3791/Black Sun: The Fisher King II

Black Sun: The Fisher King II
Date of Scene:	13 October 2020
Location:	Rochefort-en-Terre, Morbihan, Brittany
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Sam Wilson
Tinyplot:	Black Sun

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Jane Foster has posed:
https://heroesassemble.mushhaven.com/index.php?title=2997/Black_Sun:_The_Fisher_King

Stage II: A continuation.

Year: Unknown. Likely 1944.

Place: The besieged village of Rochefort-en-Terre, Bretagne.

Visuals: https://www.castles.nl/rochefort-terre-castle

Summary of an epic:
The Invaders have come to level Rochefort-en-Terre. What few soldiers of both sides remain huddle in the church basement, tending to frightened children and civilians caught in the pincers of Namor the Sub-Mariner, the Human Torch, Captain America, Spitfire. A litany of other Allied heroes descending on occupied France from the woods cut off all retreat and leave hope guttered in the descending night.

Sam Wilson seeks his sleep in the chateau of Percival Pellaud, Lord of Rochefort, even though such titles turned to dust in the wake of the French Revolution. Obligation by nobility to the land and people have not. Remnants of a handsome meal lie between them, a gulf of time and philosophy floundering in the darkened hall. Cold ashes in the grate, broken bread on the plate. Above the hearth is the Lance, cracked golden sheath around the pointed blade, and now that precious, ancient relic of Antiquity touched by humanity and left alone. Instead, he seeks his slumber.

Jane Foster has posed:
The choices for his chambers.

The lord's own room, comfortable and certainly not to be used by an older man holding grim vigil. Esteemed comfort, not the most secure.

The servant's quarters near the kitchens, certainly a secure place but the least accommodating for a man of Sam's size. Still, a twin bed is better than the floor or a stye.

The tower room, commanding at least a view of the wall in a converted guest room that remains mostly intact. It offers vantage of the sky if need be, a fast escape by wiggling out a window.

Sam Wilson has posed:
This, at least, is a fairly easy choice for Sam. He's no stranger to discomfort, and perfectly willing to forgo his own security for the right reasons, so he readily opts for the vantage point offered by the tower room. Those old recon instincts die hard, it turns out. He excuses himself in brief but polite terms and then takes the indicated stairs.

Once situated, he frees himself of the unfortunate uniform his clothing transmogrified into. Still, before he can settle in for bed, he lingers restlessly at the window, seeing what he can of the terrain, the city's layout, and the Invaders who are laying siege to the village. It's all he can really do to prepare, for now.

Jane Foster has posed:
The tower room doesn't offer quite as much as some, but the bed promises to be comfortable and made up with sheets requiring only a bit of beating with a stick to remove the dust. Heavier curtains intended to blot out light from any passing airplanes or Human Torches keep the cracked windows shut. Damage here is apparent too, the shoring up of masonry telling. At least the roof is intact. Better than the trials encountered in the depths of Wewelsburg. Not that much worse than cheap apartments in New York, slumlords aside.

Fresh clothes are a laugh; the best anyone can fetch up are weathered shirts telling of too little soap and probably last laundered a fortnight ago. But perhaps that's better than wearing the mark of the Afrika Korps. Night comes, darkened, trails of fire and shadows in the night. Bombardment doesn't cease, but it's slower, since the cracked walls and few defenders offer so very little by way of resistance.

Night. To reach night is to sleep, and find an ounce of solitude.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam has stayed in better places, but he's also stayed in much, much worse. At least for now he doesn't seem to be in immediate danger; he can sleep through the noise and the danger if it means he'll be capable in the morning. For his restless last moments of wakefulness, he'll make do with the nondescript undergirding of the uniform; tomorrow when he rises, he'll choose between a borrowed shirt, an undershirt, or simply ridding the uniform of its insignia. That's a problem for tomorrow, though, and in the scheme of things more a point of pride than anything truly crucial.

