let fury have the hour,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's third TDM! And the death of an important guy. And some very upset royalty.
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 new recruits

(Note: If you were one of the people who used the previous TDM and want to use that as canon while still participating in this one, feel free! The following will still happen, though the guide will apologize for a malfunction in your BCE causing you to zap through the intervening month instead of joining your comrades like you should have. You'll be assured the glitch is fixed now, and it probably is. Probably.)

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.

KILL THE KING

It doesn't matter if you're new, or if you've been here a while. You'll hear about the execution going on today. It's as though the barely restrained urban chaos of Paris has ground to a halt. Everything is about the king. Is it really going to happen? Are they really going to do it? Can they do it? Is it even possible?

Anyone out of the loop will be filled in, but with no small amount of ridicule: Today is the day of the king's execution. His trial has wrapped up, and the National Convention voted to execute him for treason and tyranny.

The crowd at the execution is enormous, a riotous mob of passion barely restrained. Everyone is jockeying for a better view, with children and adults climbing up on nearby statues, lampposts, the sides of houses, rooves, some even hang from windows. Everyone watches the scaffold.

The prison cart arrives with no fanfare save the yells of the crowd. Within it sits a small, fat little man, looking like he's doing his best to remain composed. He's brought to the scaffold, and his crimes are read out: colluding with foreign powers, and the crime of royalty, which is anathema to the republic of France.

When asked for his final words, Louis Capet, known to some as King Louis XVI, speaks in a quiet voice. "I forgive my enemies."

When the blade comes down, the crowd errupts into cheers. Many rush forward to touch the blood of a king, dipping bits of cloth in it in an attempt to save it.

I PREDICT A RIOT

It's as though all the built up tension in Paris exploded when the king was killed.

Who knows what started it. Rumors spread like wildfire, and it doesn't matter, does it? In the end, most of Paris is swarmed with chaos, especially in the areas nearest to where the king was executed. There's no doubt that the riot and the king's death are directly related; no peasant currently throwing stones and breaking windows will deny it.

Fights are happening with great frequency. It only takes a word, a half sentence, for someone to decide you're some kind of counter-revolutionary. There is a current of anxiety in Paris that hasn't gone away; after reaching a fever pitch, it has expressed itself with violence and chaos.

let's visit the tuileries

The Tuileries was the royal palace in Paris, the last residence of the king before his death. Of course the people of France end up clamoring at its gates, screaming profanities and attempting to scale them.

The majority of the guard let them do this, making only the most token of efforts to keep the peasantry back. But one guard, a man by the name of Antoine Colin, seems to become spooked and shoots repeatedly into the crowd before someone knocks him out.

By then, though, it's too late. The crowd was rambunctious, but not murderous. Now it's bloodthirsty, and the gates are stormed. It isn't long before the common people of France are trampling through the corridors of power. Inside, they'll mostly find servants running and hiding, and lots of valuables to steal.

Most are content with that, but not all. Some clamor for the deaths of the queen and the royal children-- per the laws of inheritance, Marie Capet's remaining son is now King of France. Should he not die as well?

The queen is hidden in a safe room, a hollow wall inside her apartments. Do you try to find her? Try to save her? Try to kill her yourself?

...And what about those kids hiding in there with her?

BRING IN THE TROOPS

The riot in the Tuileries lasts several hours, well past nightfall. It's beginning to peter off, people loosing their energy or vigor, when the sound of gunfire echoes from the front courtyard.

General Lafayette has arrived to save the queen, and brought with him a retinue of personal soldiers. All on horseback, brandishing firearms and sabers, they stream through the expansive halls of the Tuileries and attack anyone who looks out of place. They're here to clean up this mess with no concern for more filthy peasants getting in the way.

Aftermath

The night is a long one. Several fires break out in various parts of Paris, shops are looted, and several die in the Tuileries. The queen has disappeared, along with Lafayette. Some say she and Lafayette died, and they'll show you the bodies for a couple sou. Others claim they saw them riding off into safety just before sunrise. There are already talks of hunting them down, trying to find the traitors.

Only one thing is known for sure: It may be advisable to stay inside for the foreseeable future.

read the France setting infopages

NAV NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

ADDITIONAL.

[agogemod]

[a placeholder for the dlc.]

QUEEN MARIE ANTOINETTE JOSEPHE JEANNE & HER CHILDREN

[agogenpc]

Inside the Palace of Tuileries, the riot starts as the sound of a glass being smashed. The rock thrown through the window of the once home of royal families of France.

Now, it is their prison. A prison of grand rooms and bustling servants. Who desperately scramble to shove whatever valuables they can into their aprons and satchels as the riots spread like a sea wave through the corridors. Forthing up over the walls and around corners, tearing at paintings, ripping at beds and linens, overturning furniture in its churn. Like horses charging, they do not look where they put their feet and the rooms are torn asunder. Like the sea, it cannot be stopped.

The only mercy to the crash and break is the size of the palace itself. There are so many rooms - some grand, the height of aristocracy, either past or present, the rooms are gold at the edges, grand in their views of the river. Others are small, pokey back room stairs, servants passages. A clear cut between the two worlds. Rich and poor, and in those spaces, if you get far enough ahead of the riot, perhaps you find a quiet empty room.

But perhaps it is not so quiet. Perhaps, when you stand very still, there is a creak heard, the wooden panel in the wall that doesn't look quite right. Doesn't sit even as it should. Perhaps it's the eyes that glint in the second when it looks like a wood box slides open and someone appears to be looking out behind the royal chambers.

Or maybe, it's the sound that is unmistakable. Of sobbing, softly, quiet, coming from the walls themselves. Faint, the type of tears that are past the point of stopping easily, but are simply, more so than anything else, resigned. Soon enough, the riot will swallow that up too.

locked to CROWNLESS

[chariotry]

[ After speaking to Sargent, Achilles had it in mind that he'd do whatever it takes to get a hold of his mother, Goddess Thetis.

Even if it meant taking a carriage by horse over a hundred miles to the ocean.

It's about a day's worth of a trip and he had left Paris before the sun had risen. By this time, it's already late in the afternoon. ]

[crownless]

[It'd been a rough night for him. Flat broke after weeks of busting his ass for a room, Madame had at last grown weary of Travis and had tossed him out on the street. Taking a page out of Henry's book, then, he had turned to sleeping rough, wandering idly until nearly the break of dawn. But even the most comfortable spot he could find-- the back of some parked carriage-- had him tossing and turning, sleeping restlessly while huddled under his meager blanket...

There's a last jolt. Finally, he's shaken rudely out of slumber.

Not that he wants to be. He groans, shifting under his thin cover. Maybe if nobody finds this thing he can catch another five minutes.]

athena / borderlands / newb

[badassassin]

i. J'ARRIVE À LA VILLE.

[A member of COST. Athena isn't certain this is all on the up-and-up -- in fact, she's pretty damn sure she's just been shanghaied -- but refusing to cooperate isn't going to get her answers, so she decides to play along for now.

She doesn't quite understand the whys and wherefores keeping her from wearing some freakin' pants, so she is wearing them anyway, her shield slung across her back and the foreign weight of a sabre at her side. It's primitive compared to her plasma sword, but it's more effective than the literally stone age pistols in this place.

As she stalks through the streets, her appearance starts to attract unwanted attention; she's an assassin, not a spy, so the whole "fitting in" goes a little over her head. A man approaches her as others look on from the side of the road, reaching for her shield and saying Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça, citoyenne? -- "what's that"?

Athena reacts without thinking, slapping his hand away. She could possibly use some help before this gets worse.]

ii. PALAIS DES TUILERIES.

[Regency is going to assassinate a "historical figure," and honestly, what's more historical than a queen? Athena makes her way through the gates with the rest, but splits off from the pillaging, uninterested. Trotting silently through the lavish halls, she ignores the servants scattering in her wake, until she settles upon one that doesn't notice her.

He's pillaging himself, taking part in the confusion to shove some gilded knick-knacks in his pockets. Athena moves fast, darting forward and grabbing his shoulder to spin him around, then pins him against the wall with her shield on his chest.]

