agogemod: (Default)
⌞THE AGOGE⌝ MODS ([personal profile] agogemod) wrote in [community profile] agogelogs2017-10-07 12:21 am

THERE WERE MASTERS AND SERVANTS,

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Prepare for the historic Battle of Valmy.
WHEN? Mid September 1792, France.
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;
between sainte-menehould and valmy,
1792: revolutionary france.




DEPARTING JERUSALEM

The clean up of the battle is slog. A full day of piling together corpses. Noting down famous men and women. In the heat, the bodies bloat and become fetid, and the smell builds until it cannot be ignored. Insects swarm, and vultures blot out the sun, swooping down and taking back what's been left for nature. Stragglers and the poor pick through the field for scattered weapons and valuables to collect. The bodies of important men and women are taken for burial; the rest are left for scavengers, animal or human.

It's in this gruesome scene that the order comes:
PACK UP, GET READY TO MOVE OUT. THE TARGETS HAVE BEEN NEAUTRALIZED. WE MAKE OUR DEPARTURE LOCAL TIME, DAWN.

DEPLOYMENT: VALMY, FRANCE. IT'S GOING TO BE A WET ONE. WE ARE EXPECTING MORE TRANSFERS ON ARRIVAL.
The present COST soldiers that have been in strict cover begin finishing their work, if they've decided to help the army move out, tend to the wounded, or clean up after the dead. There is no sign of the Commander yet, but maybe you recognise some of your fellow operatives. They seem be taking advantage of a particular event that maybe you stopped to see, maybe you didn't.

Saladin beheads Reynald de Chattilion and his words fill the camp as much as the news of their next move.

A king does not kill a king, Saladin says to King Guy, and the orders run like wildfire through the camp: next they take Jerusalem, and it's in this march, that when the rest of the army moves on that COST slips away. A order to fall back in steady increments; when the time comes, Saladin's army is out of sight, marching toward Jerusalem.

In the midst of all of this, COST operatives begin to disappear, here one moment and gone in another. Such a strange sight, more than one native soldier muses, must be the fault of heat exhaustion.

The Time-Step

The transfer begins, and it starts like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, not painful, not to start with. Just a hum of sensation. But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomena as 'the buzz'. The sensation builds, feeling not unlike standing near a great engine, or the wind rattling the branches of a great tree. There is long a moment of motion sickness, and one cannot always be sure if it is you that is shaking from the inside out, or the world that is shaking you from the outside in. It may just be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea as the world blurs out of focus. A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Some swear they feel a touch of the divine. One thing is for sure: One moment you are here, and the next, you are not.

The soldier next to you might not have been so clever, when it stops and you find yourself standing in the green fields of France, September 1792. She or he throws up as the vibration fades. Everyone seems to stumble sideways for a second. The world turns, and then rights itself. The heat is gone, replaced with cold and wet.



ARRIVAL FOR TRANSFERS FROM JERUSALEM

It's raining.

You're inside of a tent, (another one), and it already seems to be bustling with movements, they call to you in French, which you understand if you did not already: hurry now, they say, you need out of that cuircass before they're spotted. The rest of the army will be following, and the Prussian army to meet it. There isn't much time to loiter around getting sick in this weather. You have a kit to pick up, and perhaps training to do.

ARRIVAL FOR NEW RECRUITS

The first thing you'll notice is the sound of rain. You awake in a tent that seems to be sheltering against the ruins of a farm house, and everything feels damp. It's a wet September morning in 1792, and when the woman across from you in the tent speaks, you understand it to be French. If you didn't understand French already, you sure do now.

If you ask, she'll explain: you are fighting for France, as the Prussian army intends to invade and sack Paris. You may be a citizen, you may be a soldier; you have risen up in defense of France all the same.

She asks you what role you wish to play in the coming battle, and provides you with clothes and supplies to suit. She won't let you leave until you can pass for a native of France, setting up camp in the rain pouring down between Sainte-Menehould and Valmy.

MISSION OBJECTIVE

The forces of COST have gotten word that Regency operatives have gone to Revolutionary France, intending to turn the tides in one of the most historically important battles in European history. The Battle of Valmy, which decided the entirety of the French Revolution and all that follows it, must be won by the French army, as it was in history.

Unlike the incident in Jerusalem-- you may remember it, you may not-- COST has managed to get here before the day of the battle. Make no mistake; it's coming soon. But this time, you and your fellow travelers have time to prepare.

The French Army has managed to get ahead as well; they've maneuvered around the Prussians, cutting off their supply lines. You and your fellow soldiers are now chasing the invaders as they head for Paris. This is time to prepare and ready your forces. The fight is coming soon.



STAY DRY, STAY SECURE
A few things are strongly remembered about the Battle of Valmy; one of them is the rain. It's really pouring out here, and you're in the thick of it. Rain is a dangerous thing for an army such as this; during this era of warfare, gunpowder was an essential commodity, and wet gunpowder is useless gunpowder. Secure the supplies, rescue supply carriages from muddy sinkholes, steer the horses, check supplies, and try to keep the essential materials for victory dry.
TRAIN UP
General Kellerman and Dumouriez are training peasants in basic military tactics. While veterans make up the core of this army, there are a substantial amount of peasants, and most here have never seen battle in their lives, or ever held a gun. Many are equipped with only rudimentary farming equipment. Help train or be trained so you're ready when the Prussian army arrives.
MEDICAL
Plenty of people need medical attention, not from battle wounds so much as malnutrition and overwork. These are mostly peasant laborers, and they're not entirely fit for battle. Help people get as rested and ready as possible.
ESPIONAGE
We have reason to believe some of the 'peasants' are actually Regency spies. Root them out by seeing keeping an ear to the ground for suspicious activity. They don't know all the words to La Marseillaise? Off with their head! Be careful not to attack time travellers on your side, though!
MORALE
Keep spirits high! Sing, dance, and generally try to keep people from succumbing to fear. Despite the rain and the mud, despite the seemingly impossible odds, the average soldier is full of excitement for battle, ready to fight to the death to defend their freedom.
SUPPLY AND SEEK
Since the French army is behind the invading force, they've cut off the enemy's supply lines. This means that, should the Prussians become encamped here for any amount of time, they won't be able to send for food and munitions from their home country. It's your job to make sure it stays that way. You may see someone riding on a swift horse in a Prussian uniform, attempting to sneak through French lines and try to get word back to mother Prussia. Chase them down, and make sure they can't get their reports back home so a second force isn't sent-- or worse.
BE A COMMUNITY ORGANIZER
This battle is one that's widely known for its popular support-- for the most part, France unites against this invading force with alarming cohesion. Someone gifted with a clever mind, or perhaps a clever tongue, may be able to use that. The French army passes farms and peasant villages along the way-- make rousing speeches, and try to recruit more to the cause, secure donations of food and weaponry, anything you can get.




thingpuncher: (face) (dickprince.)

MIDNIGHTER | OTA.

[personal profile] thingpuncher 2017-10-07 02:01 pm (UTC)(link)
a. I WANNA LIVE LIKE COMMON PEOPLE.
Midnighter runs into a few problems right off the bat. Well. They're not really problems, more like minor, niggling annoyances, but they're there all the same. For one, he can't reasonably cover his face in this... setting, time period, thing. It's not that he needs to, he's got no secret identity to protect, especially not here. It's just that this is very obviously Midnighter business, and he'd prefer to be wearing his work uniform, or as close as he can get, during it.

