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

[mightyfallen]

He hadn't done enough. Maybe that's why he's here, stalking up the steps of the Arena as if there's anywhere to go or anything left to be done once he gets there. But on the surface, of course, it's a show of support for the Militia, implicit approval of their power by bearing witness to a demonstration thereof. He doesn't stand with the crowd; he finds a place in the royalty box with the rest of Baedal's rich and powerful, and where so many look viciously eager or just lost, he is one of the few whose cold, pale faces betray almost nothing at all.

Whatever they do, it will be bold and brutal, but the inevitably of it now, the way the air hangs heavy in the Arena, seems almost worse.

(It won't be worse, he knows. Not by a long shot.)