Where is she?

i

[rappels]

[ Aloy is only recently back from her own side mission, and personally? She'd guess it was for reasons like she's seeing here. Wearing the pants is a dead giveaway that the other woman is someone that likely works with COST too, but Aloy definitely understands. She's taken on more of the usual dress, but she hates it. She'd much rather take the same options, and it's why she's glad that she missed most of the past month having to wear things like this. She shifts uncomfortable in the corset (even though it's as loose as can be), but approaches the pair. ]

Don't bother.

[ Aloy speaks up neutrally, but firmly, and it's not quite clear which of them she's talking to. She may be young, but she still carries herself like she has some authority. She doesn't, of course, but it's at least enough to catch the man's attention a bit sharply. At that point, Aloy puts more of her attention on him instead as she crosses her arms. ]

Don't you have something better to be doing?

[ So... She might not be able to help in the "not making it worse" department. Aloy doesn't really have great people skills either. ]

Coriander Bliss | Pokemon OC | New

[rhododendronhoney]

Guillotine

[Cori grips the water droplet-shaped necklace around her neck like it's a lifeline, which it sort of is. Everything else she's wearing is new, and it feels nothing like what she usually wears. She takes a few deep breaths and watches intently as the blade rises and falls. Still, as the crowd teems forward, she pulls a handkerchief out of her own pocket and leans forward, attempting to catch at least one drop of it.]

Royal blood, spilled by justice...there's so much I might be able to make from this. [She's whispering to herself, although anyone nearby might be able to hear her.]

Palace

[Cori's eyes blaze with anger when she hears people calling for the deaths of the queen and her children. She snarls, punching a random wall and muttering.] Have these people no shame? Putting the sins of the parent onto his children?

Palace

[mercurialize]

It's not nice to punch something that can't hit you back.

[Kylar's been shuffling around the crowd and watching, occasionally yelling the same threats they are so no one looks at him twice. He could walk around her but doesn't. There is something about the girl's naivete that leaves him with a wonder. And she reminds him of someone...]

[ladygeryon]

Arrival

[It doesn't take much to get Nira to agree to join this group, not when she hears that the lives of her children and their descendants may be at stake. She's a bit uncomfortable with the walking stick she's been provided with, but at least she has Aria with her-in her Pokeball, concealed beneath her clothes, to be sure, but with her still. Apparently things are coming to a head, but she doesn't plan on watching the execution-instead she's hanging out at one of the streets close to it, watching people stream past and occasionally speaking up to discourage them. She's just leaning against a wall, but there's a look in her eyes that says she's waiting for someone to start something. The scars on her neck have been concealed with a scarf wrapped around them.]

It's pretty crowded. I don't think you're going to get a good view there.

Rioting

[Nira was engaged in a shouting match with some other rioters, but it has escalated into shoving by now.] A-ah God, I'm just trying to keep the peace! That has nothing to do with who I do or don't support! [She seems to seriously be considering just headbutting the man, or using the full force of her strength.]

[stormkingofshepherds]

Troops

[Nathaniel lets out a yelp when he hears the sounds of hoofbeats and gunshots, stumbling over his own feet. He's been trying to make sure that no one gets near to finding the queen and her children, and for him the best way to do that is to divert people from the idea. He glances around desperately, before using his walking stick to shatter one of the larger windows nearby.]

This way! [He gestures desperately.]

Aftermath

[Nathaniel's found somewhere to hide out for now, although he keeps listening for the noise of looters approaching. He does glance over at his companions as well.]

Does this happen a lot?

hei, darker than black... i need icons...

[dipolar]

1. RIOTS

(even death’s been stolen from him. that’s poetic in its own way, he realizes as he stands statue-still in a foreign square while looking impressively… poor. he’ll allow the woman who greeted him some credit for the gifted clothing’s selling prices; he’d never make it as royalty. so, donning the role of a beggar or thief in two unlaced collars of an off-white blouse and dark jacket, the only thing on him worth half a french livre now is the bright red sash hugging a billhook to his waist.

stripped down to his unmentionables, robbed of catharsis and virtually everything else? this kind of luck is the luck he’s used to, so familiar it’d almost be nostalgic if he wasn’t staring at a freshly-invented guillotine.

the fat man he doesn’t recognize, unversed in world history and its politics. hei does rediscover his obnoxious curiosity, however, then finds it unpalatable and feels an urge to get rid of it as quickly as possible. which is the only reason why he’s skirting the edge of the rampaging crowd, intent on the mess in the front rows. thankfully they’re getting the hell out of his way — off to pillage the castle or its gates or the village’s shoppes or its unprotected people — and he’s ushered to the executioner’s staging, eyes narrowing at the soaking of tacky blood into splintered wood.

numbness is all he feels. until he’s bumped at each shoulder and staggered forward hard enough for him to reach out.)

…

(hei tips a cold expression forward, staring beyond the brim of a wide hat. they shoudn’t look “out of place”, that’s what he’s been told by the mademoiselle in his door when he woke, and his chinese heritage won’t exactly scream normal to anyone but his fellow cost members. something he is now. something he can’t argue with when there’s no more meaning to his life than there ever was. especially after getting shoved into a puddle of the beheaded king’s myriad juices.

no. fuck.

raising the offending hand with a visceral reaction, he does the only thing his instincts force the rest of his arm to followthrough with:

he smacks a royally blood-soaked palm against the back of the shirt of the next passerby, dragging the stain down very vintage clothing. and he doesn’t even look apologetic about it, shadowed brow pinched in some muted disgust. wasn’t the bubonic plague a big deal here a few decades ago?)

2. TROOPS

(well after that fiasco, lying low sounds like a far better idea. he owes it to no one to help in the assassination or protection of a queen he doesn’t know and her children who’ll blubber and give away his position. some have a knack for being quiet and some are meant to whimper under floorboards until a far more chivalrous soul happens to hear them.

hei finds a perfectly comfortable spot on one of the castles lower roofs, shoving his back against aging parapets carved out of some kind of glorious marble. it’s quiet, despite the aggressions happening inside and below; he’d try for a fire if he didn’t think someone would spot him and yell bloody murder. so in the meantime, his billhook is drawn and repeatedly flipped. once, twice, ten times, twenty—

it’s hard to say how long he’s up there before sleep-bruised eyelids sink enough for it to be such a fucking shock when footsteps jerk him awake.)

Tch! (spat at the immediate volley of arrows that wrench him from his spot and crack the old marble fascinations he’d been resting against.

a roll out of the way, he’s up on his feet in less than a second with his hat wheeling into a sad stop against his boot’s toe. ascertains that there are two men, soldiers attempting crowd control by the looks of them, spouting the angriest french he’s never heard. he can understand it and he didn’t need to be able to do that to catch its hostility. “hands away from the blade,” is cried, “do not resist, or we’ll have you hung in the queen’s name!”

time to make a fast exit, but for that he’d need one to run to and the longer he stays up here the higher the chance of him getting surrounded. too bad he doesn’t have his wires; he’d settle for a helping hand.)

3. JUNK

(obligatory wildcard option, hit me up with absolutely anything!)

1. hei you really should carry a towel or something

[pointedlook]

[ It stings, of course, that he and 76 hadn't succeeded in winning Robespierre over. Arthur's hard on everyone, but most especially himself, and failure is not something he takes lightly. In serious circumstances like this, even less so. It feels a bit like the Fischer job all over again, when he'd missed the militarized projections and put the entire team in jeopardy.

Part of him wants to make excuses for the failure– he's not the most personable and honestly, neither is 76. They're both more suited to a rough and tumble life. Arthur would've given anything to have Cobb or Eames in on that conversation. He has a sneaking feeling it would've at least delayed the riot that was occurring in the city now. The press of people is near unbearable; he really should just hole up somewhere until the worst of it is over. Unfortunately it's a bit late to back out now, because he'll have to navigate the crowd just to leave it.

As he winds his way through the throngs, he hears a deafening roar of cheers and general noises of chaos. The king is dead, history is rewritten. What this means for their future, he isn't sure. Instead of spinning out theories, he just keeps going, only stopping to whirl on someone when they shove their hand against his back. Arthur aims to catch their wrist, not wanting to get pick pocketed or pushed into some kind of street fight. ]

...Seriously?

[ And that's when he notices the mess on the palm of their hand. Nice. ]

Remilia Scarlet | Touhou Project | OTA

[scarletfantasy]

Riots

[If there was one thing that Remilia was incapable of doing, it was keeping her opinions to herself. While she had no love for the king, she didn't have much hatred for him either. Overall, she felt rather dismissive of the whole ordeal. Let them kill themselves for all she cared, they were all savages anyways.