Jane Foster has posed:
No sleazy roach motel, no tent in the desert with the distant pops of guns going off. The only trouble here might be Sam finding a space between tension and fatigue, but eventually time sinks away. No alarm clock stands on the nightstand and certainly any running water experienced terrible disruption. A pitcher and a bowl will have to do.

A point of pride and a matter of rest, slumber comes. It always will, clinging to the rafters of the mind and submerging the body into weary rest. Exhaustion can overcome the loudest roars, the sharpest shouts from ramparts as someone peeks up, only to end it then and there. Blood as the sacrifice, washing clean to dreams. Night falls.

                                    * * *                                    

Dawn hasn't broken yet, but the faint traces of a lurid bruise illuminate the cracks around the window. Outside, a curiously warbling noise speaks to strain of stone and air alike.

Sam Wilson has posed:
It's been a survival skill over parts of Sam's life to be able to go from dead asleep to fully awake in moments. When he finds his consciousness returning, that strange sound has him up out of bed quickly, rolling out from under the blankets and then padding silently to the side of the window to lean his bare back against the wall. He reaches out to move the heavy curtain aside without framing his face in the window, just to see if the movement draws any aggressive response, then cautiously sneaks a glance to see if he can identify the source of the noise and the tension he can already feel all around him.

Jane Foster has posed:
Curtains pulled back show the dusky pooled greyness, the shattered buildings hunkered low as if they, too, fear the dangers from the skies. Broken bricks litter the grounds, the prowling of a starving dog through the chateau's yard a futile search for food. The hound raises its head and flees, tail between its legs, as the man glances out. Too unlikely it spotted Sam, but there it goes, hastening off into the shadows.

Possibly because a gentleman in a rather lovely black wool coat stands barefoot in the grass, smoking. The cigarette hangs at his lips, the faint scent of tobacco absent, replaced by something more like frankincense or the spices burned in sacred places to propitiate the Lord and His saints. Handsome in profile, black haired and sharp featured, he can't be much under forty and past thirty, living in the eternal summer of a man's prime that can last decades.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam tugs the curtain shut again, wearing a grim expression. Under these circumstances, a casual visitor couldn't be more ominous. He dresses quickly, replacing the uniform shirt with a borrowed one from the household, yellowed white, and forgoing the cap. Otherwise it's the same as what he was wearing yesterday.

He makes sure to bring along the antique equivalents of his Falcon kit -- at least, the parts he has left. Firearms, a portable radio, the dynamo and lightning gauntlet. Hard to guess what he'll actually need out there.

It's only a couple of minutes before he's downstairs, and making one last stop before heading outside to meet the stranger: the mantel, where he'll check to see that the Lance is where it belongs. If it is... he'll take it with him. At least for now. It doesn't really feel like stealing, so much as visiting the town armory before going to battle to defend it.

Jane Foster has posed:
Under the circumstances, what visitor stands about in the hours before dawn? It's not one of the Invaders and the lack of insignia gives little tilt to any philosophical venture. Might be the point. The gentleman presses a cigarette to his lips and inhales through the filter, the cherry burning hot and orange as a satsuma at the end. Smoke dragged in seeps down into the cavern of his chest, and he throws his shoulders back a bit, then his head, the better to see the hazy sky. Clouds pour around in uncertain circles, clotting out the stars. By then the miasma escapes through his guest's nostrils.

Where walks Sam into the hall, he can find the remnants of the meal. The Lance itself, too, though plucking up the sacred artifact is pitifully easy. It weighs less than a gun, balanced better in a way, though the craftsmanship is infinitely simpler. Marching out of the chateau brings him into the dew-licked grass, what manages to straggle through in the shelter of the house. Such an oddity to be there when all else is pelted to death, but it speaks to Rochefort's unimpressive state, its minor significance.

Sam Wilson has posed:
The lance is easily stowed once retrieved, sheathed like a knife at his side. Historically, not the safest place for it, but that's not what's on his mind at the moment: its significance for him is more the sense of purpose it gives his isolation in these strange surroundings.