But he can't without attracting even more suspicion. Whatever. The result is a man in his late twenties, dressed like any other sans-culotte, except his hair is notably not in the current fashion. He's not going to wear one of those stupid fucking tricorner hats to hide it, fuck 'em.

He wanders around the outskirts of the marching army, holding a long pike, with a large hammer strapped to his belt. It marks him out pretty obviously as military, especially when a few stragglers stop in town to gather supplies.

Midnighter isn't the rousing speeches kind of guy. He's the 'make sure nobody gets stabbed, unless it's time to stab, in which, stab everybody' kind of guy. This, apparently, makes him seem like a soft target for the little shrimp who tries to pick his pocket.

Joke's on fucking Gavroche, he's got no cash on him, and incredibly fast reflexes. Midnighter holds the kid out in front of him, kid dangling by his wrist in Midnighter's grasp, held up to eye level.

"What's the magic word, pipsqueak?"

The urchin, looking a little dazed, murmurs, "please."

Midnighter seems genuinely confused for a half second. "What? No. That's not it."
b. SING ALONG WITH THE COMMON PEOPLE.
Midnighter does not know the words to the songs these people are singing, and he's not entirely sure how to fake it. Yeah, he knows French, he mostly knew French before he fucking got here, but he didn't know the national anthem.

Instead, he spends his time barely mouthing the words-- he looks like a shitty Disney animatronic-- and keeps an eye out for the similarly confused. The army marches and sings, and Midnighter spots someone who looks as confused as he does.

The briefing said there would be spies, right? Maybe if he bags one, they'll let him get the fuck out of here.

Someone singing poorly and generally confused may feel the slight pressure of a pike poking them in the back. Not enough to hurt, to pierce skin or clothing, but enough to be noticeable. "Hey. It's 'the blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France, you jackass."
c. YOU'LL NEVER DO WHATEVER COMMON PEOPLE DO.
Finally, something to do.

Maybe you're riding a horse, or maybe you're on the back of a supply cart. Maybe you see the Prussian horseman racing past the French army as though his life depends on it, maybe you don't. What you can't help but not notice is Midnighter jumping onto the horse you're riding, the cart you're driving, whatever, and shouting, "Sorry, this vehicle has been requisitioned for the Revolutionary cause!"

He's found that when he says shit like that, he can get away with almost anything.

And then he's off, and you might be pulled along behind him as he chases that Prussian horseman, expression one of supreme glee.
d. YOU'LL NEVER FAIL LIKE COMMON PEOPLE.
Before today, Midnighter had never held a musket, but it only takes him about five fucking minutes to learn it. He watches some chucklefucks teach some other losers how to shoot, how to aim, how to load powder and musketball, how to fire, and he watches again and again, and that's good enough for him. He's set. The computer does the rest.

He doesn't have the skill of someone who's fought with a musket a thousand times in dozens of battles, but he's good enough for government work. Or... anti-government work. Fuck, this political shit is confusing.

He sees someone kind of struggling, and grabs the ramrod, the musket, the bullet, whatever they're having difficulty with, without asking. "Here, lemme show you." It's not a request. He's just a generous guy like that.
e. I WANNA LIVE WITH COMMON PEOPLE LIKE YOU.
[Wildcard, bitches! Seriously, do whatever, I love this period and have no problems with whatever shenanigans you might want to pull Midnighter into. If you're not sure, feel free to reach out, I'm [plurk.com profile] wehwalt or pel#5780 on discord.]
Edited 2017-10-07 14:02 (UTC)
hakanai: ([Uncovered] The quirk of his lips)

a.

[personal profile] hakanai 2017-10-07 03:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Midnighter is not the only one who feels the loss of their face covering. Yoshitsugu perhaps feels it even more; before he'd joined up with COST nobody had ever seen his full face with the exception, perhaps, of a few medical folk. Now everyone gets to see it.

His discomfort doesn't show, however. He seems completely calm when he comes across the child dangling in the air and raises a slender eyebrow. Dressed in the clothing of a civilian, with a phrygian cap perched on his head (more for the comfort of a hat than blending in), Yoshitsugu looks completely nonthreatening when he walks up and pats the failed pickpocket once on the shoulder.

"Perhaps the magic word is 'sorry.'" A short pause, and then he adds: "Or something more forward? I've heard plenty of colourful language and threats from the other children around here, there's plenty to choose from."

It's probably a joke. Probably. You wouldn't be able to tell from the look on his face, which is still calm and even.

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trainwreckoning: (sigh)

A

[personal profile] trainwreckoning 2017-10-07 09:04 pm (UTC)(link)
Jacob is doing about the same thing as Midnighter, wandering and looking. He spots Midnighter about a second before the urchin tries to steal from him, and that- that was impressive. Jacob never caught the urchin that stole from him (stupid urchins. Stupid Clara.), but it's satisfying to see one of the little shits caught.

He walks up with a sigh, overhearing their conversation. "Not even a bit of cheek? The magic word is 'Excuse me, good sir. I tried to take your wallet, but I'm an embarrassing little amateur and got caught.'"

He leans down to eye level with the kid, turning sincere. "If you're not sure about the target's reflexes, test 'em first or use a distraction. Now this - " He holds up a bit of money in front of him. " - is yours if you meet me back here tonight. Five hours. Hopefully you're better at listening."

He pockets the money and stands, eyes going to Midnighter. "Do carry on, but I ask that he can still walk for my purposes."

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horsepowered: (x7. Surprised)

D

[personal profile] horsepowered 2017-10-08 01:08 am (UTC)(link)
Firearms are....interesting.

The work of reloading is not too different from reaching into a quiver and reloading arrow after arrow, the shots meant to be in rapid succession to the point where the entire process should be automatic. But Chiron has had a lifetime of practice with the bow, and as of now a good...thirty minutes. In that time he's managed about six shots, and while his aim was as good as ever, the rest left something to be desired.

"You could--" he started, when a hand suddenly butted into his work. He looked up, then decided that it was actually better to not argue about this.

Re: D

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acchakat: seethesoldiers @ insanejournal (Than to be fuckin' with you)

d-ish but mostly e

[personal profile] acchakat 2017-10-08 02:39 am (UTC)(link)
Drogo does not like this. He dislikes how everyone forms a neat line, and he especially dislikes what they wear. It's tight, uncomfortable--there is no hides, no grass, just cotton and far too constricting. He is a broad shouldered men, and these sleeves were meant for someone skinnier.

He wears his hair in a braid and bells in his hair, still, but he has shoved a tricorder onto his head all the same. Mostly it's to stop the woman from saying anything else in the crass, strange language he does not know but somehow has learned. He cannot kill her, but he can wish.

Drogo's watching the men prepare their sticks made of fire, lips curling into a snarl the moment anyone approaches him. Someone nearby helps another--square jaw, blue eyes, hair that reminds him of the Lamb Men--and he makes a rumbling noise of disapproval low in his throat.