Her lack of enthusiasm was very apparent, which certainly didn't help her already suspicious figure. As if someone so short and dressed in multiple layers of clothes wasn't strange enough on its own. An easy target for anyone looking to brand someone as a counter-revolutionary.

While she happened to get away alive, albeit a little beaten up, she could find a moment of rest in a dark alley. Trying to adjust her outfit a bit so she could still maintain protection from the sun with little success.]

How can I get anything done here when everything wants to kill me? Honestly, sending me out here had to be a joke...

Tuileries

[Entering the royal palace, the vampire had one goal. That was to find the queen. She had yet to decide what she would do when she did find her, however that seemed to be the only thing she can do now. Plus, a break from the outdoors and the mass of the riots was a benefit in and of itself. The further she could distance herself from the masses the better.

Any of the royal family's servants that saw her immediately ran to hide. A reaction she couldn't fault, but one that was growing old quickly. All she wanted to do was to ask a couple of questions, they didn't even have to be about the queen or her kids.]

I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish trying to hide. The mob will likely burn this place down if they can't find who they're looking for. You'll be better off just getting out of here.

Wildcard

(Throw whatever you like at me)

Riot

[hakanai]

[He might not have enough stamina left in him to deal with riots and infiltrate the more dangerous places, but Yoshitsugu has been making himself useful in a different way; watching the crowds from shadows and dark places in order to pick out newcomers and offer a little 'orientation' if needs be.]

[Dark alleyways certainly work well for such a thing. He's leaning against a wall there, clad in clothes appropriate for the time but marked as not quite belonging by the blue facecloth concealing his mouth and, most obviously of all, the oversized command baton grasped in his right hand.]

It's not a joke.

[Yoshitsugu sounds remarkably calm, considering the situation in the streets, and looks it too... from the little visible of his face.]

But we won't be here for long.

Kazuhira Miller | Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker

[b0mbshell]

KILL THE KING

[Well, he did want to end up in a Parisian bed, but he'd had a certain woman in mind to share it with and he would have clearly recalled how he ended up without his clothes, if that had been the preferred scenario.]

[Kaz asks all the standard questions when it happens. Repeating words inquisitively, committing explanations to memory, and as much as time travel in itself is a dubious concept (oh how he wishes he could remember how this came about and then maybe he'd feel a little less up shit creek), the idea of a 'kingdom' of the future stamping out individuality in the name of peace is, well...]

[...completely predictable, considering his recent contacts. Nothing like reminders of what bad decisions and bad deals can possibly lead to, even if he has yet to fully grasp the scope.]

[Any doubts that he might have had are slowly quelled by one person after another too genuine to be a reenactor, streets that smell appalling and surfaces that feel of grime, and then the promised death of a king. A legendary event, something that he can remember as words in an aging book at his American university, thin paper with clinical, dispassionate language flipped carefully as he writes notes on narrow ruled paper for some report on the French Consulate and the relating coup de tats that led to it.]

[He can smell the actual blood of Louis XVI and so many others. This is achingly real.]

Oh my god... [Kaz says out loud, covering his mouth. It's not shock- he's seen worse. It's not offense, because sometimes a man's gotta go. It's just the startlement of being overwhelmed. Of realizing history being made in front of him, accurately, in ways that would be written and not lied away into obscurity.]

BRING IN THE TROOPS

[Kaz wishes with every last fiber of his being that he could catch one moment to speak with Lafayette. Just one. The crude fanboy in him wants to know all the details from the mouth of the man himself. But it's going to be impossible to find an opportunity with a yowling shitstorm of people screaming for heads. Even the lives of children. And while Miller's morality stumbles, in that he feels ire. He can't help it.]

[If it were up to him, there'd be no debate in interfering with that.]

[He's watching out a shed window idly, keeping out of the way for the moment with someone. He pushes the period-appropriate tinted glasses he managed to find for himself higher up on his nose before segueing into smoothing his hair past the arm of them. To the person with him, he finally observes-]

Personally, I think people deciding to kill a kid are already well on their way to "greater gooding" matters into what they want. But that's just me. [As if he's not a chipper little warmonger back home who makes his own excuses for wanting peace. And money. But also peace.] Any idea what they're planning to do about this? Well, what we're supposed to do.

[He's new. He has to defer to someone.]

Bring in the troops

[hakanai]

[A very worn out Yoshitsugu is unable to do too much to help in these riots; three months of intense missions have depleted his body's stamina down to almost nil. Much more of this and his overly fragile body will get sick.]

[Again.]

[The influx of newcomers, however, and the feel of the flow dragging him out have moved him to at least keep watch on the streets. Yoshitsugu's been hiding in shadows and watching from whatever boltholes he can, sometimes alone and sometimes with company, ready to pluck out anyone who looks like they don't belong. At least he can wear a facecloth again while he does so; after all, if he's hiding away, nobody can see him to accuse him of acting 'suspicious.']

The part we were supposed to play is done, as per the orders we were given.

[Yoshitsugu's own efforts worked; he and Takatora had convinced Danton to vote for a delay in the execution. But swaying one man wasn't enough, was it? Too many had failed to sway hearts, or account for slyness.]

[Right now he's no longer at the window, as Miller is, instead resting against the wall with one hand extended outwards. A small glowing cranefly dances around his fingers, the illusion one he had summoned merely for idle entertainment.]

Despite considerable effort we were unable to prevent the King's early execution; one way or another, history is changed. They'll call us back soon.

[Honestly, why had COST brought in new members of the unit at the end of the mission? The timing was strange.]

angel | borderlands | newbie!

[circumspector]

I. DEATH OF A KING ( THIS IS FINE )

[ The hours from arrival to the death of the King pass a blur to Angel's barely coping mind that thrusts her from her control chambers to this-this great, broad outside. Unfathomable, unexplainable. She cannot comprehend it in its entirety, not straight away. The sight, smell, sound, the feeling that as she crams her cap on tight over her ears, passing for no more than a barefaced boy and gets swept up in the crush of people, that press in at all sides, it doesn't feel real to her.

It still keeps not feeling real.

Until Louis loses his head.

Then the world snaps into a focus that cannot be mistaken ever again.

It's not that the death - is too much. It isn't. She's seen worse, she's caused worse, or that the people aren't in some way predictable in their volatile nature, when Angel stumbles in her - new old clothes, towards the side street. The uneven cobblestones make her stumble where legs so unused to walk find a wall to lean against to guide her. Hard to push her way against the teeming current of people.

Which is less of a problem of course, when she gets as far as her body will let her. She sinks down, slipping the length of the wall, onto her hands and knees and begins to throw up in heaving gasps the cheese and coffee paste come up in an acrid spatter on the already filthy streets. A running nose and a ugly catch of spittle in her mouth. She's just one more piece of discarded mess on the edge of the busying street, kicked out of the way no different to the child she looks the approximate height of.

It's not even the smell of blood and unwashed bodies that she isn't familiar with. It's one simple clear thought, that feels like the earth splitting apart underneath her into a sea of purple and underneath her clothes, the markings pulse:

It's real, this is really happening, I never have to go back. ]

II. OR MAYBE JUST THROW A ROCK ( STILL, TOTALLY FINE. )

[ She's too slow, when the crowd picks her up and drops her off again, at the edge of the riot that comes to the steps of Tuileries. The orders were clear, right? The Queen was going to die at some point and that the Regency was trying to make that not happen.

So throwing the stone had to be first.

But she's too slow, fumbling with the rock she finds at her feet and gets a heavy shove at her back. It sends her sprawling - the accusation immediate to the mouth of the one that pushed her. ]

' What's taking you so long - ? You aren't a monarchist, are you? '

[ She shakes her head, pushing herself back as fast as she can, feet scrambling underneath her to push herself the rest of the way up before she can get trampled. ]

No, no, for - the, uhm, for the people of France! [ She takes a deeper, longer breath as they stare and stare and stare - oh this is so much easier when they were a screen away. ] I just did not think I was as brave as the monsieurs who took the King's head!

