2997/Black Sun: The Fisher King

Black Sun: The Fisher King
Date of Scene:	20 August 2020
Location:	Rochefort-en-Terre, Morbihan, Brittany
Synopsis:	Sam Wilson begins his Grail journey.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Sam Wilson
Tinyplot:	Black Sun

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Jane Foster has posed:
Morbihan. France. Nightfall.

Petite communities strung all along the French coast bear the clawmarks of unrelenting warfare. Deeper into the forested lands of the northwest, a streak of independence runs kilometers deep, but these too have fallen to the Nazi bridle. It's here he finds himself, away from the scent of brine or pine. Instead, smoke assaults the nose, something acrid cut beneath the fire and the dust raining down. Though truly if Sam tries to concentrate, he might catch the stench of the sea, that primordial rot of countless plants and bodies descending into the depths as submarine snow.

He finds himself on a street ill-lit save by a smudge of the thinnest waning crescent moon. Clouds help to conceal it, though half those billowing shapes belong to smoke where buildings burn. Semi-collapsed walls and stone-fronted facades rear up on either side of him in a narrow, crooked canyon shaped more by the meanderings of a drunken watch nightman than any kind of city planning found in New York. Even Greenwich with its Revolutionary-era alleys has nothing on the archaic planning likely laid out when the Normans were in power.

Elegant steeples that withstood the Revolution, restoration and imperial falls lie in ruins, jagged fingers turned to the sky. Humble shops of market towns no longer sell the necessary provender to bourgeoisie townsfolk or rural population, reduced to pitiful shells. Charred signs hung over empty, pockmarked doorways tell profound tales: the cheesemonger, the pharmacist, florist, the dry goods seller. A perfumery, even in a walled village of a thousand souls, proof of the finer things in life gone for years in the German occupation.

He can hear the sounds of conflict from several directions, outside the stretch of marketplace behind those shops. Further beyond. In the air, a screaming crackle more like a rocket flying at a low altitude. But he still wears the uniform of the Afrikakorps, a bag on his back, pistol at his side.

Sam Wilson has posed:
For all his recklessness, Sam isn't a fool: he didn't expect that simply seizing the Lance when it was offered would put an end to the madness they've experienced tonight. Still, its latest manifestation puts him on his back foot yet again, trying to get his bearings in a confusing, unfamiliar, ill-lit place. He shifts the strap on his bag, distributing its weight more comfortably, and scans the skies with his gaze.

He has seen towns torn up like this before, although the architecture and the climate were very different. Even without that foreboding noise, he would know to consider the skies a threat: he leans into the shadow of a ruined boulangerie and begins to move quickly and stealthily up the street, in a direction chosen more or less at random. He feels exposed in this empty block, and even orienting toward the sounds of conflict will at least give him some sense of where he is and why.

Jane Foster has posed:
No sign here of the Lance in his hands or at his belt. No sign, either, of the pale-haired SS officer who wielded it in the tower at Wewelsburg. As it is, the short alley provides cover and no immediate sign of occupation to Sam. To call it a street does streets disservice, the scattered mess before him blending crumbled stone, scorched wooden roofing tiles, dropped bottles and ammunition. As he moves through the narrow block, hasty departures become the more evident: a bowl overturned with thin soup splashed on the ground, long gone cold. A chair knocked to the side, a book in German lying open on a table in the boulangerie.

Flowers struggling in a windowbox burned in half, so there are still a few small marguerites struggling to therive. A long line of fire is visible across the ground and bisecting the building that lost its roof in the conflagration. It still smokes, smelling heavily of plaster gone up in flames. Very hot flames.

Around the corner lies a wider thoroughfare, but not by much. Damage increases by a magnitude, the fronts of most of the shops gaping open where they've been obliterated by concussive force and fire. Several flames still smolder in the wreckage. A quick glance gives simple orientation: a ruined statue in the crossroads, southeast leading to the church, northwest to a barricaded gate in the village walls. Village, town, the scale of the place is hard to gather: it isn't /small/, but everything in Europe really is.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Dodging around abandoned fragments of people's lives, Sam takes a quick leap over the scar of flames and makes his way to the crossroads. Once there, he pauses just shy of the intersection, glancing around to get a sense of the situation before he rushes into the even more heavily damaged area. It looks like an air raid has chased the villagers into what shelter they can find: cellars, if they're lucky; if not, likely the church.

God's hands are a pretty poor barrier against bombs and bullets -- as Sam's reverend father could attest, if he still had the breath to do so -- but faith rarely fails to triumph over sense.

He spares one glance toward the gate, then jogs forward, taking a loop around the downed statue before orienting on the steeple. He wonders who was honored by the former; he hopes he can find some guidance in the latter. He needs to find Schneider; he needs to get the Lance out of his hands. He won't manage that by chasing shadows in the ruined streets.

Jane Foster has posed:
The fighting is largely outside, must be beyond the walls. Slouched shapes along the wall show where it wasn't successful, bodies tucked into crevices or slouched over the top. Only ten feet tall in places, built up into the less-fortunate homes or shops, the wall gives a bit of protection. Smears of blood show the way where others have gone; the rattling retort of guns speaks more to the north, to the gate. People /on/ the wall must be shooting back.

That's surely when he first sees the shadowy shape overhead through the smoke, descending at a speed hard for his senses to register. That's the silent counterpart to a rocket, but no bomber emerging from the clouds or a fighter come to tear up the street. No, it's a man, ignoring the rising guns -- German, mostly, French too -- cracking with retorts as old as the First World War. The pale, broad-shouldered man isn't wearing much as he drops to pounce on a screaming soldier in a ragged uniform. At this distance, hard to see who or what, but memory might spark. At least seven or eight men hidden in the shops emerge to try to help him, but distance isn't their ally.

Another figure emerges from the gloom, a woman dwarfed by her overcoat. A hiss might be heard by Sam, maybe not. <<Quickly! Get out of sight while he's distracted!>> she calls in German. Bad German, at that, but passable.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam spins off of his planned course as he winds past the toppled statue, his hand dropping to the holster at his side as the attacker descends from the sky. Still, others are bringing rifles to bear; if that doesn't concern the flying man, his sidearm certainly won't. He ducks behind what cover the statue's plinth can provide, fingers of his left hand brushing against the surface, as if to steady himself.

He hears the woman's words just fine -- he's still searching for cues in this maddened world -- and dives after her readily enough, taking cover where she does. "Dankeschön. Mein Deutsche ist nicht gut," he says in a hoarse whisper. "Français est un peut meilleur. English, best of all. I only know how to flirt in Italian, and that's just inappropriate right now."