A moment later, he makes his way to the door and emerges, the khaki, leather, and partly open linen shirt making him look for all the world like some sort of desert adventurer just returned from raiding Egyptian tombs in the pulp stories -- as if his weapons and bizarre equipment wouldn't give that impression already.

"Hell of a morning for a stroll," he greets the newcomer without preamble, giving him a level look. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Most men don't ride to battle with a golden sheaf wrapped around a rather unimpressive blade-point longer than their hand. Then again, they wield different weapons in this war; guns, tanks, the salvos of bullets shot from overhead and the screaming V bombs that shatter cities.

Cigarette still between his lips, the visitor turns his head. A slight turn of a smile lifts on seeing Sam. "That how you like greetings? Mighty peculiar." Englishman, by the tone, just as Rochefort sounds French as French can be. A blink and he waves a bit of the smoke around, pinching the well-wrapped cancer stick in his fingers. No stains under them are visible, and the smart shirt and slacks go at odds with the bare feet, really. "We say jolly fine morning now and then. Care for a light?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam swipes along his jawline with the fingers of one hand, quirks his eyebrows up into a little peak, and answers, "It's not a jolly fine morning, though. It's chilly, and people have been firebombing us all night." His tone gives these points equal weight as he lines them up for the stranger's inspection. Making light of mortal peril is one way to cope with it.

"I can lie to you, if you prefer?" he offers, stepping out of the house. He waves off the offer of a light, offering a simple "I'll pass," in response. He's enough of an oddball here without making a point of the fact that he doesn't smoke. Maybe the stranger will assume he's already had one, or something. Let him wonder.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Lie to me?" Scrunched brows descend lower, but the grin breaks free in a haze of smoke. None to blow out, the barefooted guest can afford that. "Why, that's the finest offer anyone has made in an age. Pass though, if you don't mind. You seem the more genuine sort of chap." A tap of his finger sends a cascade of embers flitting to the ground and they die out in their short-lived existence, cooling to black. "Beg to differ, the air is still and the chill refreshing. Especially after a spot of firebombing. You've gotten off better than some of the German towns further east, though."

He examines the cigarette and takes another pull, a factor of smooth habit applied just like a dancer practicing her positions or the violinist setting his bow to the strings and measuring angles mentally before beginning. "Night isn't quite done yet. You seem to be in quite the pickle." A low chuckle goes raspy with ash. "Strange bloke to be here. You plan on waving that about or saving the world one jab at a time?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I try to keep it real," Sam affirms wryly. "Glad you're enjoying the morning, at least. I haven't had my coffee yet, so I might be biased." He settles back against the wall beside the door. He's not going to invite the man into a house that isn't his, but neither is he going to actively bar the way. For all he knows, this is Rochefort's errant English nephew. He'll just try to do the best he can to play the encounter by ear.

"A 'pickle' is an understatement. SNAFU, FUBAR... we have acronyms for this kind of situation," he says. "I'm not local, but I'd like to see about setting some things right before I leave. Hopefully without hurting anybody, but realistically..."

He trails off and shrugs. "It's a war." He lets that hang for a second before adding, glancing down at the spear as though he had forgotten it, "I'm certainly not going to stab anybody with this antique. Although I guess they'd be in pretty impressive company if I did."

Jane Foster has posed:
"I do hate to be the bearer of bad news," he says with a sigh articulated with a brevity suggesting impending doom, "but they've not had coffee here for a desperately long time. Nearly as bad over the channel. Chicory root was the thing but those stocks ran out too. Most of them would sell their firstborn, pardon the crudeness, for a good cuppa. Rebrewing leaves thrice a day leaves barely a taste of proper tea." Staring down the arch slope of his nose, vestiges of Cecil Rhodes and the disdain for wartime rationing is terribly clear.