"Weak," He says simply. It's difficult to tell if he means the helper or the help-ee.
Edited (did not mean to use a sexy icon) 2017-10-08 02:39 (UTC)

lmk if this is 2 much.

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handtowels: (discontent ❄ bitter)

c; between this and b it was a hard choice

[personal profile] handtowels 2017-10-08 11:52 am (UTC)(link)
Takatora is doing his best to make himself useful, and being both tall and strong, physical labour is one of the ways in which he can help. He's in the middle of securing a load that's come loose on one of the supply carts when it suddenly lurches into motion, heralded by Midnighter's cry.

"Gah...!"

Only a reflexive grab keeps him from toppling off of the cart.

As soon as his balance recovers he scrambles to finish his work before they loose anything and then clambers over the supplies, trying to get a good look at the new driver. He's none too pleased when he yells, "What's going on?!"

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alsohawkeye: (spidey sense is tingling)

b

[personal profile] alsohawkeye 2017-10-08 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)
Just for a second, Kate's worried she's been found out. She knows the tune of La Marseillaise, who doesn't? and she can kind of hum along and fake it, but she doesn't know the words like any true patriot would. What happens if she gets caught? Will COST help get her out of being hung as a spy? Is it hung or hanged? It's hanged, isn't it-- wait.

A couple things click together at once and she's pretty much already rolling her eyes by the time she's turned far enough around to confirm that, yep, she recognizes that face. She's dressed like a civilian and doing her best to pass as a young man, though her best pretty much consists of men's clothes, a tri-cornered hat tugged low to shade her face, and crossed fingers. She helpfully tips her head up to make sure Midnighter can see her flat expression.

"You again." But then there's one more piece to click into place here. Brows draw together and then one rises, sharply arched. "Wait, is that Les Mis? Did you seriously just quote Les Mis at me? Wow, I had you pegged as like a...whatever-the-opposite-of-that-is kind of guy. Death metal? Really obnoxious techno?"

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rappels: (pic#11765245)

kind of a mostly e

[personal profile] rappels 2017-10-09 03:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Aloy very quickly decides she's not a fan of this.

She thought she was good at blending in, and now that she remembers why she's here, she's not nearly as hesitant to do so. However, when she'd signed up to save the world (again, thanks) and the importance of not drawing attention to yourself was mentioned, she'd envisioned a very different context. She was good at slinking through brush, not drawing attention as she readied a strong arrow, and even the most alert of machines would miss her presence.

Not, you know, wearing clothing that absolutely hinders that.

She's uncomfortable in these clothes they've been given, because she's fairly certain she's never worn a dress in her life, but even worse, wearing the... cage around her midsection makes it impossible to breathe properly. She hadn't let them tighten it to the "proper" level, because she refused to be hindered any more than she had to, but still, all she can think is how ridiculous it is. How is she supposed to fight in this?

She sees Midnighter as she's pulling uncomfortably at the corset's edge, and of course she doesn't recognize him, at least assuming he was wearing that mask when they met last. If he wasn't, just ignore the previous part of that sentence, but at least it also doesn't really matter. Aloy half laughs humorlessly, then nods to him as she looks at his hair.

"That's a giveaway," she comments dryly, but it's not clear whether she sees the irony here or not. Her own hair is pretty much a giveaway too, since she has far too much of it to try and pass as a boy, and she's too stubborn to take up the local style for now. Her thick hair with braids and beads is definitely not the style du jour.

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horsepowered: (x7. Surprised)

[personal profile] horsepowered 2017-10-07 05:34 pm (UTC)(link)
A.
It was an easy thing, guiding horses around to get them to the makeshift stables being used by the French. A gentle hand on the reins, a firm and soft voice, and when Chiron moved with the things, a set of reins in each hand, he seemed to have a similar gait. His eyes were always to either side, looking out for what might spook his charges.

"Hm," he said, when he turned the corner only to find that all of the available horse housing was in use. "There must be more around here somewhere. I doubt that these are the only horses that are a part of this army."


B.
Chiron rolled on the ground, taking a hit from one of the younger, inexperienced soldiers that he was working with. The boy couldn't have been much older than eighteen. Nineteen maybe. He had a sturdy build though, likely from a lifetime of lifting and moving the heaviest of loads. Chiron hadn't inquired too much about his background, only what his experience was.

Which brought Chiron back to the present. Before even moving onto firearms (something he'd pass on to someone with more experience), there was something more basic to be taken into account: general movement. Being able to elbow and hard shoulder and take a physical blow if it came to it. The hard shoulder was what sent him flying, and why he stood up with a smile.

"I think that's plenty of the basics," Chiron said. His eyes searched for the best person to hand the young man off to. "Now as for aiming and firing..."

C.
It felt...inappropriate, in a way, to participate in the recruitment of food, supplies, and bodies. Being thrown into someone else's war was one thing, but to try and drag others into a conflict with only a surface view of it was another. But that very lack of understanding was why Chiron had wandered off with those trying to gain more for the upcoming battle.

In his lifetime, Chiron had trained plenty of warriors, but he had never participated in the wars themselves. He had lived in the wilderness for the most part, removed from the propaganda of those who launched wars, and so the things he heard were nothing short of fascinating.

He hung towards the back, those with clever tongues having achieved their goal of some extra food and a few more bags of grain.

"Interesting," he murmured to himself.
handtowels: (certain ❄ weighing)

a;

[personal profile] handtowels 2017-10-08 10:59 am (UTC)(link)
"There's more set up over that way," Takatora says to Chiron, helpfully gesturing as he walks over.

Having just finished helping to unload supplies from one of the carts, he's heard as much said to others. Dressed as a civilian, phrygian cap and all, he wears his saiken at his hip, which while a little more ornate and eastern in design, doesn't look hugely dissimilar to the military's sabers.

"You have some skill in handling horses."

He's seen enough, and is familiar enough with equestrian pursuits, to note that.

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rappels: (pic#11734825)

c

[personal profile] rappels 2017-10-09 04:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Chiron isn't alone as he watches the proceedings, and surely to both of their surprise, with someone with a similar point of view.

Aloy is no stranger to war at this point. Though she'd hadn't had any sort of title, she had been an impromptu general for the Carja, since she was the only one that truly knew the war that was coming to them. They were fighting against machines, but not only machines. The cultists that worshipped them were formidable in their own right, so this isn't the first time she's been at the forefront of a great battle. But still, that had been different. She had gone to the king, told him and his advisors of what was coming, and then while they organized things on their end, she had left to see her quest through. All of the detail went over her head, because she didn't have the time to simply watch.

But now, the situation isn't quite so urgent, and she watches as troops are rallied and food is distributed. Her brow is knit together slightly as she watches, because it's strange to her. It's a moment where she's reminded starkly of just how isolated of a life she had lead until the Proving, and she's still not sure how to feel about that. These aren't her people, she knows, but still, seeing how they interact with each other feels almost alien.

The man near her speaks, and she doesn't think he's really talking to her, but—

"Yeah, that's a word for it," she replies dryly, but there's a hint of that curiosity in her tone. She shifts, crossing her arms, then shrugs. "Is this how things always are?"