He flashes her a grateful smile, then gestures with a bobbing thumb toward the seeming angel of wrath that just dropped from the sky. "Please tell me that's not Schneider. I didn't get a good look."

Jane Foster has posed:
French mangled that way gets a look out of Emmaline, the woman not wasting time. She watches aghast as the village wall is a scene of minor carnage, the flying man snapping a gun by smashing it against the stone and hurling the pieces away. The defender is French, pleading, begging in the rough-edged accent of Brittany. Brezhon, properly. It doesn't matter, his body is hurled away deep into the village with a contemptuous ease, and the distant arch tones are English: "The sooner you cease your little rebellion, the easier this goes. Stay down in your pathetic homes."

The pitiful attempts to fire at him just seem to bother that dark-haired, pale figure in the sky but he doesn't advance. Not unless someone tries something foolish like storm the gate.

Emmaline tugs his sleeve and pulls Sam back lightly. "English-speaking in a German... I won't ask. We have only a few moments to get this man into the church, and we need him distracted. Schneider? No? No, that's some bloody American up there penning us in. The one with the fire you have to watch for, he kills at a distance," she utters in that low, urgent whisper.

Four men wait behind her, one badly injured. Another has makeshift bandages, sooty but skilled at a look. Their eyes are hollow, dark with fatigue. A look past Sam is distrustful, but not perilous, seeking the church.

Emmaline gestures. "We need to clear out to the doors while his back is turned. Then we'll return for Maudray. You don't have to come, stranger, wherever you were. But we leave on five."

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam only knows what he picked up by osmosis in a military coalition, so no doubt L'Académie Française would heartily disapprove. Emmaline can say as much with a look, and it won't dent his ego too badly. He follows readily at her encouragement, answering her question about his linguistic and sartorial mismatch with a quick, "Think of me as a medic sans frontières," before admitting more quietly, "Probably a few decades too early for that joke. But don't worry, I'll come along and help if I can." He will readily assist her in moving the injured man toward the church.

He glances over his shoulder at the wall again as they're about to move out of cover, brows knitting. "'One with the fire'--? Is that--?" He looks back at her, eyes widening. "Are you telling me the Invaders are here? Oh Jesus. That could be...complicated."

Jane Foster has posed:
The blank look from Emmaline about Doctors Without Borders ensures indeed, he joke falls flat. There isn't time for that, so she rapidly gestures for the men to carry their wounded companion on a set of slings. Wood can't be spared; they use dirty canvas rescued from the fires, perhaps, or stripped from a stable. It smells heavily of some kind of animal and smoke. The hustle at a double-step is limited only by the gritted teeth and low bestial groan of the injured man, but they're hurrying for the church. Its modest doors and portico lovingly carved with Christ in judgment bears the brunt of damage.

"Where have you been?" she asks. Hustling along, her expression shows no-nonsense purpose, dusky skin graven with care. The others following her halt behind a tiny chunk of wall, shrinking down as a certain Atlantean prince retreats and, in his wake, the fiery halo roars up from the wood beyond. If any wood remains. Oh, that's most definitely the Human Torch.

"They've been attacking us for a day and a half, and no, surrender went nowhere. The Invaders are an apt name," she spits out and then points. "TO the door, /go/!"

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam moves quickly but smoothly over the cracked road -- transporting injured people through war zones was core to his pararescue training, so there's a lot of muscle memory at work, even with this improvised equipment. "I just got here," he answers Emmaline readily, sticking to what he can give her honestly. "I know the Invaders." Two personally, one in passing, one by legacy alone: that part he keeps to himself. "Why would they be attacking a French village like this?"

In the back of his head, an idea is percolating, image by image: The enthusiastic American supporters of the Nazi ideology that the SHIELD team encountered back in the time bubble; the unspoken irony of the blue-eyed, square-jawed face of a man he considers his closest friend; that name, 'Invaders'... At the moment, it's a purely instinctive thing, but he finds himself dreading a moment he knows can't be far behind the brushes with Namor and the original Torch.

He rushes into the church, through the kicked-open door, and scans the interior as thoroughly as his divided focus will allow.

Jane Foster has posed:
Easy to fall in line and make a dash for the church, though it means Namor and the Human Torch are both airborne. Sam will hear them as easily as see the flames through the swirling grey ashes and smoke fed from multiple different sources. "You can't possibly have just got here. We've been besieged for a week and a half," Emmaline says crisply. "No one got in or out after they cut off the road. The Invaders showed up after that."

The man injured is French; the two with him, Nazis. Three if Sam is included. They make a motley crew. The doors in front are ignored, though the naked exposure until reaching a small side-door where a worried, tired man waits to usher them in. The kick startles him like a hen among foxes. Getting entry involves a hazardous crawl over boxes and pews and a few lumpy, large stones probably recovered from the debris. In the candlelight, wan faces show; the greyish skin of the injured soldier, the churchman's thin skin whittled by hunger, Emmaline's nut-brown complexion with a bloodied scab at her hairline under a cap of black curls. "Let's get him down into the galleries with the others. If they fly past we won't have a chance," she explains in French and then switches back to English for Sam to understand.

The church is pretty but stuffed to the brim with debris, pushed up to the front doors. The rafters have held, but holes show in the ceiling. Candlelight is spared only for hiding in the catacombs below among the dead, an irony no doubt, but a necessity. Some huddle up on the main floor, praying or just shell-shocked into silence. Pockets of three and four. Broken families, broken lives. Germans and French, a few no doubt Italian or Pole or press-ganged. Might even be an American or two in the mix.

<<Hurry, Miss Brown! Down the stairs, we can't draw their focus. God save us,>> whispers the priest in French. He eyes the German soldiers, Sam included, warily. Occupation will do that. But they're all in it together.

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Désolé," Sam mutters to the doorman as they pass over the threshold into the meager shelter of the sanctuary. Then, to Emmaline, he answers, "Yeah, I do a lot of things you can't possibly." His voice is shot through with weariness. He follows instructions and gets the injured man down into the makeshift infirmary, where he immediately and instinctively starts checking his injuries, applying bandages if needed (and available), and bundling him up against shock.

As he's attending to this, he does remember himself enough to offer, "I'm Sam, by the way. As in Uncle." THAT joke, at least, he knows is current. "Are /you/ doing okay?" He lifts a hand to point at his own head, mirroring the spot where her scab is showing. "And can you tell me what's going on with the Invaders? Sure, they're attacking the occupiers throughout Vichy France -- but why would they be laying siege to civilians, and why here?"

