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

[regicidium]

It is highly probable that in some other configuration and time and place and circumstance, Jaime Lannister would be in a different place right now. He had been a full-time gladiator prior to his arrangements with Jack, and perhaps he would be down there, killing the recruited. Perhaps he'd take a harder turn and get branded and be put to slaughter via monsters and militia men.

Perhaps, in some other iteration, he would be one of those masked law enforcers, carrying out orders.

But instead he is here, and it's not unfamiliar. Defend the king. There is no sentiment, only his objective. Defend the king. He is big and golden and armoured and he has a sword at his belt, which is the sort of bulky weapon so antiquated that its meaning is universal and even those more familiar with lasers and magic spells might think again about crossing his path in the intimacy of the crushing crowd. He does not draw it (yet), because he would do more damage and make less progress right now, and instead uses his hands to shove a path for himself and his charge.

He would be a bad body guard if he didn't have an exit in mind, and that is one thing he does have as an advantage to those around him -- direction, no confusion. His gloved hand finds Jack's arm at one point, heartlessly pulling him in his wake -- he flinches at the sound of gunfire with the sort of disconnected instinct of a lion hearing shotgun blast in the savannah. Not his concern, but jarring. Defend the king.

Of course, Jaime doesn't see the willowy blonde haired mage huddled against the wall. That's Jack's job.