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mylawn: (pic#10641416)

b

[personal profile] mylawn 2017-10-13 11:03 pm (UTC)(link)
He might not have ever touched a musket before, but if there's one thing he is good at, it's pointing a gun and pulling the trigger. Loading it is a pain, sure, but he practices it a few times and likes to think he has the hang of it, which means that if he must, he can impart the knowledge on others. That's what has him making rounds through the camp, though given his own gruffness, he's a little loath to engage unless the soldier in question seems to be particularly hopeless.

Or a fellow COST agent, looking for some support. That's what it seems like, anyway.

"You need a hand?"

76 recognizes the way Chiron trails off, searching for someone who might be able to step in and provide additional assistance. He'd rather leave well enough alone, but the reason they're here is to make sure this army has a fighting chance. If those are his orders, well, he'll carry them out.

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hakanai: ([Covered] Basked in sunlight)

Yoshitsugu Ōtani | OTA

[personal profile] hakanai 2017-10-07 05:46 pm (UTC)(link)
a. WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS

There are many reasons to feel a little... uncomfortable after this latest transition.

The lack of a facecloth is a very immediate one. Yoshitsugu is standing outside under a small cluster of trees, clad in the gear of a civilian of the current time period. It's a mishmash of clothing topped with what he was told is a 'phrygian cap,' which he's pulled down enough to ensure his eyebrows are covered, but he can't hide any part of his face if he's to avoid looking suspicious. Now, usually he doesn't mind being perceived as a suspicious sort, but here... well, it's not an option.

Water drips onto Yoshitsugu's face. Tree cover is far from perfect, after all. He blinks and stares up, touching a finger to his exposed chin as he does so, and hums thoughtfully. A completely unfamiliar land, a time period ahead of his own and a climate so different to the one he just left?

"I'm definitely going to get sick," he says, technically into the air but from an outside perspective to the person who passes by. Water drips down his forehead as he drops his head to smile a little at them. "Let's hope it's not a fatal illness."



b. PURELY MEDICAL

One skill Yoshitsugu had learned when he was younger was that of giving a good massage. Whenever Takatora had been healing up it had helped the healing process to give him ones in the right area; other squad-mates had benefited too.

Years have passed since then, and perhaps the skill is a little rusty, but so far nobody in the medical area has complained. Most of the poorer people here who need help are suffering from the aches of overwork and a good massage can help sore muscles considerably. Some had been suspicious of him when he'd made the suggestion but every trial he's given someone has worked out well.

...okay, some have yelped when Yoshitsugu pressed too hard, but it had all been for good reason.

"I told you I wasn't going to rip them out," he says, sending his latest satisfied patient away before turning his sharp gaze to the nearest soldier or civilian. "You? Muscle aches or do I need to send you elsewhere in the tent?"



c. WILDCARD

[Anything else you want him involved in? I'm up for most things, just drop a prompt here or PM me if you're unsure. ♥]
handtowels: (certain ❄ weighing)

a;

[personal profile] handtowels 2017-10-07 06:34 pm (UTC)(link)
It's jarring to see Yoshitsugu's face bare; every time Takatora catches sight of his friend he has to fight the instinctive urge to stare or look away. Like everyone he's wet, but he rarely ever falls sick, so he's not worried — not about his own health, that is.

"Don't even joke about that," Takatora sighs as he approaches Yoshitsugu.

Reaching out, he grabs Yoshitsugu's wrist and tugs insistently.

"Come on. I'm getting you a space in the hayloft."

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horsepowered: (x6. Profile view)

[personal profile] horsepowered 2017-10-08 01:15 am (UTC)(link)
In the medical tent, Chiron had been assisting with an inventory. One had been done before, but clever tongues had added new supplies to the list, and it needed to be updated. Moreover and much, much more importantly, he personally wanted to know and understand what was being worked with in this time and place. The doctors in Jerusalem had novel techniques, things he would have never thought of doing. It was natural to conclude that this place would be the same, in it's own way.

But he had also stopped to watch Yoshitsugu's technique, once it became clear what he was doing. Rusty hands or not, they had a good understanding of the body, and it was clearly doing some good.

"It might be worth establishing a line at some point, if word spreads of your skill."

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acchakat: seethesoldiers @ insanejournal (I don't fuck with you)

a;

[personal profile] acchakat 2017-10-08 02:59 am (UTC)(link)
Drogo had been passing--they had a horse, not his horse, not his red, but a horse--when he speaks. Normally, Drogo wouldn't give him a second glance. He looks pale, frail, and all it takes is a quick glance to confirm.

This war will go poorly. Most of these men will be snapped in two once fights begin. He's sure this one will, too.

"Rain cleanses." It's said as a matter of factly, Drogo unbothered by it. His braid is tucked underneath his jacket, but his bells still make noise as he moves his head to look at him better.

"If you are sick, you are not strong."

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trainwreckoning: (look)

Jacob Frye | OTA

[personal profile] trainwreckoning 2017-10-08 12:26 am (UTC)(link)
a ) we're feasting on a lord today

Jerusalem was... intense. He's never really had to be in the aftermath, witness that many bodies. Toward the beginning of their trip to France, he just... doesn't have an appetite. He's wondering what the hell he's doing here, wondering if he's left Evie to the chaos he'd unleashed upon London.

The class difference here is keenly felt, especially for Jacob. It seems time doesn't heal all wounds. Jacob is swept up in their cause, listening to anyone who will speak with him about freedom for France. He's civilian, and he wears red, white, and blue things whenever he can, wears a cockade to show his support.

So when it's night, and the army is trying to keep from thinking too hard about what's next, Jacob starts up a song, getting the people to sing along once he taught them the lyrics. It's a clever song, and it seems to be talking about the difference between classes in a humorous, bitter way. Still, none think too hard on the lyrics, enjoying themselves singing and dancing to it. He stops to sit by your character, noticing they aren't dancing. "Not enjoying yourself?"

b ) leave them underground

Jacob's been busy. He hasn't even had time to deal with his grief, his frustration, his hurt. Weirdly, though, as he sits down in the shared tent, he thinks of his father and his mother. He never even got a chance to know the woman who died birthing him.

He looks around, sees that no one's watching him, and snaps out the hidden blades in his sleeves, studying their sharp edges. Maybe he's just like his father, in a way. Maybe this whole agreement to fix the future is just Jacob's way of running away.

c ) the scene wherein they disagreed on who should live and who should bleed

It's dark, the scent of rain still lingering from an earlier downpour. Jacob's been on the track of false allies this entire trip so far, and his main source of intelligence has been urchins.

He happens to be nearby when one man catches one of his urchins going through his things and gets incredibly angry. Jacob sprints between them, and tries to talk him down before getting punched right in the jaw. He manages to calm down the situation fast, though, with his quick tongue. The man stomps off, and the urchin sprints away.

"You're welcome, you ungrateful shit," he mumbles, holding his quickly reddening jaw and watching him disappear.

d ) wildcard

[Make your own option! Contact me at [plurk.com profile] everlark for plotting!]
acchakat: seethesoldiers @ insanejournal (Default)

b

[personal profile] acchakat 2017-10-08 03:17 am (UTC)(link)
Drogo's own item from home is a weapon as well--his arakh, long and curved, and something he keeps on him at all times.