[ Her voice positively squeaks out the words,and maybe that is enough to lend to the humility she tries to push into her words, before she hastily throws the rock, miserably. Missing the window but at least it hits the wall with a satisfying thunk enough to look like she tried, and her head hangs, defeated and maybe that isn't fake. Seriously, Angel, you call that a throw - you couldn't hit the side of a barn wall. What the hell, kiddo?

But the men, assuming that the high pitch of a problem, take as instant a turn as they did when shoving her, instead this time, she gets a big old pat on the back. ] Fighting for our liberty will put the hairs on your chest. Come!

[ It doesn't seem to make much of a difference, she still goes stumbling straight into the ground again and the men laugh, the riot halting after all, for no man. She says nothing as they pass, taking out a deeper breath before she tries to push herself up on wobbly legs. ]

That was close...

III. JUST SETTLE FOR SITTING STILL ( OKAY MAYBE NOT SO FINE )

[ It's only have it has all been dispersed that Angel finally finds time to sit, - keep your cap on, don't take the glove off, they can't see the markings - and she finally notices that she has own prices to pay for the day.

Oh she knew that she was hurting, but that was - it felt so strange, so not right. So much of her still taken up in a feeling of utter emptiness of the eridium, her control collar, the sturdy walls of her chamber that made even the weak sun here feel so bright to her eyes. She hurts, she hurts in a way she has forgotten. Thinks she might be hungry and her hair is itchy - don't scratch, even if it's... fleas, or whatever it was that she saw the others have.

But it's when she finally sits still long enough to look down at herself and sees that somewhere along the day, she's skinned the palm of her exposed hand - and there was, stuck, just under the skin, a bit of gravel. ] Right, that's okay Angel. It's okay. It's just some dirt. It's just a cut. We've... had those before.

[ Deep, deep breath, her fingers lift to try for the first time to clean her own wound.

The tears well in the sharp sting of pain almost immediately. ] Lillith wouldn't cry. Athena wouldn't cry. Maya wouldn't cry. [ It's hitched as she uses her littlest nail to try and free the tiny stone, moving it out from under the surface. She swallows, forcing the pain response down - it's okay, think about the others. Sirens, sirens were more than this, they don't get hurt like this and if they do they just, they just. ] Stop it. It's just a cut.

TO:@ALL

Hey - so what's so bad about this King and Queen? Do they eat people or something like that? I've heard some really... different things about earth's history, just want to make sure I've got it right before I say anything... dumb to someone on the street.

iii

[rappels]

[ It's strange being back, not for returning (or even for having somewhere to go to), but just to see how much changed in the time she was gone. Things had been chaotic before she left, but clearly, that had increased quickly. It feels foreign to her as so much about this job (or whatever she'd call it) does. It gives her the sense that maybe things move much more slowly where she's from, and as a result, she's content to hang back and not get involved in the action. It's the sort of politics she's impatient with, and so she'd rather hang back and wait until there's something more suited for her skills. For example, she's considering taking the time to head into the wooded areas and get away from all these people and gather supplies to make things she might need. Branches for arrows, maybe even pelts for making some belts and pouches.

She wouldn't have stopped, if not for the girl talking to herself. Aloy pauses, thoughtful at first, since she thinks that she might be speaking to her, but— No, clearly not. It gets her brow to knit together in light confusion instead, and she watches, but not for long before she understands what's happening. Or at least enough. There's a part of Aloy that just wants to continue on, since it's really none of her business, but at the same time, for how abrasive she could be, she always has the urge to help people who need it. And though she'll keep the thought to herself, since she realizes it probably wouldn't go over well, she'd guess that a girl that's crying over a cut probably does.

Aloy steps closer from behind Angel, and she speaks up casually as she starts to reach into one of the bags at her side. ]

Splinter?

[ Aloy asks what it is before asking if she can help, since she's decided to herself that she will regardless... Out of her bag she pulls out a smaller one that has rough, torn scraps of cloth peeking out. It's an easy guess that this is her equivalent of a first aid kit, though definitely a roughly put together one. ]

I have things to help, if you need it.

[ryuji]

1. KILL THE KING (ACTION)
[This... is it.

This is the spoils of Ryuji had endeavored towards since the day he step foot into Paris, blinded by his own naivety. He had started riots, stopped an artist from taking a vote at the National Convention when the timing wasn't right, but the outcome was unchanged. The blond haired youth stands in the crowd as they cheer on the events of the day- the events of the era- because when do people feel finally more free than the moment of watching their usurper pay retribution for his deeds with his own life? The drums are blaring, he's getting pushed and shoved in directions he didn't want to go, but he stands there, one single dissenter in absolute paralysis. Eren's words ring in his ear, louder than the sounds of the crowd or the waning rhythmic beats of the sacrificial melancholy with which the snares ring out.

It's a cruel world out there. Your jaw might drop at something like that...

Jaw, and fists, clenched, he sees Sanson take the stage, watches the literal grim reaper prepare the ceremony for its climax as Louis Capet mutters his last words to a crowd that doesn't care for his legacy. And he's seen kings, groveled, brought down to mere personhood, stripped of their glory and their right to rule, but he can't stop imagining himself up there as the executioner. Would his resolve be the same? Could he carry out justice like this? He feels sick to his stomach- Louis is brought down to the hole where his head would soon be severed, and with it the monarchy from the rest of France. And yet, he still blesses this country, and the blade---

It's relentless in its cut.

Ryuji stares on, as the repercussions of his own actions sink into him. He stares until he can't any longer, and turns away from the crowd, a sore thumb in the mix of all the revelry around him. And in one, horrible moment, as the smell of today's murder makes itself apparent, he wonders if this was the right choice after all.]


2. AFTERMATH (TEXT/OR ACTION)
[Laying on the roof of the little bar that he had called home, he stares upward at the sky. It's a rare moment for Ryuji to look this somber, but there's a bottle of wine he stole from the kitchen downstairs next to him, opened, but untouched. He's thinking of friends from home, of seeing their faces again, crowded in the little shithole of a coffee shop called Leblanc, joking and crowding the booths, and making the environment more alive than its owner would like to see.

There's a lot to see tonight- riots are the sign of the times, again, and the palaces are being ransacked for every last scrap of luxury that had been built off the backs of hard working people. He thought it would've been cool to burst into Versailles at one point, absconding with some trinket to remind himself of Paris, or just for the thrill of breaking and entering into one of the world's most heavily revered places of his own time. But that's not the thought on his mind, now. He wants to see the soft, always smiling face of his mom. Pushing his hands into his eyes until the stars behind his lids match the ones above him, he sighs and tries to get himself together a little bit. He takes a swig- god, that shit is nasty.]

>@ENTERTHEDRAGON
To: @ALL

How're you guys winding down? paris-rooftop.jpg

[A picture of what he sees: the roof, followed by a view of the sky, captured relatively nicely, if not for a slight blur.]

un: @MINIMALCAT

[hakanai]

My partner is with me. That is all I need to wind down.

You are not used to war, are you?

[horsepowered]

everything is catching yes everything is catching on fire

[Chiron had expected there to be fires as a result of...everything. No part of him is surprised, but there is a tiny portion of him that wanted to be proven wrong about the likelihood of Paris being ablaze both literally and metaphorically.

It is possible to assuage some of the literal flames though, and it's for that reason he uses the network.]

>@PONYTAILED
To: @ALL

If anyone has the time or energy, some of the fires are close to being contained and only need extra manpower to finish them off.

UN: @MONSIGNOR

[frogfractions]

Maybe some things deserve to burn.

Churches and mansions, basically.

keyleth of the air ashari | critical role | painfully new

[fernbeleafer]

"blending" in, level 1 (kill the wabbit king)

[ she can't stop fussing with the cap she's pulled down over the large, pointed ears that would give her away.

it's partly nerves brought on by the abject discomfort she's grappling with. when she sees a fellow cost member looking at her pointedly, keyleth drops both hands down at her sides and stiffens up. if she didn't already look entirely guilty and out of her depth, her bug-eyes would certainly give her away. ]

Uhh. Hi. [ a wave and a whisper: ] Can you uhm-- you can't see them, can you? My ears, I mean. They're kinda big and this thing is really itchy--

[ yeah, you might have to interrupt her. ]

"blending" in, level 2 (riot girl)

Maximally Robe Spear?

