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

[asklepios]

“I'd like you to assess possible hidden internal bleeding,” she says, returning to her current occupation - those still in the living room area are those she's more actively monitoring still, and she's concerned about some of the rib fractures that are coming through. (If she doesn't see a case of flail chest tonight, she'll be surprised before she's relieved.) “I can do more if I have more knowledge of the internal injuries. Please squeeze my hand and pull, yes, just like that-”

That last part was not addressed to Amberdrake.

[amberdrake]

Amberdrake fills the thermos with water, whether hot or not, and stashes it back in his very bloodied and battered backpack before he comes out to the living room. He needs that stuff to steep and be on hand, or he's going to end up going into easily-lethal over-extension shock by the end of the night.

"I'll fix whatever I find internally," he tells her, and whoever he's currently approaching, "not to worry." Because why would he just look when he can fix while he's there? External injuries, he's been trying to handle through largely mundane means to conserve his energy. But if someone's bleeding inside, he's not going to leave it un-patched.

And there's the Gift, overlaying his sight as he puts a hand on one of the patients in the room with an automatic (but masterful) reassuring smile. He goes about his business like this for a while, splinting fractured or broken bones with the appropriate levels of energy and knitting tissue. Anything that would require surgery to get at, he handles.

He won't be here all night, so anything he can do to take the strain off his fellow medic while he is here, he's quite willing to do.