agogelogs | let fury have the hour,

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.

oops papercut.

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.

and then everyone went home peacefully

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

oops you might have saved the life of a woman famous for dying???

NAV NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

To be fair, it's dark here in the interior stairwell and it's been a long night. Such minor thoughtlessness is surely happening all over the city this morning (it's certainly why Flint's in the stairwell still). Maybe if circumstances were different, he'd find it in himself to be more offended. As it is, a bump is hardly wounding and Flint merely draws his leg up out of the way. The heel of his boot drags back over the stair, line of his thigh and calf swallowed by the long early morning shadow here.

Rest seems like it doesn't belong to this city, but there's dried sweat between his neck and shirt and a dim, separate part of him thinks that he's never been so exhausted in his entire life. It should be easy to just let the man pass on the stairs and to say nothing. Instead as the stranger passes, Flint lifts his head from the stairwell wall and asks: "What do you know of Regency?"

This is, after all, the place he can first remember himself in the hands of COST. It must not be ludicrous to believe if that if he's here for that reason, some stranger on the stairs might have similar motivations. If if not-- well, talk of the monarchy's fitness and what fills the space left by its absence seems to be on everyone's minds lately.

Chiron stops halfway up the flight of steps that come after the landing, hand resting on the banister. He's first mortified that he didn't realize that there was a person there on the landing, but that mortification morphs into a much more neutral expression when he hears the question.

Honestly will either result in a confrontation or else an ally. In the rare chance of it being the former, and having very little desire to deal with any sort of fight, the response is more measured.

"As in the type of government or as an organization?"

It was at least a way to confirm that Chiron was in the loop.

Both is the answer he wants to give, but god forbid he inject any more ambiguity into this moment than strictly necessary. He's had more than enough of that in the last day (weeks, months - not that there's anyone keeping track). Better to make himself clear.

Flint leans forward through the dark of the stairwell. There's blood crusted at his temple and a corresponding dark stain at the collar of his shirt, though it's infinitely unclear what part of it might belong to him and which is merely evidence of the evening he's had. Hours ago, there might have been some dangerous edge to the lines of him in the dark. Right now, he just looked haggard and tired: a knife blunted from overuse.

"The latter." Though from what little he's gathered of Regency, he's not certain how appropriate it is to draw a line between the two.

"It's an issue," Chiron says simply.

He presumed that it would be a fair enough form of identification without having to go much further. Regardless, it gave him a moment to actually take in the gentleman before him. He...well, he looked like he had been dragged through the streets of Paris several times over, although the dim lighting on the stairs forced Chiron to play one of his least favorite games: is it an injury or it is someone else's blood?

The man's movements didn't help narrow it down either.

He huffs out a low noise, setting his heel and finding the wall with his hand. "If you say as much," and the sound of it is skeptical at best as Flint gets his feet under himself and hauls himself upright in the stairwell. There's a moment where he needs a wall to steady himself, the effort of getting to his feet causing whatever spirit is left in him to drain as water from a bucket with a hole in the bottom-- and then he's upright and fine and as assembled as a man can be given the length of the evening.

Flint isn't especially tall or wide, but even at the disadvantage of being two steps below and exhausted he still seems to take up every inch of available space on the landing.

It's about time he attend to business. "How many of us are there?" Which is assuming this man knows anything more than he does at present, but to hell with it. Eventually questions must be asked, however painfully obvious. Better to clear through them now. (There are easier ways to get this information. The woman whose company he'd first woken in had been quite descriptive in reference to the hardware implanted on his person. And maybe tomorrow using it will seem less like a trial, but not today. Not this morning. He's tired.)

"Around two dozen," is the answer, straight forward. There's a look of concern on Chiron's face, his eyes are intense and there's a thinness to his lips.

He then turns his back and gestures to be followed. There's little harm in having this particular conversation behind closed doors, and there is a distinct feeling in Chiron's gut that this man requires a bed far more than he does at the moment.

let fury have the hour,

Aftermath, also, politely screams in glee.

aw heck

:DDD!

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