Jane Foster has posed:
What passes for the infirmary is primitive. Cemented slabs of stone make for low arches in a time when people were shorter, construction harder. The front gallery turned over to the injured shows many, convalescing on sacks of cloth and grain, hay where they could find it. None of it is fresh. A rank ordure of humans pressed close together assaults the nose.

At least two hundred people crowd in the church between the main floor and this, the subterranean levels. Anywhere they can find a space, they rest and shiver. Few candles light the space, electricity likely blown out long ago. Not much privacy awaits, though Emmaline moves among the injured with a practiced ease to her. She shrugs off the heavy coat to hang over a hook, revealing the smudged greyed smock instead of whites, but a red cross marks the bands of her sleeves. If she had a hat, it might have one too. "Emmaline, Mr. Uncle. Emmaline Brown." Maybe a joke. Maybe, but her English isn't American and not quite over the Channel. "We have next to no supplies left except what they could cart down. Food for a day or two, bandages, water from the font or the well. In light of all that, I'm quite well." A bittersweet irony in the words as she kneels to check a burned man's dressings, nodding to the woman huddled close, probably his elderly mother. Only so much she can do for him, but the nurse quietly frowns. "They attacked us. Why? There have been battles, many of them, and this one wasn't any different. Same injuries, same fierce blows. Our men fell. We brought them in, and they came back with stories that we must take cover. That the man with the shield and the woman moving faster than the wind descended on the walls, and they herded us into these walls. Because we were a danger, we must be sacrificed. They haven't told us why, only those shouts to stay inside. Anyone who leaves, they cut down. We must be cursed by plague, but even telling them about the POWs brought here made no difference."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Sam, please. Mr. Uncle is my father. Or a close relative, anyway." Speaking of dads, who came up with that line? Dark humor is one way to lighten this kind of mood. Sometimes dumb humor works, too. "Nice to meet you, Emmaline."

As she attends to patients, he'll take on a supportive role, passing her tools or supplies if she needs them. A well-stocked medical kit is a standard part of the Falcon gear, and although it was all transformed into era-appropriate equivalents, he suspects he still has more on hand than she does, and is happy to share.

"Like a quarantine," he summarizes with a thoughtful frown. "I can see Steve helping with something like that, but never attacking civilians who step out of line. Maybe I should try talking to him. He won't know me, but he might listen, at least." This idea doesn't sit right with him, at a gut level, but his suspicions stubbornly refuse to rise to the level of conscious understanding.

Jane Foster has posed:
Dark humour doesn't go so far with Emmaline, who runs her hand over her tight curls and brushes away some of the sweat and dust accrued on the road. As night sets in deeper, the hushed eternity under the church is bombarded by the distant whistle of gunfire, the thump of something heavy on the street. The church doesn't rock much. Tools and supplies she takes, thoroughly prepared to put them to good use, changing the worst pus-stippled pads out with fresher ones. Looking at burns, injured limbs, and lacerations is timely, slow, purposeful.

"Like that. Except we won't leave. You do not round people up like this in wartime. I saw it in Nairobi, the way you would circle something and burn it down," she says quietly in English while working on a semi-conscious man with a badly mangled leg. "You don't get it, which tells me you've been living under a rock. No one will help you get out there. You cannot get through the gates because they shoot at us when we try. White flag? No good. Go on the rampart or a roof, they will shoot you or throw the flames." Her mouth turns down. "We are meant to stay in here, for whatever reason. They say we are dangerous and no one can bargain. The lord's holed up in his castle and we have no power, so not so much as a phone call is getting out. Do they have messenger pigeons? I'm sure they were eaten last winter. We have nothing to communicate with, Sam who is not an uncle. I let you walk out there and it's sure to be to /die/. The Americans have..." Her voice cracks. "They have decided the price of burning Rochefort to the ground is better than letting out civilians. Quarantine, you know? But I've seen no signs of sickness other than sepsis, hunger..."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"There must be a reason I'm here," Sam says, his voice tense. "I was supposed to be taking a spear away from a Nazi so it could go somewhere safe." He raises one hand and pinches at the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. "I don't suppose there are any major holy relics down in these catacombs? Shroud of Turin, Holy Grail-type stuff? I'd settle for Excalibur if you've got one to spare."

Okay, now he is veering into dark humor. He lowers his hand, takes another moment to think, and then continues, "I'm not going to try to take out Namor and the not actually Human Torch all by myself. But I'm a resourceful guy... I might be able to figure something out." His lips narrow to a line, and he asks, "Has anybody else shown up out of nowhere, like I did, kind of clueless? Kind of a douchebag Aryan, carrying a lance? Sometimes turns into a freezing mist and sucks the life out of people? Just thinking it might make me feel better to punch a guy like that."

Jane Foster has posed:
Emmaline looks up and then gestures to the crude alcoves, the dusty walls with their entombed, the scratchings of faith in a dark place. "This is a village church. Such things maybe would reside with the lord up in the castle." A gentle pat to the groaning victim of the Invaders, and she rises up from her crouch. "Anyone clueless? We had a rush of soldiers when they barricaded us in. POWs I've mostly met. They smell as bad as they look. The... Germans here are helping us, trapped as we are, and they've done all they could to pitch in. Better than nothing."

Her breath held, she composes her face as best she can. "No one else like that who I've seen. We have no one with spears, some with bayonets and ancient rifles."

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam lets out a breath as a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I didn't think it would be that easy. Had to ask, though. Do you think I could get to the castle to talk to that lord of yours without being burned alive? I can be sneaky, when I want to be."

He raises one eyebrow at her efforts to maintain her poker face, giving her a long, evaluating look, which then cracks into a wry smile. "Please don't worry about shit-talking the Nazis in front of me, if that's what's going on here," he says. "Clothes don't make the man, it turns out. I personally am going to need a long bath after I change out of this getup."

He eases up from his spot, preparing to head back upstairs. "But regardless; I'm going to do what I can to get this siege lifted. You keep carrying on, Emmaline. Thanks for your help, and best of luck."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Know the old saying, nothing good is ever easy? Neither is war, living or life." Emmaline wipes the back of her hand against her brow, pushing a stray lock of natural near-black hair away. She can't do much for her coat or the smells in here, mixing sweat and rank fear with ancient dust and unwashed bodies. The spaces called private are nearly non-existent, but not everyone speaks English. His German uniform earns Sam plenty of sharp looks from the suffering French victims, and he can easily spot a few Nazis in among the groups, or those who probably are in mismatched clothes.