He likes his tent, although having to share it is mildly grating--tents, at the very least, remind him of home. The weather, too, when the rains come along the great grass sea. He spends time in his tent when he isn't training--mostly because he can remove his shirt, he can feel grounded, and his hair is free and no longer tucked underneath his jacket.

Currently, he sits cross-legged, rebraiding is as best as he can himself. When he glances over, he spots a gleam of metal.

Daggers.

"Mihesof." He points.

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dorzalta: (Default)

Daenerys Targaryen | Game of Thrones | OTA

[personal profile] dorzalta 2017-10-08 12:35 am (UTC)(link)
I. TRAINING aka KICKING DANY'S ASS
The arid desert soon becomes a distant, sweeping memory, replaced by wetness. People speak in a language she should not know, but suddenly understands, and she's left standing with a dress--puffy and ridiculous looking--in her arms. All around her, people are busy preparing. Yet she... she is frozen to the spot, in a daze.

What is this?

Eventually, after a few dark looks and urgings to hurry up, and after further struggles and cursing under her breath, she'll manage to wiggle into the dress. It's an ugly thing, entirely impractical in the setting, especially when she's handed a sharp sickle and butcher's knife. The sickle reminds her of an arakh, though much flimsier. Chase the enemy, they say. Oh, how she is ill prepared for war and battle in this way.

Still, if you look like a warrior and someone just as out of place as she, she'll likely flag you down as Generals Kellerman and Dumouriez train those unprepared for upcoming war. "Will you aid me?" The question is as awkward as she feels, but her look is earnest. At least you'll have an attentive student.


II. SPEECHES ARE HER JAM
It feels wrong to fight for a cause she does not believe in. Still, to feel so useless is not something that sits well with Dany, no matter the location. Add to that the fact that she refuses to play medic again, and there's somewhat of a predicament: what is she supposed to do?

As they travel between farms and the smallfolk villages, she notices a running theme: many of those who stay behind are as engaged as she (which is to say very little). After one man's attempts to rally the smallfolk fails, she huffs, tucking a chunk of silver hair behind her ear. Of course that sort of talk would fail! Who wishes to fight for a cause when those meant to inspire are enthusiastic, but not much in the ways of a leader? Where is the authority? He might as well've been some drunken fool babbling about the rain.

...Which is precisely why at the next village, Dany is stepping toward the gathering crowd. You may find her standing before a rapt audience, her voice booming as she speaks of fighting against the invading forces, rallying behind their current leadership, taking back what is theirs. She refrains from the Targaryen motto, but her war cry is much akin to what she might've said to her Dothraki, prior to sailing to Westeros.

Once she's done speaking, she rolls back on her heels to catch her breath, beaming at the group of people who seem to have taken her words to heart.

"It's not what I envisioned," she tells you, if you step up beside her, "But the smallfolk here are tired, just as they are in my lands. Perhaps that will make the difference."


III. I'M ON A BOAT SUPPLY CART, MOTHER FUCKER
It's still raining. She's come to accept this wretched fact eventually, despite her misery in being a water-logged dragon queen. Today, sit sits upon a supply cart beside you, nearly dozing in place after restless, sleepless nights. Nodding off would not be nearly as bad if her head hadn't thunked against your shoulder.

After a murmured apology, she straightens, shoving water-laden hair from her face--and that's when she notices it. A man, frantically riding. She squints past the water dripping off her lashes, then reaches to grip your arm. "Over there!"

If you don't listen to her, she'll nearly snarl at you in frustration, before yanking the reins away and directing the horses after the lone rider. Don't be surprised as she leads the horses with a skilled hand; she was a khaleesi, after all.


IV. HOUSE HUNTING
No matter her status in life, Dany has never been forced to survive in squalor. Even when she and Viserys lived off the scraps of generosity prior to her marrying Drogo, there was a comfortable bed, food to be had, and cleanliness. Even as a khaleesi, while dirty she might've been at some points, rain and mud were not the norm. Even upon her capture with the Khals, and as dirt-streaked as she'd been prior to their realization that she was the wife of the great Khal Drogo, she'd not been so miserable. This place, this land she's forced upon...

"No more," she snaps one morning, after another restless night's sleep. There is mud all around her, the pitter-patter of rain bouncing off the tent and seeping into the ground near her, into her pallet despite her best efforts. There are dark circles under her eyes, her hair a matted mess, despite her best efforts to keep it in its conqueror braid. She's cold, achey, and hungry as she tugs her fingers violently through her hair, freed from its braids. "I will not live like this another night."

Are you the unfortunate soul that has to listen to this venting? The one who watches as she first braids that hair, then gathers her meager belongings in preparation of finding better living accommodations?

Good luck trying to stop her, pal...


V. WILDCARD
Not feeling these? Hit me with your best shot! I'll match your format :> Feel free to poke me on plurk or discord if you'd like to hash out some details, as well.
northerndragon: (can't climb to heaven on the cross)

A LITTLE BIT OF THIS AND THAT

[personal profile] northerndragon 2017-10-08 03:14 am (UTC)(link)
[These people. They have forged weapons, they have farms, but aside from that, they're not so different from the Wildlings. If they'd kneeled to their king before, they aren't kneeling now. But who the leader is in all of this, Jon isn't quite sure, and anyway, negotiations and compromises are not what COST is asking of him. Nothing he'd done as Lord Commander or before is needed here except for what he'd done in the training yard and what he'd done at Hardhome.

So he stands watching on the sidelines as Daenerys gives them all a rousing speech... something about their lands, their homes, whether or not they have enough food to fill their bellies, the fact that their spirits will lead them to victory. It's along the lines of what he might have said, and his attention is rapt. This is a dangerous place for her, but when she'd told him she had faith in herself, some months ago, he'd gotten a taste of this kind of speech. He's never seen her deliver something like it to a crowd, but it's clear that this isn't the first time.

As she passes him, she comments that the smallfolk are tired.]


They are. War will make it worse, for a while, but I think they believed you.

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he likes that booty don't lie

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bless him and his armani suits

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putorius: (in misery)

Malfoy | OTA

[personal profile] putorius 2017-10-08 02:49 am (UTC)(link)
A. This Is An Outrage (arrival)

The first thing Draco realized, after the disorientation wore off, was that his clothes were missing. No, not his clothes. The gown Madame Pomfrey gave him while he was in the hospital wing. But where were his wounds? He'd been told he was going to have scars, they shouldn't have been healed yet. But before he could think through any of that, someone was talking to him. A woman he'd never seen before. She was speaking French, but he understood her just fine. It was only years of drilled-in caution that curbed his tongue on the specifics, but his demands eventually led him to a bundle that was supposed to belong to him. To his great relief, he found his wand, but the clothes within definitely were not his. They were not fine enough, there was nothing black or green. At least not this his usual taste.

While he was digging through the clothes, text appeared in his field of vision. Like some sort of strange, crude magic as the letters looked mechanical. He tried to wipe the words away as if they'd been some sort of magic that could be dismissed. The words did vanish, but not the way he'd intended. Strange.