[ keyleth's nose crinkles, and she fishes a notepad and quill out of ... somewhere. ]

How do you spell that, again? And like, you know. What's his whole deal? Is he cool?

[ ok yep she just got punched in the nose. oww. did anyone see where her notepad landed? ]

"blending" in, level 3 (after the party it's the hotel lobby)

[ in the aftermath, rumors of a large white cat having rampaged through the palace spreads.

you could have sworn you saw something large and white with black stripes disappear into some brush around the cost-built tents. will you investigate? ]

kill the king

[frogfractions]

[Prelati stares at the mess of a girl to her right - she couldn't be more obvious if she tried. Her body language, her constant shout-whispering, the way she keeps fidgeting with her cap -

Prelati grumbles as she reaches up to adjust the girl's hat for her, yanking it down over her ears roughly.]

Calm down. [It's said in an exasperated sigh.] Everyone has bigger things on their minds. They've just executed a king. Nobody's going to care, essentially. We don't matter.

Unless you keep wanting us to matter. So for both our sakes, calm down.

james flint | black sails | newbie!

[katabasis]

((ooc: action brackets is aokay too; i'll write to match whatever you're comfortable with.))

RIOT LIKE IT'S 1792

Does it make a difference when the head that rolls belongs to a king? Does royal blood mean more than any other man's? Does a blade falling make the same noise if it does so at the heart of a nation demanding it strike in the name of liberty? Logically, it must. To anyone on the platform standing alongside the monstrous, efficient machine at its center, the sch-THUNK of the blade must sound exactly the same as it drives through this neck as it does any other. Skin is skin, bone is bone, blood is blood. Isn't the point of all this that one person is exactly like the next?

Not from where Flint stands, shoulder to shoulder with Frenchmen and so far removed from the action at the square's center that a boy has been pushed up to the top of a lamp post to describe the movements on the stage. "He has said some words," the boy had calls down. "They're putting him directly to it now." From such a distant vantage, it's impossible to see anything but the apex of the guillotine's frame against the sky and the flash when the steel drops.

This blade roars as it lands. The sound carries as a wave - crashing outward, then pulling after it. The crowd is sucked into the center of it and Flint-- Flint lets himself be carried forward by it. Away by it. To be swept up in the wild, bloody vindication of it and all the chaos that follows. It might be different if he were part of this place - if any piece of him belonged to this city or if he felt any obligation to a single soul in it he might just be staggered and speechless. But if he has any responsibility (here or anywhere), it's only one a woman in a room has told him he does. In this moment, that means nothing at all.

Which is how Captain Flint, once one of the most feared pirates of the West Indies and well used to the authority lent by a mob, finds himself at home in a riot rather than directing one. Witness a king beheaded and suddenly it's so easy to sweep through the streets of Paris. It's so easy to be taken by the surge of violence. It's so easy to lay hands on an unlucky individual that doesn't seem as energized by the chaos:

That means you are being caught by the collar by a man with every intent to manhandle, who only pauses when his knuckle finds the hard lump of the BCE implant just there through the fabric of the shirt. There's a cut on his forehead, blood at his temple, and something hungry and dangerous in his expression even as recognition stills his hands.

AFTERMATH

Come morning, smoke still hangs heavy over the neighborhood where he'd first woken in a bed the day previous. The acrid tang of the air clings to the throat, in the nose, in every stitch of clothing on his person. And while it's true that there is likely no place for him here - there had been no promise when he'd first left the room that he could come back to it -, with nowhere else to go, Flint finds himself returning to the same room he'd come from.

That had been the idea anyway. He makes it only as far as the boardinghouse's staircase before he has to sit, then slump against the wall, in the narrow second story landing. Surely here's a man who's found trouble the night prior if the black ash and powder burns, the scrapes and bruises are any indication. Don't fucking step on him on the way up or down the stairs because Christ knows he's too exhausted to get make getting past him easy (or pleasant).

WILDCARD

[Throw some rocks; run rough shod through the Tuileries palace; eat the rich.]

Aftermath, also, politely screams in glee.

[horsepowered]

It had been a long night. Longer than Chiron anticipated, and more wearying than he would have preferred. The aftermath of the execution had ended as he suspected it would have - riots and fires. And so he had spent his evening putting out what fires he could, regretting that the technology of the era made it so hard to get flames under control and that the modern systems of firefighting didn't exist yet.

The destruction had been impressive in it's own horrible way.

Come morning, everything that could be contained was. Most were extinguished thanks to endless effort, and Chiron felt that his energies were now best spent thinking about what came next. Never mind Regency or COST or anything along those lines, the question of what came next in the actual course of events was his focus. Riots were doubtlessly a part of it, but beyond that, that was where his questions lay.

He's lost in thought as he returns to the boarding house that he's been using since arriving in Paris. Covered in an unfortunate amount of soot and smelling of only recently dead fires, he proceeds to climb up the steps, his mind elsewhere. As a result, he hardly notices that he's bumped a man's leg.

Mad Sweeney | American Gods

[macginger]

Kill the King

He missed his boots, but at least he had his coin. The important one, which made being roped into this whole bloody and stupid thing worth it. He didn't particularly get any joy arriving just to see the king died. This place was dangerous and it had nothing to do with the fact that guy with a metal hat was about to get offed. The air was thick with a new idea and it was coming very close to a fervor filled worship. A new god could very well be born out of all of this with a whole fucked up religion to go with it. A shame nobody here would have an idea who he was. Sweeney could go for being the god of this fucked up shit.

And then the head rolls and people are jumping in to get the royal blood. Sweeney leans towards his 'comrade in arms' that was here to spectate with him. "You'd think they were collecting the blood of the fucking blessed sacrament up there."

The Riot

Mad Sweeney tried to be the bigger person. He really did. He made such a great effort to just sort of stand aside and let it all happen. But then some asshole sidled into his shoulder and well, that about did it. Sweeney grabbed the miserable peasant bastard and slammed a fist into the man's skull. One hit had the man on the ground which was bad, because he wasn't about to let him get trampled. So after dragging him to somewhere slightly out of the way, he got caught up in the riot with the peculiar intention of simply beating the bloody fuck out of people, then hoisting them over his shoulder and setting them somewhere to go think about what a miserable asshole they were.

Though as it got on, it became harder to tell if he was doing it to 'pacify' people or just fighting for the sheer ever loving joy of it. Which meant that when he ran into one of his team mates, he manages to get a punch in before realizing that it was one of the people he probably shouldn't be punching. Oops.

kill the king

[dorzalta]

The commotion is what draws her out from her 'duties' for the queen. The entire city is in a stifled frenzy, and for good reason: the king's execution is a brutal and bloody thing... but not unlike an execution she's ordered in the past. Still, it's no less difficult to watch, particularly when the crowd jostles to obtain some of the man's blood. The crimes announced are no crimes she believes worthy of execution; nevertheless, it would be foolhardy to try and intervene at this point.

She should have done something sooner, perhaps. They all could have.

The male next to her gives voice to his thoughts, and her gaze is pulled away from the commotion further ahead. Her brows furrow, confusion evident. Blessed sacrament? "Is this a common occurrence in the face of an execution?"

It would be a surprise to her if blood was held so sacredly by these people. They seemed irreverent to anything but their freedoms thus far.

dinah // queen of hearts saga // new kid on the block

[rebelqueen]

the king is dead
[Being jostled into clothing not of her own choosing isn't new to her. Dinah does not fully understand what is happening, given that is she still addled by her own riot.

But fight tyranny she will gladly do. The hungry look in her black eyes seem to glint in the promise of a threat. Let your anger define you.

She can taste the anger of this country too. It seeps into her skin, becomes one with the blood that is already roiling and clawing out of her skin. Dinah lacks her trusted sword, her precious, deadly steed that would have cut down men in less than a heartbeat.

Her hair is short, bangs blunt. And though the rage in her screams, the terror begins to mix in as well. Everything she wants to avoid in her own rightful Wonderland, alive here. They are all like her. She is nothing like them. Citizens start to riot and burn. Some part of Dinah wishes to run and fight. But that is not her intention here. A man starts to lunge for an innocent, someone trying to escape.

She can't stop herself from moving and lunging herself. Dinah has become muscle and sinew. She has become a craft of war. The man falls with a loud crack. She scrambles and sets her foot on his throat.]

You will not harm this man.