"Please mind your mouth. I'm still a lady under all this," she reprimands him lightly. Nazi or not, it makes no difference to her. "A man carrying a spear? Where did you -come- from?" Her words are dropped to a harsh whisper, causing the casualty laid out on a pallet of grass, strewn canvas, and a flat grain pillow to flutter his eyelashes, coming awake somwhat.

But still, she doesn't fight him going. Her expression shows what she thinks. They've both seen what is up there. When he moves towards the spot where the priest led them down the stairs, a Resistance member in a flat cap and a shapeless, weather-beaten fishing jacket stops him. "You must be raving mad. Don't be planning on going outside, eh?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Please, pardon my French," Sam answers Emmaline with a wry smile. The double entendre was too tempting to pass up. "Not a spear as a weapon -- it's an... artifact I'm looking for." He doesn't go into further detail answering her questions, as neither of them has the time to spare for his attempts to either establish a cover story or explain his presence; either would be prohibitively time-consuming. He simply repeats a quiet "bonne chance" and heads for the stairs.

He lets himself be stopped by the Resistance member there. In this place, and in this outfit, they're in charge; he has no intention on ending up on the wrong side of Casablanca's Marseillaise scene. "If you know a better way for me to get to the castle, I'm open to suggestions," he answers. "If that's the only way, though, I'm going to try my chances."

Jane Foster has posed:
The entendre probably hits the mark but Emmaline deals with soldiers and peasants all day long. She refuses to be so easily taken into those ideas, hardly prone to dealing with that sort of trouble. Her eyes are prone to rolling in their sockets. Neither of them has the time or purpose; she is already turning to dealing with a host of questions as the makeshift leader of resistance efforts, corralled by a few tired, sleepless parents asking after the few children evacuated into the church.

Up, up through the dark stairs and the ground is still shaking from the external bombardment of water and fire. As stars chase the sun over the horizon, the night falls and Rochefort has no hope of a calm time. The best someone can wish for is drunken oblivion. Sam receives a blunt assessment; dark eyes take in the fellow in the German uniform. "You're a real piece, you know that? Four years ago, I'd have shot you." The French accent is thick and it's hard to make out any traces, as it were, of how he learned English. But the soldier is understandable at least. "The lord's likely in a stupor. For all the good it does you, no way out of here through the door, non? You need to find Mademoiselle Brown. She knows the only path through that anyone bothers take. You aren't afraid of small spaces, that fear, non?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Someday you'll see an Indiana Jones movie and you'll get it," Sam assures the Resistance member in a friendly voice, sparing another glance down at his clothes. "For now, it's this or naked -- take your pick." At his insistence that only Mlle Brown can guide him to the castle, he tilts his head back as far as it will go and sighs deeply. "I was just /with/ her. She didn't say anything about..."

Sam cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "Never mind," he says instead. "I'm an open skies guy, personally, but a tight space is better than being roasted alive. I'll go check with her, then."

And, obliging as he is, he goes back down into the catacomb to find Emmaline again. He props one forearm up against the stone wall when he locates her, wipes his opposite fingertips along his jaw, and says, "I hear you know of a secret tunnel to that lord's castle."

Jane Foster has posed:
Will he? Will he really? The soldier looks outright blank at the reference, shaking his head briefly. He listens to the drone overhead -- the Human Torch's not silent after all -- and ducks when the church shudders with a glancing blow of something likely superheated deflecting off the crumbling, battered walls.

Mmle Brown that he was just speaking with is easy to find. "Ami, she has not slept in days but for bits. Like a churchmouse, yes? Trying to keep us alive. Go ask if you want."

Advice that might be salted but still relevant, since there is Emmaline currently doling out spaces for quarreling families, siblings in need of food -- there is so little, but they can have a few withered green beans. Sam marching back in will require waiting until she's handed over two blankets before she has time. "If wishes were ponies we would all ride to Australia, but I hear the war over there isn't much better." Her mouth puckers a little into a rueful circle. "And why would I show you cobwebs and barrels, to what purpose?" asks the nurse.

Sam Wilson has posed:
The blasts glancing off of the solid old building activate the reflexes of a man under fire: Sam ducks into doorways whenever the foundations shake, pausing to make sure everything is still again before advancing. "I know the feeling," he answers the Resistance fighter. Different wars, same terrible hours.

Back underground, he waits his turn as patiently as he can, then smiles tightly in response to her challenge. "For one thing, I'll stop bothering you. That has to be tempting, right?" He lifts his eyebrows, then takes a breath and grows more serious. "I don't have to tell you that something very strange is happening in this town. I think it might have something to do with my artifact -- the spear -- and the man who stole it. If I can get them back, we'll all leave you to your business, and the war will end when and how it's supposed to." The last is a bit cryptic, but, well, they are in a crypt, aren't they?

Jane Foster has posed:
Cries and muffled sounds of fear radiate through the darkness. One of the candles sputters out and throws deeper shadow. Emmaline frowns and clearly takes mental stock, but there's not much she can do. "Piers is going to have to deal with them trying to burn their clothes. No point in seeing it through to morning and wiping out the stocks we have." Swallowing, she pushes herself up from the ground. Tired, a woman gathering up the burden on her shoulders, there's no way free.

Both of them are outsiders, both by 'inferior' race in eyes of others; as English-speakers; as so much more. "The Invaders locked us in to die. You tell me why. I have no idea what spear or artifact you are speaking of but this is a musty corner of Bretagne. Anything worth taking was sent east on the trains through the Ruhr years back." She gestures and points to several sacks emptied of their pathetic produce, an affair of messy beams and worse. "This way. You'll be sharing a space with a crypt I fear. They cemented it in right up against the passage. Look smart, we go without any lights. Can't spare the wax or oil."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I might be able to help with the last part, at least," Sam offers. He's still kitted out in vintage versions of his Falcon outfit: some aren't so useful, like the nightvision goggles that are now just goggles, or the heavy rocket pack that he ditched back in New York, but others might be more so.

As they enter into the shadowy passage, he lifts up the arc blaster gauntlet that he used against one of the Nazi sorcerers back in Wewelsburg Castle and arms it. This extends two metal prongs and activates the crawling Jacob's Ladder of electricity that connects them. The lighting this provides is harsh and unsteady, but it's better than nothing.

