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

[scinlae]

[ Oh, how her blood boils. To be called a liar about the one thing she has left, the one thing that is hers by right. She loathes Uther, she loathes the man who saw her born into this world, who cursed her with the name of Pendragon but she is far to prideful to lie about it.

Before her mouth could form the words Mordred continues, the blade at her throat and the fury surrounding the small woman sudden utterly ignored. I am Mordred, son of King Arthur Pendragon, and one true heir of Camelot.

I am Mordred.

Mordred.

Nearby windows start to crack, Morgana's eyes glowing even brighter than before, until they are shattered by some unseen force. She claims to be Mordred, she claims to be Arthur's son, she claim a throne that is not hers. ]

Now it is you who is lying. [ Her hand reaches up to clasp around the blade, almost oblivious to the metal immediately biting into the skin of her palm. ] My darling brother has no children, no heir! And Mordred─ [ Her voice cracks, if only for a moment. ] I know that boy better than any, you are not he.

[bloodings]

[ Mordred's not intimidated by the show of force, impressive though it is. She's the child of one of the kingdom's most powerful mages, and knew the other, if only distantly. But whoever this woman is, she's clearly a magus of some skill — and that makes Mordred hate her all the more. The idea that someone might actually believe her claim, that someone might already have, burns a hole right in her chest.

She sneers, twisting the sword in Morgana's grip. ]

The blade you touch with your filthy hands is Clarent. Proof of kingship. [ A blade that she stole, but she was still crowned for a time, still claimed it for herself. ] And this name was given to me by the woman you claim to be. If you were truly her, I would kill you in an instant.

[ Her teeth clench. She can't speak of Morgan for long before her hatred reveals itself, and already, she's angrier at that distant figure than she is at Morgana herself. ]

It is her blood that caused my father to reject me. It is not something you should seek to claim, least of all to the one who is forced to carry it!

[scinlae]

[ The blade twists and her hand becomes a light with pain, cruel cold steel biting into her skin. It is agony but she holds, she holds as blood oozes past her fingers, as it stains the steel of this so cold proof of kingship. She holds until she can't anymore releasing with a sharp hiss and narrowed gaze.

The wound is deep and vicious, another to scar and mar her. ]

I am not her, but I do not lie about my name. I am Morgana Pendragon, I am Uther child and his shame. I am the daughter he rejected, the daughter her clasped in irons, the daughter he would have killed if he had discovered what I truly am. I would tear his blood from my veins if I could, but I am cursed to suffer it for as long as I draw breath.

[ How funny, they both hate a parent more than anything. ]

I do not claim to be your mother, child, I have no want to. I claim only what is mine.

[bloodings]

... Now you speak nonsense.

[ Some of it makes sense — her mother, too, was Uther's daughter, never considered his heir because of her gender: and yet Arturia was given the crown despite the same flaw, only made to pose as a man instead. Morgan's resentment was aimed at her, not their father; creating Mordred from Arturia's own blood to destroy everything she loved. Of course, what would an impostor know of that?

But a liar would not claim to be rejected by Uther, would not call his blood a curse. They would surely boast of their connection to the king, not take on a burden owned by another. Mordred stares, her mind wrestling with the contradictions. ]

Perhaps you are mad. [ She doesn't actually believe that for a second. It would be convenient, but madness is not the word for what is happening here. ] ... Killing you would serve no purpose. You are not the witch I know.

[ Finally, she lowers her blade, though she keeps it at the ready. Half of her regrets not slicing the woman in two anyway, but the longer she stares, the more she feels sure of her decision. ]

[scinlae]

[ This isn't the first time she has been called mad, certainly it will not be the last, Morgana barely reactions holding her cut up hand to her chest as blood drips down her arm. All she does it stare expression hard with both anger and confusion. For Uther, for Arthur, for the woman before her claiming to be Mordred.

This child supposedly cursed with Morgana's blood, as she has been with Uther's. It sounds mad, of course, for she has never given birth, never thought to use a child against her dear brother. What victory would it be if not done by her hands? It would be hollow, bereft of the sweetness it ought to have. And yet, as mad as it sounds, she finds herself looking for something in Mordred's face - for her brother's eyes, his nose, the shape of his face.

The pain in her hand thuds in time with her heartbeat, rapid as it is, each pulse burning more than the last. She ought to bandage it before she losses to much blood, before it becomes infected. But she cannot turn her back, even with the sword now lowered from her face, in fear that it will find her again. ]

Nor are you the druid boy I know. [ Bitterness clings to her words, injured hand trembling as she clutches it close. ] Perhaps madness has found us both.

