dirt bothers her one bit.]

That's a nice promise. Could be a lot of memories though, trees can grow for hundreds of years.

Eames | Inception | newcomer, ota!

[withimagination]

a. coffee break

Eames has been trying to settle in. He enjoys talking to the people, learning about them. Eames is chatting with a man exactly when the chaos starts. He hears a yell, glass breaking. And he begins to realize what's going on here.

A riot. Well, can't say he didn't see that one coming, but it still makes his heart race. He pushes back through the crowd around the shop, trying to get out of there. But he's shoved back when he tries to get past the guy he'd been talking to. So much for that. He finds another spot and pushes through. Almost there, almost there...

He pushes so hard past the crowd, that when he reaches the end of the crowd, he falls, just barely catching himself.

"Bloody riot," he growls, moving to push himself up.

b. get out

Eames is shoved out an inn door, stumbling backwards as his belongings follow him with a thud.

"I didn't know-"

The inn keeper slams the door, and Eames sighs, bending over to pick up his belongings. As a person passes, he glances at them with a - "That was completely uncalled for. I'm an excellent tenant. Are you looking for a place?"

c. wildcard

[Feel free to come up with something else or hit me up on plurk everlark to plot!]

b. get out

[planetdeath]

[She'd rather not speak at all, if anyone asked, but it would be a bit rude to just ignore someone who's called out to her. Though she's tempted. She tilts her head a bit, as if listening to something far away.]

Are you offering such a thing?

Baiken | Guilty Gear | Newbie | OTA (Open to Any Format!)

[iaidou]

CELEBRATE

Alright buddy, you asked for it!

[ So, here's the skinny. Baiken, dressed up in a French military uniform befitting a man more than a woman, as was appropriate, completely in tatters gets shoved back from two men arguing over the validity of their claims. One claims to have been a hero of battle, the other claiming the very same and swearing him to be a liar. So, naturally, the pair had come to blows.

Fortunately, not too many other people appeared to want to get involved. Unfortunately, one of those men knocked Baiken back something fierce. At hearing her words and turning, the pair find their heads knocked together as Baiken, using her one working arm, smacks it back against the side of one man's head while her forehead knocks the back of the other's. All it takes is those heads colliding for the men to be sent to the ground.

The crowd gasps, and Baiken peeks around with an 'Oh crap' moment. Was her cover blown? Did she do something wrong? Apparently not! For as soon as Baiken takes a step back, one individual grasps her hand and raises her arm up. Whispers speak of the woman having lost her arm and eye in combat. Hooping and hollering rises into the air as a very confused Baiken is carted to and fro, forced to shake hands and gently pat children on the head.

What did she do to deserve this...? ]


COFFEE BREAK

[ Attacking Baiken was a mistake many had made, and few had enjoyed the aftermath of. Even if it was not her katana, the saber issued by the French military felt good in her hand and was successful in knocking a few poor fools out, blocking their weaponry beforehand.

Some, unfortunately, were not so lucky. Thieves found their hands sliced clean off, and others gained a few new holes as Baiken's patience grew thinner and thinner. Eventually, breaking through the crowd, Baiken ends up back to back with another individual she recognized as a member of COST. A billhook is caught and deflected by Baiken's saber, her growling voice rising up loud enough for the person to hear her. ]

Oi, what the hell is going on here, and what the hell are we supposed to do about it?! [ Baiken wouldn't mind killing the lot of people and being done with it, but that wouldn't exactly make COST happy pandas. ]


WILDCARD

[ Have a different idea or want to wing another one of the options? Let's do it 2 it! /o/ ]

coffee break

[servant]

[merlin's seen his share of sword fights - more than he cared to, to be honest. sure, they could be exciting things, but then someone always ended up injured or worse, and merlin ended up being gaius' dogsbody on top of being arthur's servants.

but she certainly knew how to use a blade, so merlin had tried to dissuade more people from attacking, lest they wanted to end up missing a limb as well.

he was somewhat successful - mostly by getting them to turn on him instead.]

I was going to say that we should keep them from killing one another. [merlin calls back over his shoulder before ducking a rock aimed at his head.] On second thought, maybe we should worry more about them killing us!

William H. Seward | Lincoln (2012) | OTA

[mountebankweenie]

Plant a Liberty Tree

[Seward cannot resist the offer of planting a Liberty Tree. It appeals not only to his green-thumb, but also to his patriotic spirit and idolization of the era of his forefathers. Stories he glutted himself on at the feet of his father when he was but a small boy]

Traditionally these should be Elm trees, you know [He'll say to anyone close enough to be subjected to his nostalgic ramblings]

But I applaud the spirit no matter the species of flora.

[He'll even remove his stovepipe hat and heavy overcoat to join in the work]

Listen to a Speech

It was only inevitable that Seward would find himself within the crush of excited Frenchman clamoring to hear a particularly passionate young man rail against the excesses of the French aristocracy. He is enthralled, shouting in unison as there are calls for freedom from monarchy and power for the people. It is like a sweet indulgence that has never lost its sweetness for him no matter how many times he's tasted it. The electric fervor of public debate and the nervous, anxious excitement of change on the national scale.

He lives for it.

"Let the people govern themselves!" He might be heard to say with an enthusiastic wave of his hat or he might grab at the chance to debate a fellow listener on the virtues of a people's government.