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.

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.]

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.

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.

[bloodings]

Archer?!

[ Likewise, it's his voice that tips Mordred off first. She was half-expecting another Servant to show up, given her own presence, but it's still a surprise. For a moment, she wonders if his Master is here too, before putting the thought aside.

They were allies before, but things might be different now. Only one way to find out. ]

Are you looking for a fight? Heh, I'll take you on right here! [ She shakes the boxes at him menacingly... or at least, a spot about ten centimeters to the right of him, because she can't see properly. Very threatening. ]

[horsepowered]

(this is flat out silly. Chiron immediately holds both of his hands up in supplication. With Achilles, declaring the matter of the grail to be something placed on hold was simple. Nothing about the other faction's saber implied that that would also be the case.)

I am not. I don't doubt you'd put those boxes aside in a heartbeat, but this is not the appropriate time or place.

[bloodings]

Death should be on the battlefield. ... Well, public executions are fine for criminals and the like. But this is just cowardice.

[ It's strange, because she doesn't look like an adult, but she also doesn't sound like she's talking shit. She's offended by the clinical nature of it all, the attempt to act like killing isn't killing. ]

It's annoying. Like you said, they're trying to call it humane, but then turning it into a show. [ She gestures with a hand at the crowd. ] How many people here could actually do the deed themselves? [ She doubts many would be willing to be the executioner on the platform. ]

[bloodings]

[ She turns side on so she can see him, and — oh. He has his hands up. For a moment, she looks almost disappointed, but then she just grumbles quietly. ]

Of course not. I'd rather not fight amongst common folk. [ Which is in stark contrast to her 'who gives a shit about people' attitude, but she sounds honest. ] But if you challenged me, I'd answer.

... Well, it doesn't seem like the Holy Grail is here, though. So I guess that's one less thing to fight over. [ The Grail should be the only thing they need to fight over. But Mordred doesn't really need an incentive. ] I'll let you off this time.

[thingpuncher]

Well, that's... not what he was expecting. Is this guy native? Yeah, he doesn't as pale as all the other Frenchmen, but immigration exists in this era, right? Who fucking knows.

Time for a better question.

"What're the words to the, uh, anthem they keep singing?"

Yeah, he's really not good at this spycraft shit. Even when he worked with spyral, they literally just shot him out of a canon to murder people in space. He's a battering ram, not a delicate instrument. Still, he tries, even though his grip on his captive slackens just slightly, either out of guilt or concern.

[thingpuncher]

Oh, it's that shithead. What was his name... the computer won't let him forget. Henry.

"It's sick," Midnighter repeats himself. He's never seen a public execution before, he's pretty sure. "Some people need to die, I get it, but the cheering's fucked up."

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."

[maximstress]

Okay, well, the only takeaway from this predicament is that this man isn't trying to kill him...yet...just questioning him. Questioning him ridiculously, because David has no answers for any of it and he makes an effort to try and move the stranger again, but trying to slide a foot between his legs to trip him up is the furthest thing from working right now.

What the hell made him so damned sturdy?

"I don't speak French," struggling a bit more doesn't hurt, it doesn't help either, in fact it does absolutely nothing, "listen, kid, as much as I enjoy the smell of your armpit, can we try this a different way? Where I'm standing upright and I can think clearly, I might be able to help you then...you can't be too afraid I'm about to run away. You snatched me off of the street without me noticing you."

David is tying to appeal to reason here...or something, hes just so damned confused.

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.

[handsomefoil]

That makes it easier to drop any attempt at a charade. So his shoulders relax when he shrugs.

"It is," he says, then lets a pause hang in the air. "Reminds me of home, I guess. They all just think it's a crazy game."

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.

[hakanai]

Yoshitsugu doesn't know what a fireman's carry is, of course, but he's not going to question it either because it will no doubt be fine by him in this situation; Midnighter is just the kind of person you want the flow to throw in your path as an ally in moments like this. You certainly wouldn't want him to be your enemy in a riot, would you?

So Yoshitsugu comes when pulled and nods his head, the slightest smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. This will be interesting.

"Do what you need to."

How often has he been dragged around by the hand, anyway? By Takatora, by Mitsunari, by any ally who is worried that he's in the wrong place at the wrong time. Being carried away isn't much of a step-up from that.

[horsepowered]

I'm obliged.

[It seemed that handling Saber would be best done with utmost politeness and respect. This entire exchange was a contrast to their previous encounter, and that meant Chiron wanted to come to a much better and nuanced understanding of his supposed opponent.]

Would you like assistance with those boxes?

[bloodings]

Why, are you offering?

[ After a moment, she grins, and... holds out the entire stack for him to take. Let it never be said that Mordred is good at moderation. ]

The reward is still mine, though. A king doesn't sleep just anywhere, and this should be enough for a good bed.

[thingpuncher]

Okay, so this guy is definitely a... COSTer? A time traveler? They gotta come up with names for that shit. He lets the other man go, anyway, because he's brave and obviously not a threat and those are two things that Midnighter likes in people.

He keeps leaning back against the wall, his pike, the tip still rusted over with blood, poking out from over his shoulder.

"Sorry, thought you were somebody else." From his tone, it's not... quite an apology. It's just too cocky to be sincere.

[horsepowered]

[That...was opportunistic. Serves Chiron right. He doesn't balk though, he simply takes the boxes without any sort of grumbling, and unlike Mordred, he can see over the top of them with ease.]

That's quite fine. My own matter of lodgings are taken care of anyway.

[thingpuncher]

"You get a lot of public executions back home?" Midnighter asks. "Where the fuck are you from, Modora?"

Because they've gotten to the 'getting to know you' stage of the relationship, clearly.

lmk if this is ok 👌

[thingpuncher]

It's not the hand Midnighter drags his companion by. He takes his arm, a firm grip on his elbow, and flips the man bodily over his shoulder. It's all fast, happening in a flash-- Midnighter is strong, stronger than a man his size and shape reasonably should be, and he's already built formidably.

Once he's got the guy-- did he ever get his name? The computer says no-- over his shoulder, he jumps up onto an overturned cart. It's muddy and poorly constructed, but the people around it are too busy rifling through its spilled contents to care about the men standing on top of it.

There's a building nearby, and a lamppost, and a fence. Midnighter jumps from one to the other with surprising deftness and no small amount of strength. It's all more than a baseline human should have. Finally, when they've landed on a nearby roof, Midnighter puts his cargo down.

"Careful," he says, gruff. "These houses are made like shitall." The roof looks like it's been patched over several times.