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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.
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 KINGIt 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 RIOTIt'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 tuileriesThe 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 TROOPSThe 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.
AftermathThe 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
Cesare Borgia | The Borgias
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?
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."
screams!
"Perhaps so," Cesare replies, giving the other man a clap on the shoulder in thanks for helping him back up. "Though I fear I am tired of this already." For now at least, Cesare seems to care little about affairs that don't directly relate to him. He has no skin in the game yet, and no strategy. Though he certainly intends to form one in time. He turns to his friend.
"Where have you been?"
no subject
It's a simple answer for something that was far more complex than it seemed. You could learn much from simply watching how people behaved themselves. Some were potential allies in whatever future schemes Cesare found himself in. The rest remained to be seen.
"And you, my lord? Do you see opportunity in this chaos?"
no subject
"Yourself? Bring me some good news, Micheletto. I am in need of it." He's beginning to wander if any of this was a good idea. He's truly out of his element here and he's starting to realise that. What on earth had he signed up for?
Execution
He remains in the back, observing the crowd's reaction to the execution — hoping maybe to witness some pushback against the obliteration of this crowd's personal monster, but no — in fact the ensuing commotion just seems to stem from a certain elation at this one. Disgusted, he turns away, when a man stumbles across the cobbled pavement and into him.
Flint hesitates for a moment before, in a rare show of shallow empathy, he catches the hooded man's elbow, steadying him.
"Easy now. This crowd's spirits are running high — may I suggest you a safer vantage point, if the murdering of a people's gods is what entertains you most?"
There might be a trace of bitter condescension in his tone.
no subject
"Good advice, though he is certainly no god. Not that I know of anyway. Now, if he were, that would be an execution I might be interested to see." A grin curls on to his lips. There's nothing like a casual bit of smug blasphemy to brighten your day.
"Though forgive me if you think me too indecent. Pretend I haven't said a word."
no subject
The retort is not what he would've expected - though to be fair what he was expecting was anyone's guess - and it rather pleases him.
"Decency - or the lack of it - is in the eye of the beholder, sir. As is the godly status I just ascribed to this unfortunate sod who once called himself a king."
He inclines his head in greeting, before pursuing, wryly: "The slaying of gods is just as grim and grotesque as any other; power and status will do nothing against rot, bodily decay and maggots, wouldn't you think?"
no subject
"What of you?" he asks, trying to move the conversation on so that he can prevent himself from snickering any further.
looting
Honestly, the fact that she's even holding a letter opener is so novel to her. It's almost as if she's living out some of her childhood fantasies in raiding antiquities. If her eight year old self could see her now...
"Of course." Now she does turn to face the man, one she doesn't actually recall seeing before now. The smirk has now transformed into a full-on grin, teeth and dark eyes dazzling with a casual sort of arrogance and mischief. "I did pick it, after all. I do have a knack for having impeccable taste."
no subject
"What else have you acquired?" He takes a step closer and pulls out the ring from his pocket and adds it to one of his fingers to show her. "Flattering, don't you think?" Apparently even a ransacked palace filled with looters is a decent location to flirt, in Cesare Borgia's opinion.
no subject
"Hm. Not terrible, I suppose," she muses. "I think I know how to make it better."
And from an oversized food bag she found, she starts to dig through what would seem to any other person as... trash, really. Thick accounting tomes, folded letters, several books, journals, all things that would be the first to burn. Pretty things might fetch a pretty penny, but she's far more interested in more than just a penny.
It doesn't take away her need for things that sparkle, though. "There you are," she says as she fishes out another ring, smaller, yet complimentary. "I think it should look nice with another piece to match."
A ransacked palace in her present, an overly aggressive arrest in her past... nothing is off limits for Isha's flirtation.
no subject
"My thanks. That is most kind of you. I would give you something in return but, I confess, I am rather attached to my accumulated trifles thus far. Perhaps if I find something that I find pleasant but do not adore...Something decent...?" He pretends to ponder over the predicament.
"Perhaps I can repay you some other way?"
no subject
That transforms the very same grin into something almost... worrisome. Repay her? In some other way? Those are her favorite words. What good is a thing when there's a favor to cash in?
"I'd rather not have your leftovers when I can have something else of yours instead. And don't confuse that for kindness, love," she adds. "That will get you killed. You can start with your name, perhaps."
no subject
"And yours? You are not from France, are you?" She's too calm for that, too collected and suave in this moment of French panic. No, she's an imposter like him. "Where are you from? Or rather, should I be asking when?"
no subject
Of course. Naturally. She was already far flung into the past, in the bloodiest era of France, looting a palace. Why not flirt and hit on Cesare Borgia, one of the many infamous subjects of the Renaissance?
Unfortunate that his own attitude was not unlike her own. He was infamous publicly. She had been infamous under a pseudonym. But if he thinks that she's going to be overtly impressed... She only offers her own smile.
"No, not French. English. I suspect our lot didn't get along with yours in your day, and I'm afraid I may shock you if I tell you of my time. Isha Devan, at your service."
But not quite.
no subject
"Are you from my future?" he asks, gaze moving over her. That would explain it, after all. "You must tell me what has changed. What has happened in fair England?" He hopes he is still remembered there. Isha didn't quite respond how he was expecting or hoping for, so he's starting to doubt it. Perhaps his legacy is not as powerful as he had predicted.
no subject
Isha briefly pauses, returning his gaze just as easily and thoughtfully. A small, childish aspect of herself would like to throw off her gloves just to prove how he couldn't possibly imagine how different his and her times could be. Prosthetics are insignificant to her, commonplace even, but in Cesare's time? She's damn sure nothing so sophisticated could exist.
But it would possibly leave her exposed. She refuses the responsibility of breaking the timeline further just for being an that much of an arrogant imbecile. Time and place, after all.
"I am well over 700 years into the future, if my math serves me correct and if you are, indeed, the Cesare Borgia I know of. Fair England last accepted my services in 2177. Still am in her service, and all of Europe, for all intents and purposes."