After dressing it clothes that were definitely not his, he set to figuring out where those words had come from. It wasn't difficult, like part of him knew how to bring them back. The same way he knew how to summon his magic, only different. He just reached up and touched his collarbone. No, he touched something on his collarbone. He started to look down at where he'd touched, but the display popped up and it was far more than text. Unsettled in a way he couldn't quite explain, he sat down in the corner where he'd found his bundle, he started going through anything he could find. He may have been an arrogant twit most of the time, sometimes on purpose, but he wasn't about to go charging off without knowing all that he could. He would not be the one left in the dark when he was so accustomed to being the expert in so many areas.

He could be found there for quite some time, huddled in the corner, seemingly scowling at the ground, twirling his wand between his fingers. To a non-wizard, it would just seem like a rather strange stick. Ten inches of dark, highly polished wood, the sides perfectly straight, the ends rounded. But before long he started to wonder if he should hide it because he had the growing sensation that he was surrounded by nothing but muggles.


B. Rain Rain Go Away

Draco stood staring out of the tent at the torrential rain. He couldn't set foot out into it, not that he wanted to, because every he tried to leave, he had that woman yelling at him. He still hadn't chosen his post. She didn't seem to understand the fact that he had something more important he should be doing. He'd be pressed for what he could do, what role he'd suit, and he'd only say he was a student. He definitely wasn't going to prove himself capable of passing as a French peasant. That was preposterous.

With each minute, each hour that ticked by, he had this growing sense of dread. Somewhere beyond that soggy field was the English channel. From there it wasn't far to London. But if he allowed himself to believe everything he'd learned, even if he could slip away from the battlefield, if he could somehow reach his school, it wouldn't be the same. His target wasn't even born yet. But he had to try. Maybe if he got away from this place he could find some way back. He had his wand. His father had told him about forbidden time magics. It wasn't forbidden to return one's self to the proper time, was it?

"You there!" he called out suddenly, spotting someone. He was already concocting a plan of how to find out if this was even possible. "You look slightly...less dimwitted than anyone else here."


(misc)
[ wanna plot something? Hit me up on plurk [plurk.com profile] thorhugs, or on discord at ThorHugs#5484 ]
Edited 2017-10-08 02:55 (UTC)
horsepowered: (x4. Serious face)

B

[personal profile] horsepowered 2017-10-08 03:22 am (UTC)(link)
The rain wasn't a bother to Chiron in the least. He had endured much worse storms than this, and if that gave him an advantage in say, delivering inventories of medical supplies from one side of the camp to the other, then so be it.

Draco's words barely caught his attention. It was the younger face that said them that caused him pause, a netural face sliding into a slight frown. It remained there, disapproving, and moreover, silent.

In truth, Chiron just wanted to see if the young man would realize that those kinds of words usually invited scorn rather than anyone willing to help.

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trample: (10)

EREN YEAGER | OTA

[personal profile] trample 2017-10-08 09:20 am (UTC)(link)
-i. stick in the mud.
There's a lot to deal with almost immediately. He's gotten used to the fact that he's now part of a interdimensional, time-travelling response force trying to change the very fabric of history just for the sake of some political fiasco. Sure. But that's not in the least bit helpful when it comes to dealing with things on a day to day basis.

Today, that meant he was shit out of luck when it came to getting around. Mud was his worst enemy and he didn't know it until this very day. His crutch had carried him through thick and thin, but it could not carry him through mud. There was little else he could do but take refuge inside a quiet, dank tent.

His corner's nice and dry, at least. It's a small one, and there's little room for but another. Maybe you were there before he came in, maybe you came in to find your company was a filthy hobo caked in a layer of drying dirt. Whatever the case is, he'll be brooding in his corner. Do tents have corners?

-ii. play ball
One day, the rain will end. That day happens to be today. For now, the skies are looking clear, if a bit dull. There's a bit of movement so that the forces can get a foothold further into what will soon become a wasteland. Better to be ahead of the game than behind it, is how the logic goes. And Eren was way ahead of anyone else in his game.

With some spare leather scraps and a bit of handiwork on his own part, he managed to fashion a pair of mitts not unlike the ones used about, you know, two hundred years from now. No one's gonna bat an eye at this, least of all the French. Their priorities lay elsewhere. Eren's priorities involved picking a fellow COST agent out from the crowd and asking if they wanted to play some baseball.

He certainly hoped they would oblige.

-iii. what a load of horse shite
It's nostalgia that drives him to the stables. Something about the particular way it reeks sends him down memory lane, to all the good times he had to clean the shit out of the stables, to all the bad times he had to clean the shit out of the stables...really, fond memories left and right.

Of course, him being a part of the most skilled cavalry at one point in his life meant he had more finesse with riding a horse than most would proudly admit. He certainly didn't have anyone to boast to, not that he would. Given his bum leg, he wouldn't judge anyone for sooner laughing at him than admiring him.

That said, he's hoisted himself up and onto a horse, and the saddle beneath him is comforting. His ass is just a little pained, and it's likely due to not having a second leg to rely on. It's about this point in time that he slowly rears it out of the stables, only to have it stop near the exit with its ass facing out. He was about to turn his head before realizing he didn't need to -- the stench hit him first. That was a fresh one.

If you're unfortunate enough to be there, witnessing this travesty, then you'll doubly be unfortunate enough to hear Eren casually brush it off like it were nothing.

"It's not what it looks like -- I swear."
Edited 2017-10-08 09:21 (UTC)
thingpuncher: (face) (okay but mai tais.)

iii.

[personal profile] thingpuncher 2017-10-09 02:56 pm (UTC)(link)
Midnighter refuses to clean stables. He was made to kill people and reign down terror and confusion everywhere he goes, not get elbow-deep in horseshit. Not only that, but he's not a huge fucking fan of animals to begin with. Sure, the gigantic fucking horses in Jerusalem were cool as fuck, and it was fun to steal them from unsuspecting knights. But these horses are skinny and boring and they bite sometimes. Or, in Midnighter's case, they sure try.

So he only pokes his head in the stables to see how that works-- he's never seen a stable before and he's curious. "Looks like what?" He grins at finding his favorite little weirdo. "Like you're stealing a horse?"

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I snorted at how blunt he was

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lonelywar: (Default)

ashitaka | ota!

[personal profile] lonelywar 2017-10-08 07:12 pm (UTC)(link)
I. there was seed for the field, there was grease for the wheel
[Rain fell unevenly, sometimes in messy downpours which lasted until they slacked off into mist for a time before renewing their attack. He was used to the elements, but he longed for his own clothing. The grass cloak had kept most rainwater off, and his clothing had not weighed him down when damp. This strange garb—that which he had been told was that of a French citizen—felt cumbersome enough that he worried for how he might be able to move, should the necessity arise. That thought brought with it an even more bitter one. He had no weapons from home, only a crude blade and what he had been told was a hunting rifle. He would prefer not to use either, but the thought of handling the latter was the most daunting of all.

The steady march of the army was by no means silent. Clamor and clatter of wagons and armaments, interspersed fragments of conversation and brief flights of song, the wet slog of feet and hooves and wheels through, all underscored by the omnipresent rain. All of this noise had faded into a hum of difficult travel for Ashitaka as he marched, however, and was almost lulling in a way until it was broken by some harsh shouting nearby, accompanied by the sound of distressed horses. He moves without thinking to see what happened, coming across a large wagon that had run slightly off the road to where it sunk into mud deep enough to swamp the wheels by nearly half of their height. The horses, nearly immobilized by the mud and the weight of their trapped burden, were struggling and beginning to grow panicked, causing several people to approach to try to calm them. Men were shouting, already trying to organize an effort to free it. Damn fools, hurry! It's full of gunpowder! We can't allow it to get ruined!