[Her tone, she realizes too late, is not acceptable. Her tone, she realizes too late, is that of a queen. Queens that would die here by the angled blade on a platform.]

On who's authority? Yours? You sound like them!

[In panic, she kicks him hard in the mouth, blood spewing and splattering her boots. It takes only moments to have a a throng of people tearing after a young woman, one who evidently seems to know how to fight back and how to roar over an angry crowd in her own righteous fury.]

long live the king
[The day wore on, in a pathetic drag of existence. That Dinah survived herself after the number of fights she got into protecting innocent people and children is a miracle. She had torn off the dress that had been required of her, looted a dead man's body for his clothes, looted a dead soldier for his saber (unfit for herself, but she had no choice), and whatever other weaponry she could find. The strange thing with a clicking device and a barrel, a portable cannon almost, is taken with her as well, though she has no intention of using a thing she knows not of its power.

Occasionally, she spits blood. She had bitten her cheek once, then again many times more after it got swollen. Dinah has taken refuge in what seemed a bakery once. Barely any food is available, but she had found a trampled loaf and devoured it without a second thought.

This is what will become of my kingdom.

She stares out ruefully through a broken window. That could be the king. That could be her.

If you walk in, she'll snap out of her daze, to address you.]

There isn't much left here, but if you can try, you can pick what is left off the floor. That, or become a baker in minutes.

the queen has arrived
[Wildcard. Dinah is the protagonist of a series known as the Queen of Hearts saga, about Dinah being wrongfully tossed out of her kingdom, framed for murder and treason, and now coming back to rain hell upon Wonderland and take back her throne. She is from the latest book, War of the Cards.]

long live the king

[macginger]

Baking don't much suit me.

[Sweeney looked awful. He'd been fighting since the riots broke out and he had bruises and cuts to prove every last moment of it. He also looked as though he was in high spirits. In his hand he even had a bottle of wine that he'd beaten a man to get. The lovely thing about riots was that he could get away with anything and not worry about the smallest of consequences. He was vaguely aware that there was a mortal theory about the butterfly effect which might suggest that the man he'd beaten for the wine bottle might have had some important function to perform that being comatose would prevent from happening. He didn't know what that thing would be, but given how much of an asshole the man had been, it was probably for the betterment of mankind that he was sleeping.

Sweeney finds himself a nice counter inside the store and sits himself on top of it. He fixes her a bloody smile and lifts his bottle to his lips to mix the blood with red wine. At least it would blend well.]

You've got to wonder why the hell we were even hired for this shit when we didn't even save the fucking king up there.

morgana pendragon | merlin

[scinlae]

i. TO KILL A KING

[ It's a sight so very familiar, a scene she spent most of her childhood watching. From the the wooden stairs to the bloody stump, all of it sung to her in a way that made her blood boil with fury and quiver with fear. She had no clue as to why this man, this king, was to lose this life and frankly she did not care. Slipping into the crowd all she did was watch quietly, nails digging deeply into the palms of her hands.

As normal to her as it was apart of it felt... unreal, felt as though she was merely dreaming. Upon the scaffold she sees not this king, she sees a man barely twenty with his head held high, she sees a young woman in tears, she sees a boy with trembling fingers - she sees herself as she has so many times before, bound in chains. Before she realizes it, Morgana stands at the front of the crowd, watching with wide eye as the axe falls down upon Louis' head.

She does not notice the blood upon her face nor the cheers from the crowd, many rushing past her to preserve royal blood. No, she sees nothing but the head held high above the crowd, a head that holds Uther's face.

In that crowd of cheers and anger, Morgana Pendragon laughs.

It is some time later that she releases she had left the open square, the crowd of cheering people before a bloody execution. More laughter passes her lips, the sound of violence coloring the air - They must have loathed him, she thinks reaching up to tidy her hair. Now what is she to do? Lost in a city unfamiliar, blood staining her face and hair, the city itself falling to pieces around her. Perhaps she ought to tidy herself, or join a crowd of rowdy rioters. Kings never pass quietly, after all.

Though uncertain she begins to head down the street she had already been treading, aimless and out of place, ready for whatever should meet her. ]

ii. TREAD NOT UPON A CORNERED DRAGON

[ Morgana would have been content with letting the rioter's be, truly she would not have cared if they tore this abode to shreds in their thirst to pillage. She knew better to oppose as mob, after all, though she had no fear of it. Only the mob did not see fit to leave her be, taking her for some rich nobleman's daughter. A foolish mistake their part, truly, one they came to quickly understand.

How it came to be is a mystery, but somehow this woman managed to have one of her attackers up against a wall, blade hovering at his throat while another hovers just as threateningly at his two friends.

'Witchcraft! She's a witch!' 'Shit, what do we do?' 'She is going to kill Philippe...' ]

Perhaps, he sought to do the same to me. [ With a flash of gold in her eyes the blade jerks forward, digging into the poor man's neck. Blood starts to bubble up against the blade, a droplet sliding down tender flesh. Behind her Phillipe's friends curse, looking between the blade hovering between them, the dark haired woman, and their dear friend. ] I am owed that much, I think.

[ So, what do you do coming upon this scene? Stop her? Aid her? Save the poor men she is threatening? ]

iii. LET THE FIRES BURN

[ WILDCARD ME, LETS GO. ]

II cornered

[macginger]

[Sweeney hadn't seen it happen, because there was so much else out there to be seen that he didn't have the time for it. But he certainly heard 'witchcraft' being shouted out in that same familiar cry that had been so wonderfully popular when Christianity came knocking.

Sweeney pushes himself past the horrified onlookers. He's already been in so many fights that no one is going to mistake him for being some noble with his red teeth and bloodied fists. He leers over Morgana's shoulder and grins at the poor bastard she has pinned.]

It's going to take you fucking forever to cut his head off with that. You sure you don't want me to just punch the poor bastard and be done with it?

isha devan // oc // new

[diamondhack]

dress up
[She could be hallucinating.

She should be hallucinating. Nothing makes sense as to how she got here, or even why. How the hell was she supposed to hide a prosthetic arm in Revolutionary Era France?]

This is ridiculous.

[Isha knows something or other about the time period, but not enough to blend in. As she walks out the room, she starts to mess with the device, scanning every bit of information possible before returning to her original thought: this can't be real.]

You! Fastest route to the palace, now!

can't beat 'em
[There was nothing to be done here. Death came in spades, and she's not even sure that she's in anyway free of this mess herself. The rioters have started to come up to the walls, to tear it all down.

It's unfortunate she has her eyes on what's inside. Deftly, she darts through and between people. Isha doesn't know the layout, but she follows her eyes and ears to secluded areas. Almost a curiosity to see someone who seems to know what they're doing with all that sneaking around...

Finally, she does break free of the masses. It's almost an overwhelming burst of air. Except the question becomes...]

Where the hell is this place?

[Perhaps she should've studied more historical architecture and not only its events...]

dress down
[She is suffocating in the fashions of today. She's been hardly able to move as much as she would like. In some truly abandoned home, looking charred and destroyed, barely habitable, Isha has taken refuge. She strips the gloves off her hands, lets both the skin and the metal breathe freely.]

This is the longest hallucination I've ever had.

[Her robotic fingers flex. In the low light, the black metal, the diamonds, the gold glints softly. She had to be careful, otherwise, she might find herself losing an arm again.]

wildcard
[it's whatever man]

dress down

[handsomefoil]

[ A glint of light catches his eye, carefully scanning the city for a safe spot that isn't the rooftop of a poor, unsuspecting family. Most of the area has been vacated or just abandoned, homes left in a heap of rubble or burned down. Not expecting any movement, but that light catches his attention. It's soft, barely a flicker that peeks through the charred remains.

His first plan of action is to check it out. If it's simply a shiny material, to collect it for trade. Or if it's a person, to see who's in there- friend or foe, local or COST or perhaps even Regency. He jumps off the roof as quietly as possible, dirt and pebbles crunching under his boots, skirting his way around the building to find his way inside without being spotted by any other passerbyers. ]

akira kurusu, p5 | new as hell guys

[masque]

I. TROOPS

[after a first row seat to today's execution, relaxation isn't easy and the anxiety only continues to grow throughout the day. he sticks out like a sore thumb regardless of the clothes, citizens high on adrineline somehow still showing confusion when they see his face. he's not here to kill but that doesn't mean he's defenseless, billhook at the ready and knocking some citizens out is a cakewalk. he's not used to having so much freedom with his abilities, but why?