"I don't know why they would do that, and I am ... fairly familiar with one of them, at least," Sam says, treading a line between honesty and sounding like a madman. "I followed a man here, the one I asked about. I'm trying to get back the artifact he had with him, and I suspect he is the cause of their strange behavior. If I can deal with him, it won't end the war, or anything, but the strangeness will end and at least you'll be able to go outside again."

Jane Foster has posed:
An arc blaster set on anything beyond sparkle causes Emmaline to flatten hard against the wall. "Mother of God, what is /that/?" Her eyes widen in the blue nymphs crackling between the prongs, baffled in her attempts to listen. The shadows stink of ozone, but it is better than nothing.

"Look, let's save it. His lordship is this way," she gestures towards the damp, uneven floor cut from flagstone. The arch of the tunnel is low, more like a servant's run, lacking much space. Trying to wedge himself in there will challenge the likes of Sam. For someone like Steve, it could be near impossible to pass upright or head-on. Shoulders, man. She nonetheless shows the way over a run certainly the length of the street and probably most of the village square to the wall. "They don't know about this route. I doubt highly it was writ anywhere. This is our only way out for the children if things go bad, but it isn't some pilgrimage route. It is a cold and broken way to go. At the end you get to a set of stairs and a corner of the old cellar. Go out there, you come to the kitchens. His lordship has nearly no staff; they all came to the church."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"It's electric," Sam answers, a little abashed. "You ever watch horror movies? There's one in Doctor Frankenstein's lab." C'mon, it's a Nikola Tesla original! "Not as practical as a flashlight, but I don't have a flashlight." He realizes he's not really saving it, as asked, but the isolation of this strange pocket of time is starting to get to him, and Emmaline is the only person here who he has felt any sort of connection with.

The cramped quarters are certainly a challenge: he hasn't /quite/ got that super-soldier frame, but he's beefy enough to borrow Steve's jacket and like the way it looks on him. He walks sideways after her, gauntleted arm extended ahead of himself so that they can share in the less-than-ideal portable light. He walks carefully, the pinch of the tunnel giving him plenty of time to feel out each step.

"I hope the kids never have to use it," he says, with feeling. "Anything you can tell me about this lord that might be useful, if I run across him?"

Jane Foster has posed:
The troubled smile from Emmaline may not be encouraging but he doesn't have so far to go with his crackling contraption. Instead she holds back some distance in the tunnel, swallowed by the darkness so that he no longer hears anything more than the weird charge of the electricity. Bluish strobes give poor indications for where he heads, but eventually the worn, metal-banded wood door gives way to a fairly barren cellar of no interest to Nazis or Invaders, surely. Not unless they need salt, but they have that much here in barrels or empty sacks. Shoving himself through the piles of boxes reveals the room is situated off a kitchen designed very much in an old architectural style with a deep fireplace, currently unlit. Cabinets and scarred wooden islands definitely suggest the heavy use in times past is no longer the case here. Past that, he can easily navigate his way through the chateau; it's a handsome building designed on a rectangle, and most definitely not going to be difficult to surmise where the various rooms are. Dining rooms, parlours, it's pretty much standard French. All relies on where he wants to go.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Great. More isolation. If being time-lost and separated from his allies, hunted by his closest friend, in a pre-civil-rights World War, wearing the uniform of a genocidally racist regime weren't bad enough, now his new friend the nurse is gone and he's in the dark, underground, picking his way between moldering corpses with only a noisy, stinking fork of electricity for company.

Fortunately, he seems to get to his subterranean destination fairly quickly, and shoves his way through the cellar, trying to be quiet and quick at the same time. Before long, he has moved on to the next phase of his trip: wandering though a dark, seemingly empty castle. He leans more on 'quiet' than 'quick,' here, the ghostly silence of the chateau working its way into his soul. He moves toward the inner wall so that he can scan the courtyard through a window: anyone there? Any signs of his quarry, or the Invaders? Beyond that, or just locating the Spear of Destiny on an end table, he's looking for the lord of the house.

Jane Foster has posed:
Now he's left in the dark, alone. Isn't that how it always goes? But there lies an eloquence in the pretty French architecture, all those windows blacked out by sackcloth or whatever fabric could be found. There are runner rugs pulled up from the unpolished floors, hung from rails to keep out the blasts of fire that light up the night. He might even hear the shouts coordinating attacks; his old friend's in there. Another, Bucky Barnes, much younger. Two English voices: Spitfire, for one. Union Jack, the other.

This is a far, far cry from home.

The quarry he seeks isn't here: neither German or Lance visibly held, but the paths eventually carry him eventually towards a gallery where a man sits on a patterned blue and gold seat, back high, the epitome of a gentleman's wingback. French as it gets, even the feet are clawed. His leg set ahead of him, the older man sips a glass of brandy. The table ahead of him is fully set with the largesse of a meal not even poor by modern standards.

Sam Wilson has posed:
It's even more isolating, in a way, to be able to hear allies nearby but know that it would be a terrible idea to reach out to them. He does tug a wedge of rug aside from a window, just briefly, when he thinks he hears Steve's voice nearby. Not to reach out or get his attention: just hoping to get a look at him, honestly. Again, he's trying to find connection in this lonely pocket of time.

Overall, though, Sam keeps to his path through the castle, and eventually ends up at the lord's table, grandly set. He can't help but wrinkle his nose when it comes into his sight, the contrast stark against the meager excuses for meals that trapped children were fighting over below the church just a few minutes ago.

He steps into view -- but not so far that a quick leap won't take him back out of the room -- and clears his throat. "The townspeople are starving, you know," he says, his voice flat, uncompromising.

Jane Foster has posed:
His friends fight beyond the walls, the very barriers entrapping the population of the village finding refuge there. They are invisible, known only at a distance except for the two men who fly over the low roofs to keep anyone from firing on the Allied forces. Even if their guns are English, their ammunition smuggled by the Resistance, none of that matters.