They were beginning to recruit help from others passing by, but Ashitaka needed no further provoking. He begins to walk towards the stuck wagon, glancing to his side to someone else who had slowed to watch the misfortune.]
Come on. [A goad, but a fairly gentle one.] We should help them.

[They were meant to blend in, after all.]

II. every mouth sings of what it's without
[Attempting to move the army through the rain and mud without the aid of the sun was too much of a risk, so the army's movement slowed to a halt as dusk began to fall. Having never been a part of an army, only skirting their fringes, the coordination and seeming single-mindedness of such a massive force was impressive to watch. Tents began to crop up across the expanse of people, horses, and cargo, each person doing whatever they could to get themselves out of the rain. Tents were still mysterious to him, being far more used to finding places to sleep in the elements. He ends up beneath an admittedly scraggly tree, facing a new challenge: the food.

Bread was strange to him. Stranger still was the concept of any meal that did not use rice as its sole staple. The small portion of vegetables at least had some semblance of familiarity, at the very least resembling things he had seen before. The strange, dark, hot drink he was given was perhaps the worst of it, though. One small sip had proved it to be nothing but ceaselessly bitter. He set it aside, wondering why one would subject themselves to something like that.

Ashitaka looks up from his heel of bread when he hears some agitated conversation. It's from a short distance away where a few men, headed up by one particularly red-faced individual, argue with someone in uniform.]
My brothers and I, we were the ones that hunted these birds. [Glancing past the man in uniform, he notices several others carrying away a number of game fowl.] We should be given at least one or two. Otherwise, it is us going hungry while the officers eat like a king! [He spits at this. The soldier stammers into a response, though they were both clearly growing heated.

Ashitaka watches, though he has a bad feeling about it. He stands, moving to where some people were watching.]
It would not do well for a fight to break out. [He says it generally, though he has a natural impetus to intervene and try to diffuse the situation.]

III. a fine weapon to rule the world
[It wasn't that Ashitaka held the rifle with inexperience. Well, not just that, anyway—he had certainly never used one before, so it certainly looked awkward in his hands. No, the bigger issue seemed to be that the young man regarded the weapon with what looked like outward scorn, as if it were something that would sooner burn his hands than perform its function.

He's been instructed how to use it. His stance is passable, and he stands steady despite the pronounced frown on his face. The makeshift target was prepared. Closer inspection would show that the weapon was shaking in his hands, though it was strange. His left hand was perfectly still, trying to keep the weapon steady, but the right had an odd tremor to it. Closer inspection would also prove that look of consternation on his face almost seemed pained. Regardless, his inaction was growing apparent and was beginning to attract some harsh looks from watching instructors.]

IV. wildcard!
[Whatever works! Feel free to chat me up if you have questions or ideas.]

note: I will switch to prose if you reply with it, I mostly used this format to shrink the tldr.
trample: (42)

III.

[personal profile] trample 2017-10-09 03:10 am (UTC)(link)
Are you gonna use that thing?

[ It's with little trepidation that Eren pops into the shaky fellow's personal space. At arms' length away, it's so blatantly obvious that there's something keeping this guy from fighting that makes Eren want to just put his hand on the gun and lower it for him. In the end, that's exactly what he does. ]

You look like a big softy. [ He sighs. ] You'd be better off baking bread than making someone else dead. I'm telling this to you for your own sake, screw the weapons training, find something that works for you. Something that doesn't make you shake in your boots. If you're gonna be flaking out at this stage, there's no way in hell you're gonna be able to fire at another man.

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heilt: (ᴀᴄʜᴛᴇsᴀ̈ᴄʜᴢɪɢ)

[personal profile] heilt 2017-10-08 08:41 pm (UTC)(link)
( medical )
( after jerusalem angela is glad that they're here before everything begins. getting stock of the supplies, taking checks of those that are to be fighting, and even trying to rope in a helping hand is far easier before things actually begin happening.

for anyone non-native it's a good job that things become translated as whilst angela checks and questions she's speaking more in french than anything else, calm and patient as she soothes egos that she tries to persuade for help, and calm those feeling a little worse off.

trying to get food and some water to the tents seems to be her biggest trouble so far, and has earned a few of those that she's spoken with some of her irritation. she's not looking forward to the battle to come, and she finds it hard to just sit knowing what will come )

( training )
( she's not training herself, though angela has received a few offers of it. as polite as they've been about it she's refused, having no interest in that side of the battle.

still, she watches, taking stock of the new 'recruits' that had come through with them, and any that she'd seen in jerusalem. she knows there'll be casualties either way, but seeing how well their own can fight, knowing if they have some hope... in a way it's a check of how busy she may be later, but also at how hopeful to be for their situation.

there's a gentle sigh as angela watches the latest trainee, and she winces as one, a former farmer, she believes, takes a heavy fall from attempting to dodge a strike )


They shouldn't be here.

( she doesn't like war no matter who's involved, but sending untrained people seems even worse )
putorius: (let your body get a tolerance)

Training

[personal profile] putorius 2017-10-09 12:38 am (UTC)(link)
Unlike her, he was supposed to be training. Technically. It's where he was sent upon admitting he didn't know how to fight with physical weapons. He left out the part where he didn't need physical weapons so long as he had his wand, but he wasn't going to explain that to a bunch of muggles. But if it meant getting out of that tent, he'd at least go to the vague area where training was happening. Maybe it would be a good show of the oafish peasants trying to fight with sticks.

A wicked sneer spread over his face as the farmer fell. He was about to laugh and call the guy an idiot, when the woman spoke up. He lifted his head, looking her over briefly, before turning his attention back to the training.

"None of them should be. Look how useless they all are."

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training

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pointedlook: (pasiv (not passive))

arthur // inception // ota

[personal profile] pointedlook 2017-10-09 08:58 pm (UTC)(link)
01. A r r i v a l
[ Almost immediately after getting new(ish) clothes, a rifle, and some rudimentary information, Arthur finds a quiet corner to process in.

A few deep breaths and he thinks of the answers he'd gleaned from Grothia through their messaging earlier. It's not much but it'll have to do. Frankly, this should be his area of expertise; as point man, he's used to getting the barest info and then having to dig into the research. Just treat this like another job. That's it.

Letting out a sigh, he rolls his shoulders and feels less panicked overall. That doesn't stop him from reaching into one of his inner coat pockets and procuring a simple red die with white pips.

If anyone comes to break his concentration, they'll notice he's rolling it multiple times on a small side table. It always lands on three. ]


02. M e d i c a l
[ Being in the past has some perks. For example, there's so much he could be recording and writing down for potential dreamshare jobs. Things to make the dreams feel more real. There's also that allure of answering questions that even historians are still scratching their heads over.

(Arthur is drawn to that, he likes being right, after all).

The downsides, of which there are many, includes rudimentary medical supplies and practices. He'd poked his head into one of the medical tents, scoping out the situation. It was, in so many words, not ideal.