...there's no point in worrying about that, either— he's been dodging most fights one after another anyway.

it seems to have calmed down now, for the most part. talk on the street suggests the palace has been swarmed, watching cross-legged on the rooftop as the soldiers march by on feet and horseback. they're not afraid to use a stab or two. it's surreal, seeing this much chaos in real life and not just painted and hung up in a museum.

so... what now?

starts by eating a stolen apple.]

II. AFTERMATH

[somehow got through the day with only one wound that needs stitching. he'll go ahead and consider this an accomplishment. takes the time to look at and learn more of the weird device given to him, scrolling through a network and catching up on what the hell happened— history took one hell of a turn, that's what.

well, great.

the night's blocked by pollution of smoke, but the crowds aren't as bad. there are little shops in the back alley ways that don't look as ransacked, a bottle of unopened wine rolling into one of his boots. mindlessly picks it up, looking up to meet eyes with the shopkeeper who looks too tired to care. offers a nod, quietly, instead finding one of the two story buildings nearby to sit on the middle of the stares.

tiredly tries to open the wine bottle, pulling at the cork that's definitely not about to come out. no drinking limit and he can't have a sip no matter how hard he tries anyway.]

III. WILDCARD

[start trippin]

wildcard - reign of terror

[chariotry]

[ It's sometime after the execution; things had just started to settle down, only to delve back into chaos. Tension has reached new heights, driving paranoid frenchmen into a frenzy. Honestly, it's like they've awakened an unquenchable thirst for bloodshed and are seeking more and more heads, like the deaths of the rich would help those impoverished find retribution for their suffering.

Foreigners are being driven out of Paris, or killed. Anyone who didn't state their allegiance to the cause was immediately labelled an enemy and outsiders were seen as influencers who'd come to cause Paris to deviate from their chosen path.

So that sucks... for people who are visibly different.

Like Akira for instance. If he's going to be out and about at all, he's going to have to expect to be questioned. A few revolutionaries will approach him, demanding his papers and speaking rapidly at him in french.

Achilles happens to be around when this happens, tugging his horse by the reins and stopping to watch the boy's response to the impromptu interrogation. ]

Noctis | FFXV | brand new!

[fessus]

[ Waking up in so little clothing with a strange woman attending to him had at first just been embarrassing before he'd regained enough conscious thought to realize where he was... and where he wasn't. It wasn't Insomnia and she wasn't one of the servants he'd outgrown a use for years ago anyway, just someone who'd cut off his slew of questions with proffered clothing and a barebones explanation. ]

[ LET'S VISIT THE TUILERIES ]

[ The king's execution is one he doesn't witness and he's glad for it when he hears the vicious words passersby have to share on the matter, shirking contact when he can and trying to avoid any kind of conversation. Sure, he'd taken in what information he could about the mannerisms and speech patterns he should use, but a stressed mind is not one for memory. His normal mind isn't one for memory, and the aggression in the air is palpable as he finally makes his way to the Tuileries. If this is going to become (more) violent then it's in his nature to do what he can to help, even in a situation like this one.

Those noble intentions are what have him squeezing through the mob -- half-intentionally and half-pushed -- into the inner halls, hardly able to hear over the clatters of valuables and slamming of doors. ]

Hey! [ He calls out the second he spots a man grabbing for one of the maids, still a little shaken by the fact that he can understand her frenzied bargaining for her life. ] Let her go; she's not part of this! [ His hand comes down heavy on the man's shoulder, a light foot and a hurried lean back being the only things that save him from the swing of that assailant's fist. Okay, maybe someone else nearby would have a better plan. ]

[ THE AFTERMATH ]

[ His clothes are tarnished with soot as he pounds a fist against the door of a building that seems to have taken less damage than several of the others, seeking some kind of sanctuary. There'd been no response from the others he's tried, something that shouldn't surprise him, but going it alone in a time of crisis is not something he's ever had to do so he doesn't feel he can afford to give up.

Hopefully whoever's holed up in this one is a little more generous. ]

I'm unarmed! [ A hoarse reassurance, at least. ]

[ GOD HELP THIS BOY ]

TO: @ALL

If people are getting this please respond.

@ACHEELIES

[chariotry]

Responding.

In need of some help?

[mylawn]

i. riots/tuileries

[76 is no historian, but he certainly knows how this goes in the books. Learning about it in school and experiencing it first hand, however, are two entirely different things. He can’t be sure that the riots are worse because they’re occurring earlier than they should be, but it’s hard not to feel at least partially responsible for the chaos.

Their orders are to survive. The best way to do that seems to be going with the flow and keeping his mouth shut, doing his best not to interfere unless he’s certain it’s a COST agent who’s gotten themselves into trouble.

The advantageous thing about his training—and his enhancements—is that he’s pretty good at crowd control. If worse comes to worse, he can clear a path to allow a fellow agent to make a break for it, if they need.]

This way, come on.

[He’s talking to you—and if you don’t heed the instruction, he’ll try a second time, a little less nicely.]

Move.

ii. aftermath (closed to arthur)

[76 hasn’t quite had time to re-connect with Arthur after Robespierre flipped his decision, but it’s certainly something that weighs on his mind, especially now. Given the way the other votes fell, it likely wouldn’t have made a difference, and though 76 on some level knows they had a solid approach and were as convincing as they could be without outright harming the man, there’s no accounting for free will. He knows that they weren’t the ones responsible for the initial deviation, and he can’t be sure if the riots would have been worse if the king was killed on time, but it’s hard not to feel partially responsible for the current destruction.

Even if it was going to happen anyway. He supposes this is something he’ll need to get used to.

Still, he doesn’t have to do it alone, as much as he might like to. Sometimes, however, it’s nice to commiserate, and that’s what has him sending Arthur a message. When they meet in an abandoned house, there’s a view of the dying fires. 76 has brought a bottle of whatever kind of alcohol he could scrounge, and the first thing he does is offer it.]

Sort of hoping he thinks of what we told him, when it’s his turn.

[Arthur strikes him as a man who knows his history. He’ll know what 76 means.]

iii. wildcard

[Hit me up for whatever you like, or drop me a line at whitticus.]

i, hey old timer

[dipolar]

(the trouble 76 spots is what it is.

someone's caught hei by the collar and by all intents and purposes is trying to throw him off-balance. hard to do, despite the difference in size, but it's hard to shake someone this large without activating his abilities. heavy-set with enough testosterone for three men and now that's coupled with the riot's contagious rush of adrenaline. this isn't new and this isn't life-threatening, so when the gruff voice cuts through the din and he's spoken to over a shoulder, he tips his head back.)

Busy. (a bit snide, albeit true.

he can't really move, clutching meaty wrists with bloody hands, trying to disengage the frenchman with a grit of teeth behind a firm pinch of lips. in a few seconds he's going to do something this cochon will regret, but it might be a necessary risk for COST he has to take or wind up trampled into the cobblestone street awash with red footprints and debris.

but alternately?)

You don't look it. Get this off me.

Kylar Stern | Night Angel Trilogy | New

[mercurialize]

I. Ding dong the King is Dead.

[He whistled into the wind.] Sure is showy. [He said it mostly to himself rather than aloud. Not that many would have heard him. At the distance he was standing from the spectacle it was astounding he could see anything at all, even with a rooftop advantage.

He'd be the first to admit he wasn't being overly careful. This place held no surprises and after a day or two, he would admit his usual paranoia against the locals was slipping. He was in the civilian clothes provided to him, save for the shoes which he set beside him upon the roof. Honestly, how he managed to climb any of the buildings was odd. His right arm abruptly ended just beyond the elbow in what looked like a cleanly cauterized stump. It was a new wound, judging by the wavering in balance he had each time the wind swept up.]

Poison could have worked. Or an accident.

~Disappointed you weren't offered the job?~

[If Kylar could have given something in his head a pointed look, he would. Instead, it merely looked as though he was speaking with himself, arguing.] No. But I could have done better than this. [Just then, he heard something shuffle, or saw. Maybe he should have kept his guard up.]

II. Let the Bodies Hit the Floor (Riot)

[They told him "blend in", so he did.]