Inside the lonely room with its arrangement of bread and a modest roast, a few apples richly stewed with pears, the Lord of Rochefort waits. When Sam makes his presence clear, the fellow looks up from the consuming emptiness in the grate. "I am well aware. Yet they do not come to eat or have me bring it to them." He gestures idly with his hand to the floor. "Who do you suppose yourself to be?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Sam Wilson. Ignore the uniform -- I don't fight for Hitler," he answers. There's no point in lying about his name -- he has no identity in this time to protect, and even in his own he's open about who he is. As for the outfit, he'd really rather not be mistaken for a Nazi anymore, unless it's a life or death situation. This town's lord doesn't seem to be a particular threat. "So, you're saying that if they asked, you would help them?" he clarifies, stepping a little further into the room. "Your town is in bad, bad shape."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Samuel Wilson," repeats the lord, casting those watery pale eyes his way. Though the scars of age weather his face, grooved deep in pouches under the sockets and spotted skin in places, he is still sharp enough to leave hints of canniness present. Silver hair brushed back from his forehead forms a long unfashionable sweep past his neck, too long for this decade, far more in style twenty years from now when young rebels throw their lot against rock's tides for something rougher, wiser.

"It's not a name that means anything to me. But for that, some honesty, non?" The Breton take of French is sharper, more primal, far more interesting on that front to the ear. "Percival Pellaud, Lord of Rochefort. Whatever good that does now. I am fully conscious of my people's predicament and that I have almost nothing with which to bargain. Do you truly think those out there are interested in a few accounts, the tax receipts from a ruined field? Harvests gone to muck like in Seventeen?" He pointedly smacks his fist against the table. Glass jumps. Plates clatter. None fall. "Please, young man, not of my lands or this town. What /are/ you if you do not fight for Hitler?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I meant to ask about helping your people, not the people laying siege," Sam clarifies, eyebrows inclining slightly. The lordly demeanor, the evening's brandy, he can't relate to; but the man's frustration is hard not to sympathize with. "I'm ... a traveler. A pilot." True answers, if incomplete. "I'm someone who gets sent into dangerous places to recover what would otherwise be lost. I came here chasing a man who stole something very valuable, and very powerful. I haven't been here long, but I think it might be the reason why you're under siege. I'm trying to get it back to where it belongs."

Jane Foster has posed:
Percival blows out a tired breath. "A pilot. How did you get through them?" He indulges in a moment of holding up a crystal glass as the distant whine of flames is broken by a pitiful crack of a rifle. Watery eyes narrow. "You came hunting on your own instead of being shot down and culled in the last flight for shelter? That's a bold statement, if mad. Well, look around you."

The Frenchman nods at the window but doesn't invite opening it up directly. Pulling away a heavy velvet curtain is indulgent but an opportunity to see the blasted gardens. There is nothing much to see except ash and grimy sky, the bubbles of red in the Torch's wake barely visible in the distance. Perpetuating the notion of a lost cause, the claustrophobic weight is out there.

"What would you do? Sieged, no way out? Don't tell me hunt around on a goose chase."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I flew in from a direction they didn't expect," Sam answers, with a wry smile. Again, honest, but incomplete. Time travel via magic lance? He didn't really expect it, either. "Can't promise I'm not mad, but I am still alive, for all the mad things I've done." He obligingly opens the curtain, gazing out at the ruined yard thoughtfully. Then, he shuts the curtain again, and turns to speak to Percival.

"The goose chase is my problem. I just think it might help with yours, too. But in your shoes, what would I do?" He takes a long breath as he mulls it over. "I'd get people together. Feed them, connect them. I'd find out why the Invaders are doing what they're doing and get them to stop.

"And if that wouldn't work, I'd get everyone down in the catacombs and dig our way out of this godforsaken mess." He vaguely hopes that the nobleman wasn't expecting something philosophical or poetic. Sam is more of a practical, point A to point B thinker.

Jane Foster has posed:
The meal consists of quiet luxuries: a pat of butter on fresh, small loaves of country bread. Slivers of pale cheese yellowed with marigold petals stand on a plate around a few wafers of cracker. Slices of poached apple marinated in a brown butter sauce, a heady pleasure spiked using different spices. They smell fine, and the roast beckons with an honest goodness.

There is no truth so obvious as the man unable to lift himself from the chair with ease, his leg stiff and probably bandaged under his trousers. He doesn't bend his knee, hands stiff on the arms of the chair. Trying to hoist himself up would take a great effort, elbows stiff as it goes. "All fine ideas, but what do you do when the Invaders appear in the morning with an unfriendly edict. They tell you that you and all of your residents will be subjected to a terminal quarantine. There will be no negotiation, no discussion at all. You send out three or four emissaries, and the last comes back awash in smoke being told he was told the next man trying to cross the ramparts would die. For the good of many, presumably. You can't conduct much of a conversation under those circumstances. This morning we were holding our own in a forest with no front nearby and now, we are sentenced and judged for crimes we don't quite know. The /regrets/ and /sorrow/ they feel are about as palatable as ashes in that grate." He gestures to the hearth, pinning Sam with those pale blue eyes. "I can connect them. They reside in the church for their own safety. We have no heavy equipment. Our fighting men were transported to fight in some god-forsaken country. Poland? Byelorussia? Far away. Our women are admirable but soldiering is a young man's game and we have few left. Those we have no are left trying to muster resistance from bitter bonds. I have no illusions they will make it to morning if they sack and burn the village. We can't flee to the forest. The phone lines have been down for months. This is a tomb, young man, pity that you chose this direction instead of Finisterre or the sea. Even with the u-boats out there, you might have found a chance."

He smiles bitterly and reaches for his glass, considering it. "Catacombs. Digging. Where would you dig to, so that the Invaders will not find them? I'm told the woman moves faster than the eye can see."

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw. "Look, the only special knowledge I've got to offer about your situation is this: I was chasing a guy whole stole the head of an ancient spear. I'm trying to get it back, because it's an artifact of some kind of mystical power. My chase brought me to your city, which is under siege by people who should want to liberate it. Are these things connected? I think they must be, and I don't hear any competing theories. Maybe solving one, we'll solve the other."

He tilts his head back and exhales, continuing, "Now, I'm still working on /how/ to solve one. I'm here to ask if you know this guy, Hans Schneider, that I'm looking for -- if you've seen his mystical, ancient lance. Maybe if I take it away, the Invaders leave you alone. If that's not happening, maybe I find a way to talk to the Invaders and see what they want. I have to get more information so I can figure out what to do next. But since I'm the only one who seems eager to try anything about /either/ of these problems, maybe you can do your town and me a favor, and take a break from just moaning from behind your dinner table about how nothing will ever work and we should all just give up and go to worm food."

Jane Foster has posed:
"City?" Percival barks a laugh, though it comes out as a bit choked really. He tries. It may be hard to summon laughter in the spectre of certain death. "Six hundred in good times, four hundred in lean. Losing children to Rennes and the bigger cities, and the war in my youth didn't offer great favours either." He sips the drink and sets the glass aside, feeling the burn of cheap liquor flowing down his throat. "Too early to mourn, too late to act. Village, for Rochefort-en-Terre has nothing to set it apart from esteemed towns in the Republic."

