The Arena Riots ( open, gamewide )

[civilobedience]

Who: The Militia, the city, and you.
What: The Arena Riots.
Where: The Arena, Griss Twist.
When: Newdi, Eliaderen 1. (Monday Oct 1st)
Notes: Companion post for questions and plotting is here.
Warnings: Violence, police brutality, disturbing content and imagery, graphic death.

It's apparent even before dawn that something out of the ordinary is happening. Canton sheriffs are roused from their sleep or pulled away from their work to be told that on no uncertain terms, today will be a day that they do not leave their neat lines on the map. That their individual offices will be responsible for all crime and unrest within their jurisdictions, with no help; the powers that be offer no details, but the creeping feeling in their presence suggests no questions would be tolerated anyway – the implication that they'll all be watched is a strong one. In Mog Hill, Sheriff Norrington proceeds as he always does under such orders. In Mafaton, leadership is stoic but one deputy laughs, sharp and bitter, while the Emissary of the Council merely checks his watch, unseen underground. Sir Hellsing is pulled away from her dinner in the Guild Hall, a Sobek Croix deputy anxiously relaying the news. The sound of shattered glass disturbs the pre-dawn silence in Flyside, a brick hurled by some faceless figure into the front window of Thames – and nothing else.

From the Spire, hooded Militiamen move quietly and uniformly south, to Griss Twist. They are followed by wagons, full of prisoners.

Comments

[lt_boomer]

Sharon knew Seoraj, before today, by face and by reputation. They'd not fought, though she'd seen him fight; she'd also heard of him professionally, as she's studying bladework. They didn't go to the bar together, but they'd exchanged a few words there, and she's followed him back here. She should go home, but she can't stand not knowing.

From the outside, perhaps her refusal was strange - someone who is so clearly careless of her own life in the Arena. Then again, perhaps she's exactly the sort of person who'd risk the repercussions of saying know. She doesn't care who kills her, if someone does. She does care, evidently, who she kills. That choice is one she clings to fiercely. While she can.

She's tense, like a mechanism wound and ready to be released. She feels she should say something, but all she can think to say is, "This is going to get bad." It sounds stupid in its obviousness, but not saying anything at all is becoming oppressive.

[serjeant]

“Worse,” he says, grimly, not even glancing away from the arena itself - he stands, watches, aware of the people around him but currently focused on the indrawn breath that is the state of things right now. Something has to give; something is going to give, and soon. Where the dust settles after the exhalation is going to be another story entirely.

“It's going to get worse.”

[lt_boomer]

"Yeah, okay, fair." Sharon's gripping the rail where she's standing next to him, and she doesn't seem to notice or care that her knuckles are white. She's been in a war, she's seen violence, but this is different. This feels like it's about to turn ugly in a way she isn't sure she can handle.

(Or, an insidious part of her suggests, that she's afraid she can.)

They should probably go, but she doesn't suggest it. The damage of refusing is done, and if she'd been able to ignore what's happening, she'd have stayed in the bar.

She abruptly, absurdly, wishes someone were here to give her orders. Orders that she can take without feeling ill.