[bloodings]

[ She laughs, and it's equally bitter. ]

Perhaps. [ Others certainly would have thought her mad, seeing her on the battlefield, even without knowing of her obsession. ] I am a knight, not a druid. The only person to surpass King Arthur.

[ Even if he'd killed her, at the end. Even if the final blow she dealt was a result of her mother's curse, not a true victory of her own. She has to be better. It means everything to her. ]

... This is certainly a strange situation. [ Mordred allows, after a few more moments pass. She glances at Morgana's bleeding hand, and tilts her head slightly. ] Well, we can figure things out later. Should you not attend to that?

[ Not that she cares or anything............ ]

[scinlae]

[ The thought that someone of her size could surpass Arthur, the greatest knight to ever bless Camelot, brings a smile to her face. A jagged smile, but one nonetheless. Truly, it is something she would loved to witness herself, knowing full well the face her brother would make upon defeat. He had that face often when they were children, each time she knocked him to the ground. ]

You do hold yourself a knight, that much I can see clearly.

[ Her younger years were surrounded by the knights of Camelot, by swords and armor. She knows the stance they hold as if it were second nature, ready at all times to draw their swords.

It's only then that she dares to look at her hand, a mess of red blood and torn skin. Without hesitation she reaches down, searching amongst her skirts a moment before tearing free a stretch of fabric. It is messy work, the damage to her hand makes it difficult and by the time she has the strip free it is already soaking up blood.

Wrapping her hand up is just as difficult and she fumbles a moment before managing something rudimentary enough. ]

Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid─ [ Once again her eyes glow a brilliant gold, yet as she chants she flinches, pain pulsing up her arm. ] ─dam sundorcræft dære ealdan æ. Drycræft durhhæle dina wunda on de geedstadolie.

[ A moment passes before the gold in her eyes fades, her now bandaged hand seemingly unchanged. ]

[bloodings]

[ Mordred stiffens a little at the chanting, though not out of aggression. She has an instinctive dislike of mages, still, and of anything that reminds her of her mother; combine the two, and it's only natural that she's well out of her comfort zone. After a few seconds staring at Morgana's hand, her eyes narrow, she lets out a hmph. ]

Impressive. [ The sheer length of the spell, more than anything. Many mages wouldn't be able to handle such a thing. ] At least now it won't kill you.

[ Not before she can, if she changes her mind. She sheathes her sword, finally, as if seeing no further need for the weapon, beyond its constant present at her side. ]

To stay outside without reason is folly. And you should avoid attracting further attention with your magecraft. [ Anything that might stand out, might earn a place in people's memories as something abnormal. Witches stand out more than warriors. ] The outskirts of the city are still quiet, and far safer than here.

[scinlae]

[ A heaviness seeps into her arms as she test out her hand, fingers slow to start moving. The damage was deep, sliced through more than just skin, but the spell mended most of it. Morgana exhales, slowly flexing her fingers once more, her gaze flicking back to Mordred.

She doesn't need praise and ordinarily she might bask in it, but this situation is far from ordinary. Her mind races with her anger, with questions that will get no answers. Her emotions conflict each other looking upon Mordred, the want to strike her at war with her wish to learn more. ]

I can see to myself. [ She knows, better than any, how magic sticks in the minds of others. How swiftly they cry out Witch! Witch! Summon the guards! It was like morbid song that sung her to sleep in her youth. ] You needn't fear, I have no desire to remain in this city.

[ It will burn like all the others. ]

[bloodings]

Can you? [ She asks, half genuine, half insult. ] What if others had seen your little incident earlier?

[ Others that weren't her, weren't more interested in the woman than the magic. Her anger hasn't passed, exactly; it still seems to radiate off her in waves that come and go, but in the place of that white-hot rage from earlier is a need to impress upon this woman. To show that she isn't a child anymore, but a knight who destroyed a king, a kingdom. ]

The rooftops are easier to navigate from. Humans don't usually look up. [ Not back in Trifas, and not here. ] Find somewhere that will take you in, and stay there.

[ Mordred steps back, spares a glance each way to make sure nobody is watching; then, with the ease of a human breathing, leaps up onto the rooftop of the building. She glares down at Morgana, briefly, and then she's gone, too fast to follow. ]