An accepted fate; a lord of an inconsequential place long after the nation ceased to have titles. Moribund aristocrats aside, he gestures. "Sit. Eat. You will do nothing on an empty belly and this much I can give."

There are at least six fine chairs around the table, all of them placed such to make it easy to watch him. He listens for the shuddering of the latest fire-trail left by the Human Torch. "I question what use a lance is against a machine gun, let alone a trail of fire behind a man." He breaks the bread in his crabbed fingers, working it into smaller pieces, a gesture clearly unfamiliar to him considering he probably uses knive all the time. "Worm-food is quite the understatement, American, but suppose we take your route. All the Germans left to us hide in the church, like the rest. I don't know anyone by that name, but we have a Hans or two no doubt. Fritz, as well. Suppose you get this mystical, ancient spear. What are you doing with it?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam suppresses the urge to say something snippy about cities, towns, and villages. He grew up in Harlem: anything smaller than Atlanta sort of blurs together in his frame of reference. Usually better to err on the side of flattery. But explaining why a black New Yorker would be in a Nazi uniform in France in the 40s is really beyond the time he's willing to allot, here.

He takes a seat, mainly to be polite, but doesn't eat anything just yet. "This Torch isn't really a man," he says, making gestures toward a conversational tone: ones foiled by the tension in his shoulders and voice. "He's a machine. Practicalities of taking him out aside, it's not a great place to start if I do end up trying to have a conversation with his group." That doesn't mean Sam hasn't considered ways to fight the Torch. He'd have to have been pretty stupid to consider running here in the open without some sort of planning along those lines.

"Anyway, I'm not looking to use the Lance as a weapon. I'm not looking to use it at all," he continues. "I'm here to take it away from someone who stole it, who intends to do harm with it... who enjoyed murdering multiple women along the way. If I can save the people of your village while I'm at it, so much the better. They deserve more than this."

Jane Foster has posed:
Percival keeps tearing the bread into pieces until quite satisfied they would feed the birds. He doesn't eat any himself. Guest right is a strange thing. "A machine? That goes a long way to explain it. Though the man with wings on his feet certainly is no machine, and neither's the girl moving faster than any plane," he observes. "Six people able to fight whole units on their own leaves me with few choices to move. We offered our surrender and it wasn't taken."

Which probably speaks volumes to a terrible choice. "Rochefort acts as the fatted calf for an unknown altar. In all practicality, though, you intend to take this lance when you find it and trot away. What then? Mount it over the mantle? Wall it up in a vault? Forgive me but the notions of a young man's game are well beyond me. I like to be precise."

He winces as his knee bends a little and he tries to negotiate around to stand, a painstakingly slow and awkward process. The limb's damaged clearly, and he limps with a pronounced drag of his foot over to one of the nearly vacant shelves. "I wonder how you intend to keep it from the squads out there so eager to loot these fine old estates and abandoned farms for every speck and seed they can find."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"If it comes right down to it, just make fun of the Dodgers. You'll do more damage to their leader than you know," Sam offers, his intended wry humor leaning a bit more toward the sardonic, under the circumstances. "As for the Lance, I can honestly say I don't have any ambitions for it. When I get it back, I get to go back to where I belong, and it can go back to where it belongs, and that's plenty enough for me. It might end up in a museum or in a vault; that's really up to my employers. A bunch of mystical power, frankly, would just complicate my life at this point."

He thinks for a moment, then, perhaps inspired by their surroundings, offers this: "Think of me like a knight on a quest. I'm going to get what I was sent for and bring it back to my... king, or lady love, or whatever. I trust that they'll do what's right with it, once I bring it back, because I trust their character. I don't want it for my own sake." He gives a half-smile, then, and continues, "Along the way, I meet people in need, and like in any good legend, I'll do what I can to help them. Easy enough?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"I don't pretend to know what a 'Dodger' is." Percival wouldn't, no doubt, in his little forested hamlet with his fine manners and his purpose. He gestures. "You should eat or else I will think myself incapable of rousing even a tired man in a strange uniform to feast. You have a hungry look about you." The slow, uneasy shuffle is one that requires fastidious care to not fall, but he's still possessed by the difficulties all the same. His hand catches the back of the chair before he falls, easing himself into a seat. "Your employers. This bodes differently; what you would do with it may not be what they would do with it. Are you certain handing it over will prove as well-intended or..." A pause.

He has to think about how to say this.

"As innocent, for how you present it is a rather fine and generous spirit. Though not everyone shares that." Outside the windows shudder and something in the middle-distance cracks. "Not everyone wants something for their own purposes. A good man can be convinced to act on terrible ends. How else do you have the Hawaiian Islands but for a man following the obligations of his duty and the edict of the Emperor?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Mais c'est parfait. Telling him you've never heard of them would hurt most of all," Sam says, this time maybe landing a little closer to his intended lightness of humor. His attempt at French probably helped. He does, at least, oblige the man by stacking slices of cheese and apple on a cracker and biting into it. He eats and thinks in silence for a few seconds before providing an answer to the more pertinent question.

"I am absolutely certain that it will be better off in their hands than the ones that currently hold it," he says, confidently. "I wasn't exaggerating when I called him a murderer. I'm a medic, and I've served in war, and I still think that what he did to his victims was horrible." He lets that sink in for a second before he continues, "I have no doubt what he wants with the spear: he thinks it can win this war for Hitler, and cleanse the Earth of the 'unworthy'. I don't know if he's right about that, and I don't want to find out. Whatever its real powers, they shouldn't serve that goal."

He sits back, thoughtful again, as another attack rattles the countryside, then adds, "Although I take the sense of your warning. I believe the people I'm bringing it back to want what's best, but maybe my goal in a broader sense is to keep it away from people who would use it to harm others."

Jane Foster has posed:
Humour isn't lost on the old lord, but he spears a poached bit of fish and cuts into the pink flesh. It's still tolerable, and he brings it to his mouth after Sam eats. There should be a minute or two of listening to the wail of the air, and then a crack when the sound barrier falls.

Or maybe the wall fells.