He's silently observing near the entryway, brow furrowed and mouth turned down.]


Probably too much to ask for, but avoiding getting shot seems like a good course.

03. T r a i n i n g
[ The camp training grounds aren't anything to write home about. But maybe Instagram in that "wow look at this mess" kind of way. Still, he's not going to turn down the opportunity to figure out how to sight one of these damn rifles.

Arthur spends a good portion of time with the gun dismantled where it can be, cleaning the various pieces before fitting them back together. Once it's loaded, he tugs on a cap, carefully tilting it over one ear. His first shot goes a bit wide of the target, hitting the outer edge.

Minutes later, it gets a little closer to the center. And then closer. And then a small hair off.

Could be worse.

He's reloading another shot when he glances up, expression open. ]


Did you need something?

04. W i l d c a r d

[ Got something else in mind? Go for it! ]
rappels: (pic#11765246)

3

[personal profile] rappels 2017-10-09 10:20 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Hearing the gunfire had drawn Aloy over to the firing range, because she recognizes the sound, though it's overall still strange to her ears. It's almost worrying, because she imagines the world of the past fighting with them and how it had destroyed them, but as she watches, she realizes these are different. They're slow to fire and slower to load, almost to the point that Aloy wonders why people bother. Being well-trained with a bow would be far faster and far deadlier, since she's already noticed they're not really accurate.

As Arthur takes his apart, she does end up casually wandering closer, since she's a bit curious about the components, but not so much as to impose. She's really just observing everyone, and when he does finally shoot, it only gets a passing glance of interest. Like she was thinking, not at all accurate, though she doesn't say anything about it. It's not really his fault, or so she assumes. It's also why her reply comes easily, but coolly. ]


Not really. I'm just watching.

[ Though that's probably not a good answer, is it? Aloy realizes this and considers just, well. Leaving. But she decides against it and elaborates after a small shrug. ]

I've never seen guns like that before. It's more like a cannon.

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busts in here for 01

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my body is ready

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mylawn: (Default)

76 | ota

[personal profile] mylawn 2017-10-12 04:56 am (UTC)(link)
i. arrival
[76 would like to think that he’s prepared for something like this, but even with all of his years in increasingly improbable situations, the time-step is unlike anything he’s ever felt. He squeezes his eyes shut at the sensation, but it doesn’t do much against the sensation, or at least, doesn’t do enough. He is the soldier next to you that upends the contents of his stomach, despite his very best efforts to keep the nausea at bay.

Oh. Are those your shoes?
]

Sorry. Need a second.

[Though it’s clear from the level of activity that they don’t have a second, 76 will take the briefest one anyway as he bends over and coughs. He’s old; leave him alone—also sorry about your shoes.]
ii. train up
[It’s easy to get to work, as there’s plenty to be done, but he’s sort of wondering if and when he’s ever going to get to use a real gun. He needs to keep his mouth shut about it so as not to raise any suspicion, but if the potential for wet gunpowder wasn’t bad enough, loading these things takes more time and effort than he thinks he can spare on the battlefield. 76 reminds himself that everyone else is playing with the same handicap. It certainly seems that his own military training is going to give him an advantage, if the other army is anything like this one.

76 can aim, which is half the battle and more than he can say for some of these farmers-turned-soldiers. He’s no stranger to teaching new recruits how to point a gun and shoot, but it is sort of a big job, given the state of things and the fact that he’s only one person. He’s keeping his eye out for fellow COST soldiers, and as soon as he spots someone he recognizes, he’s thrusting a gun into their (your) waiting (or not waiting) hands.
]

Here.

[Consider yourself lucky he didn’t throw it.]

You know what you’re doing, or am I teaching you, too?
iii. supply
[Staking out is familiar, rote, and he takes to it easily. 76 has lost count of the sleepless nights he’s spent staring out at some dark expanse of field or city or forest or desert, waiting for something to happen. The where isn’t exactly important, now that missions start to blur together, but here on this unfamiliar battlefield he can’t help but think about the people he used to stake out with. The quiet makes it easier for those thoughts to creep back into the front of his consciousness. Makes it harder for him to brush it off, to the point where it’s almost a relief when there’s movement in the dark.

He doesn’t know the person beside him, or at least isn’t terribly familiar with them, and he tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter. He can brood about it later, because there’s definitely noise out there, and it isn’t coming from them.
]

Wake up.

[Doesn’t matter if you’re actually dozing or not—there’s a sharp elbow in your side, 76’s gruff, impatient tone of voice more than indicative of the fact that there’s something going on that’s worth paying attention to.]
iv. closed to angela
[He finds her in one of the medical tents, because of course that’s where she’d be. The predictability of it is almost comforting, though it does little to convince him he’s making the right decision. For all he knows, Angela isn’t real and he’s playing right into the hands of the people who have brought him here and want something from him, but having survived one battle and in the middle of preparing for the next, he’s starting to come around to the idea that he might be in this for the long haul.

Jack has to tell her—the longer he drags this out, the worse off they’ll all be for it. That’s what he keeps in mind as he steps into her space.
]

Doctor Ziegler.

[This era’s uniform doesn’t afford him an easy way to hide his face, so he’s covered it from the nose down with a well-placed scarf. Better than shocking her right at the start—this will give him an opportunity to build up to it.

Or stall indefinitely. He’s left himself an opening if he can’t go through with telling her the truth.
]

You have a minute?
v. wildcard
[I’ll do whatever the heck you want. Hit me up on plurk at [plurk.com profile] whitticus.]
heilt: (ᴢᴡᴇɪᴇꜰᴜ̈ꜰᴢɪɢ)

holds heart

[personal profile] heilt 2017-10-12 06:10 pm (UTC)(link)
( she hears the footsteps that announce his arrival, but people have been in and out of the tents all day that until he says her name angela doesn't pay him too much notice.

and she frowns, just a few seconds before lifting her gaze to him. they hadn't gotten to names in their last conversation, focused more on what COST's purpose or reasoning for them had been.

but something about this man had felt familiar, though maybe that was just her familiarities with soldiers. she hadn't worked like this in some time, and angela hadn't found any familiar faces from either time-step. yet )


You happen to have come at the right time.

( things, on this mission anyway, hadn't really heated up yet. they'd gotten to france far earlier than they had in jerusalem, affording them a little more time to prepare )

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northerndragon: (can't climb to heaven on the cross)

JON SNOW ✥ SOME OPEN AND SOME CLOSED

[personal profile] northerndragon 2017-10-12 06:07 am (UTC)(link)
[Starters in comments! Open coming a little later than closed.]
northerndragon: (really?)

SAD DRAGON STORIES (CLOSED TO DAENERYS)

[personal profile] northerndragon 2017-10-12 06:14 am (UTC)(link)
[From here.]

[Ten minutes, she says, and for those ten minutes, he can't sit in the tent... not with the full knowledge of what he's going to have to tell her when she reaches him.

It propels him to his feet and through the flap, and he walks back and forth on the muddy ground and examines the blade of one of the weapons they've given him and finds it satisfactory and places it back in the tent, then paces again, another twenty rotations back and forth, then more, uncounted.

Finally, he sees her coming.]

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