Good for nothing King, finally dead! [He shouted. He wasn't drunk but he acted like it, words slurred, balance off, waving his stump of a right arm into the air.] Traitor to the people! Incompetent ass! Corrupt and dead! [Was he talking about their King or Niner?]

Long live! Wait- Who's in charge now?

[He stumbled one too many steps and promptly crashed straight into a furious bystander who had kept their head down just a little too low.] Sorry, uh... [He looked the man up and down before a shove sent his unbalanced hobble backward. Of all the fighting going on to find spies, I trip into one. The shove was all the excuse he needed and soon a brawl broke out in the middle of the street and Kylar danced at the center.]

III. Up for Anything.

[Suggested prompts: Tavern brawl!, "What is that guy running from?", Need a Hand?, etc. Up to you! I can wing it.]

@Colmain (wildcard-ish)

[macginger]

I can't believe you're fucking dancing down there.
Are you an idiot?

William H. Seward | Lincoln (2012) | OTA

[mountebankweenie]

Kill the King

Seward is no stranger to the violent agitated clamor of angry mobs, nor is he, now more than 4 years into the war back home, unfamiliar with the morbid spectacle of violence, but something about this is deeply unsettling. Nauseating. A man brought to slaughter like a cow. This is not politics or democracy. It is the barbarism of the past, isn't it? The breed of political barbarism his forefathers and meant to throw off with the shackles of the British monarchy.

Being of particularly small stature, Seward is nearly being crushed by the forcefulness of the crowd, thrust forward and back time and again as Frechmen at his left and right try and push ever closer to the platform.

When he hears the sickening 'thwack' of the guillotine blade, a sound almost lost in the cheers that follow, Seward holds a hand over his mouth, looking almost ill.

"Good Lord," he whispers through his fingers before turning to try and hurry away.

Aftermath

Of course I don't want to see the bodies

[The offer incites a deep-seated anger in him, one that erases all the usual playfulness and cordiality from his voice. He is a proponent of democracy and for government by the people but on insofar as it can be done with honor and civility. There are human laws that dictate how revolutions and wars should be fought. And the parading of bodies does not fit in with Seward's vision of a true revolution.

Not to mention that 'Lafayette' at least in the thread of time Seward hails from, is of divine statue. A hero of the American revolution. The revolution of his forefathers. He wishes to take no part in the possible death of any version of this legend. Whether their bands of history run the same course or not.]

Get out of here. Be gone from my sight.

Kill the King

[frogfractions]

Prelati's of an equally small stature, if not smaller - but she keeps herself firm in the crowd, mostly by not trying to fight against it or move with it. She simply goes with the flow, and that takes her towards Seward, just in time to see his disgusted reaction.

She tilts her head to the side, can't help the grin on her face, cat what ate the canary. "The Good Lord is the problem, you know. Church overreach is part of why they're revolting," Prelati explains, like a teacher with a student - she's got the same amount of self-importance, and the same amount of 'and why didn't you learn this last year' to her tone. "Basically, bad choice of words," she adds, then watches him begin to move.

"Are you looking to slip out? I'd recommend biding your time. The show's over, so the crowd will disperse soon. If you try to leave now, you could get caught up in the riots." There's a legitimate warning there. She might be condescending, but she isn't keen on someone getting swept up in burning and looting against their will.

Cesare Borgia | The Borgias

[naytheist]

EXECUTION

Cesare Borgia isn't new to executions. Quite frankly, by now he's a bit blasé about them. He doesn't really care about the death of some random king either. Yes, it's definitely intriguing (and a bit horrifying) that they're daring to kill a monarch. But still all the hubbub is a bit much for him. It's a spectacle but it's not a massive one. So he stays at the back of the crowd, calmly watching from afar, his head covered by a hood and his hands calmly at his sides.

But then the crowd begins to rush and he's pushed forward. An elbow between his shoulder blades forces him off balance and he lurches forward, stumbling across the cobbled pavement.

"God's wounds!" he mutters under his breath, through his teeth.

LOOTING

Cesare Borgia is on holiday. Sure, he should be doing the task that's been set out for him, but he can do that later. Right now he would rather play tourist. When he joined, he was told he would see the future. He intends to see it.

And so he calmly makes his way around the Tuileries, picking up items that he thinks look interesting. A gold ring. An embroidered handkerchief. A hairpin encrusted with green gems. It would be nice to have a few souvenirs, after all.

His gaze moves over to a hand holding a letter opener that's shaped like a small dagger. He smiles.

"Good choice."

Execution? :D?

[garotte]

Micheletto was a master of remaining unseen. It was easier to observe, to move when you're able to blend so effortlessly into the shadows, and here was no different. Death, was death whether they be monarchs or peasants, but he was curious nonetheless. And of course, wherever his master goes, Micheletto would follow.

When he was shoved to the ground, though, Micheletto peels himself from the shadows to offer Cesare a hand and haul him to his feet.

"It is not God's wounds that bring you to your knees, my lord." He nodded to the scaffold. "It is the king's."

Ax | Animorphs | TDM

[canadese]

[ arrival/wildcard ]

[As his human friends might say: not this shit again.

Of course, there are a number of things alarming about this particular scenario. One, he does not remember how he got here, or enlisting in this... COST organization, and he doesn't believe anything he's been told for a second. Two, he is human, and attempting to return to his natural form... does nothing.

He has to struggle greatly to clamp down the anxiety that flutters in his chest at that idea. There are too many variables in play for him to automatically assume he's become trapped as human. This could easily be another Ellimist game, or there is some kind of field in place preventing him from demorphing, or...

Or he's a nothlit. But panicking about that isn't productive, now. First, he needs to figure out why he is here, and what is really going on. And the only way he can do that, it seems, is to play along.

Good thing he has so much experience pretending to be human already! They will never know the difference.]

[ riots ]

[Here is the main problem with being stuck as human: the body has no natural defenses. Aximili has past learned to respect humanity's capacity for ingenuity and stubbornness, but really, it is ridiculous how soft and fragile they are.

He has also past learned to be wary of humanity's capacity for violence, especially towards themselves. The fact that he looks to be just as human as they are doesn't seem to matter, nor does the fact that he's on the younger side, and obviously trying to steer clear of the violence.

Maybe it's not so surprising: to any observer it's clear there's something a little strange with him. He has a wide-eyed, blank look on his face that makes him look perpetually startled, he behaves with an almost eerie, polite calmness despite all the chaos going on around him, and he apparently has shit balance: as soon as anyone bumps into him he goes comically sprawling.

The next person to look at him funny he greets by throwing up his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture. He remembers seeing people do that on television.]

I have no problems with your actions. I support the death of your king.

[He follows this up, comically, with:] King-uh.

[ aftermath ]

[As he had when he found himself before in a situation very similar to this one, Aximili decides that he has had quite enough of humans and their nonsense for the time being.

He manages to take shelter in an abandoned storefront, long since burgled by passing opportunists, and settles himself in the wreckage and out of sight as best he can. His heart is pounding, his legs are shaking--he hates how intensely humans feel every negative emotion, and the thought nearly brings the panic he'd been struggling to keep a lid on since he arrived to the fore. He's just as confused now as he was when he got here. He's alone; his friends could be captured or dead for all he knows, or perhaps they were never brought here in the first place. He doesn't trust anyone he's met so far here, including this COST. It's possible he's stuck like this, as human, and will be forever, and the prospect is so horrifying that he'd consider taking his tail-blade to his own throat if he still had it.

He is very, very glad he is alone right now (as far as he knows), because how he is acting is not befitting a warrior at all. To his own horror he actually curls up where he's sitting and buries his head in his knees, struggling to keep calm. It is very curious how efficiently humans can fold themselves up when they need to, and there's a certain comfort in it.

He'll let himself indulge, since no one else is around.]

Wildcard-Let's say Hallway of the place they woke up in??

[mercurialize]

[Kylar is decked out in the civilian clothes left for him. These civilians wear shoes! They must be doing all right for themselves, or this is just the "middle class" outfit.

He spots the other young man in the hallway. Kylar, too, has been looking about for information. He's managed some, but can't hurt to gather more. Either way, he should weigh allies and enemies.]

Lost or just killing time?

[He says it with a half smile. They're supposed to blend in and with the way this guy moseys.. well. Could maybe use some help.]