"The war won by some means, even a totem, is unthinkable. We have already seen too much suffering." Conviction spares Percival force, but he rubs his thigh under the table when hopefully no one looks. "A man has a burden on his shoulders. Blindly following the edicts of his vows is worse, in some ways, than not acting at all. Can you imagine those outside? Are they acting out of a common good or an order? What good is the murder of harmless civilians? I am no threat to them. Even the soldiers here, Allied and German both, are neutered. They have no arms or voice, and in another time, they would be farmers, merchants, bureaucrats living quiet lives in their towns, worrying about their families. I don't pretend to know where you come from, whether city or countryside, but this much proves near. Pull off the uniform and we bleed and bruise the same beneath."

He sets his fork down. "What's best in the eyes of power is another matter. Power tempts often enough and the strength of convictions erodes away like a cliff under the sea with enough persistence and force. What then? Should you see a man like the Fuhrer eager to have this thing of yours, what stops one of your leaders? De Gaulle, Churchill, Eisenhower, these men are still men. For all their bravery they aren't any different. A good man can lose much subjected to the freedom to do as he pleases. I've no doubt we will see our friends in Eastern Europe showing their colours soon enough, for all they're sparing us the juggernaut of Panzers."

Sam Wilson has posed:
The food is good, even under these circumstances, but Sam's appetite is limited. He can't help but think of the children back in the catacomb, scuffling over wilted beans. "You don't have to tell me about the dangers of power, when it's abused," he says diffidently. "But I do know people that can be trusted with it. Maybe not as many as we'd like to hope, and maybe not among those who want to be powerful, but enough who chance into it. Maybe I'll give the spear to one of them. Maybe I'll pretend it was lost. I certainly can't leave it here, with him."

He pauses, then, and dabs at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. After a long, slightly awkward pause, he speaks again. "So... your leg. Is that a recent wound? I do know battlefield medicine. I might be able to help, if you want me to take a look. There's also a nurse in the town, Emmaline Brown, who might know more than I do."

Jane Foster has posed:
"On the contrary, monsieur, I do. We swore never to let the world slide back into this, and we had the advantages of the League, wealth, and hindsight of a terrible battle scarring the lands here to Schleswig. Yet here we are, violence begetting violence. It consumes the world." Percival gloomily stares back into the fireplace, as though flames might spring from the cold ashes and consumed log any time now. "Even those without power find themselves free to make terrible choices of life and death. Who are we to hold that might? The weapons grow terrible and reap better than any knight or charioteer of the past could. With a proper rifle, even a country boy can be the equal of Saladin."

Sam gives him grounds to pause. He looks hard at the man, then down to his leg. "An old wound. Mademoiselle Brown, to her credit, tries to ease the pains but it will never be healed properly." A nod to the mantle.

The Lance is mounted there sideways. A long crack runs through the golden wrappings with the invocation of Saint Maurice on them. "I am too stained by sin to recover fully, and it bears the same frailties of mortality. Or a world diminished since we let an institution of good men following just laws, or a desperate governor seeking to rid himself of a problem at the poisonous advice of a geriatic institution fearful of losing power. However you choose to read it. The Sanhedrin haven't come out the better in history through that faulty tale with poisoned words put in scholars' mouths, but that could consume us for a night."

He sighs softly. "You can look at the injury and see what you can do, but it's more likely palliative than not. Battlefield medicine was little good then. I've been suffering the death of hope since '16. It brought this great sorrow. I advise you to take your rest after a long journey to be here. They aren't likely to attack by night. By their words, matters will not conclude until dawn." As with the land, so the lord. For lords are their land.

"Be assured I can offer you a few hours. Not so much more, but I commit myself to give all of them sleep tonight."

Sam Wilson has posed:
The reflection on the inescapable deaths from human conflict is depressing, alright, especially to a veteran of a war of choice that won't start for nearly sixty years. Percival hasn't even seen nukes, yet. Sam takes a moment to reflect that the rest of the twentieth is not going to do any favors to this man's mood, wound or not. At least he's getting what help he can for it.

Then, of course, Lord Rochefort is giving him his own reason to pause, as his eyes alight on the mantel. "You... was that here the whole time?" This isn't just a question about his own apparent lack of perception, either: he continues, insistently, "How long have you had it, exactly? No one brought it here?"

Something new has occurred to him. He thought he ended up here by following Schneider through some kind of mystical portal, or on a vision quest. There's a chance, he is suddenly realizing, that he only followed Schneider to the 40s -- that the Lance itself might have deposited him in France, to retrieve it before Schneider could get it, before it could end up in the Cloisters, or even the hands of the Austrians. God, as if all this mystic business didn't make his head hurt enough, they had to add time travel to the mix.

He stands, steps hesitantly toward the grate. "Who's attacking?" he asks. "The Invaders? The Nazis? Someone else?" In any case, rest beforehand doesn't sound like a bad idea, by any stretch.

Jane Foster has posed:
"I believe they call themselves the Invaders. Certainly the men think so. We have no Nazis in the immediate unit and we took in some of the injured men. Those already stationed here I would not turn out to certain death," says Percival, his tone grim and unyielding. "It would be the most unchristian of acts, and worse than that, they are young men. Some have been poorly behaved, but not enough to force them to a painful end."

He doesn't answer the question of the lance's provenance but it is the one and the same, beautifully rendered in aged metal, ending in that brutal point stained just slightly by a touch. Mystic business for a mundane man, separate from Wewelsburg, Austria, a battle before Sam's time. The tired Frenchman takes another bite of the bread. "Even with that, there would be no defeating them outright. What strength I have is an at an ebb. A ruined village, an empty cellar, and the wasting of hope leaves little behind. But what I have offers them respite. If they mean to dig their way out or you simply must take flight, let it be in the morning light. This night..."

He shakes his head. "Surrounded by fraught and troubled men, it's unwise to act rashly."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"So, what I'm hearing is that this was a hell of a day to leave my wings behind," Sam says, a touch of gallows humor coming to shed a bit of light -- if dim and grimy -- in this dark hour. "I'll do what I can to stop them. And to understand why they're doing this at all."

His eyes rove over the Lance, then he gingerly lifts it off its mount and hefts it for a second, half expecting to disappear in a shower of mystical glitter. When it doesn't happen, he sets it back down where he got it. Seems whatever brought him here intends for him to deal with tomorrow morning's attack before letting him off the hook. In all honesty, he wouldn't feel right leaving these people in this situation, anyway.

That settled, he nods decisively. "Tomorrow morning, then. You're right... I should get some rest. In the meantime..." He glances down at his outfit, scuffed, scorched, and frayed by the day's combat -- not to mention the whole swastika thing. "I don't suppose you have a change of clothes?"