"Rightly so, it is a war." He turns fully to face Sam, but hasn't the rush to close the distance. Over his shoulder, clouds blot the forest, treetops imposed on a dull, dark sky bloodied in a firelight glow. No flames ravage the woods, merely an image of the sky. "A meaningless battle in an unending parade of battles, all for what?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"You'd know better than I would," Sam answers that final question first. "Like I said, I'm new here. I have no idea why the Invaders would lay siege to a single township in the French countryside. From everything I know, it doesn't make sense. But in a broader sense..."

He squints up into the lightening sky. "Meaningless is not the word I would use. There are people stuck in camps who are going to find some of these battles pretty meaningful. People resisting across France and bunkered down in London who care a lot about how some of these fights go. Certain American servicemen who might just head back to the States with a taste for European liberties and end up fighting to secure them back home, too."

He runs one hand along his jaw again. "A war can mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people. But I don't think this one means nothing. Not by a long shot."

Jane Foster has posed:
A shrug. "It builds on the last batch of nations jangling swords in the Pacific, the squabbles in the Horn of Africa. Before that the machines grinding bodies into the soil. Where does it end? Oh," says the Brit, "you have the idealism of a Yank, through and through. Wearing it like a banner, chap, and the servicemen around you might hold onto that tarnished bit of hope a little longer. But in the end, what does any of this gain? Slaughter. Meaningless slaughter. War means something in the moment and fades, and the lessons fail again."

He sets the cigarette in his mouth, the smoke rising. "We put seeds in the ground to reap the plants that grow instead of leaving them to thrive. You'll pardon me if I might happen to feel more unnerved you've got an antique and some odd contraptions round you. Bunkers and warplanes and battleships. That's one legacy to have. What do you mean to make of it all? When you go home?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I'm not pollyanna about the glory of war as a general rule," Sam assures the stranger with a dry smile. He knows from personal experience what a meaningless war looks like, and beating down Nazism ain't it. "And sure, some of this might just be the old colonial empires thrashing around on their deathbeds. But yeah, you got me: I think some good will come of this fight, if the right people win. Check back with me in a few decades and we'll compare notes."

Turning to another topic, he lifts the bolt gauntlet and smirks, flexing his hand in it. "Yeah, this stuff is pretty weird, I admit. But you just showed up in the yard right after a superhero bombing run, with no shoes. I can be unnerved, too." He tilts his head back and leans it against the stonework. He doesn't /look/ unnerved. He pats the spearhead at his side. "I plan to take this away from here and keep it safe from Hitler and his obnoxious goons for all time. If it's important -- if it has power -- there aren't many people in history it would be worse for that power to serve than the small-minded genocidal dictator du jour." He tips his head forward again. "Right?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Hold up your innocence of a few decades to millennia of human civilisation and the wreckage of empires risen and fallen, the score isn't much in your favour. Why should you be any different than those who came before you? What makes you cling to the noble ideals that belong in books of poetry?" He shakes his head, black hair swept across his brow. Pinching out the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger, he drops the stub to the ground and steps on it bare-footed for good measure. "Puzzling to think how sterling your score on that remains when the very proof of failure lies outside these walls. Good men and women, they say. /Brave/. Virtuous. Fighting the good fight. Allied heroes, worthy of every charm and gewgaw the King can hurl at them, based on ministerial recommendations, and they're about to choke the lives of six hundred souls, give or take."

He holds up a hand, warding off that bolt gauntlet just in case. More a dismissive gesture. "For they say it's a risk to be taken, so they will act on orders. Necessary or unfortunate, but here they are. Burning out civilians, shooting at schoolboys wearing their dead brothers' helmets. Tell me, how are these 'heroes' worthy of the name? You're quite mistaken, I should say, I've been here all along. Rarely is the company worth coming out for. Tonight? I heard about you. Takes something special to rouse our good Nurse Brown. You came this far, I had rather hoped to meet you myself."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Why should I be different than the people who came before me?" Sam gives the man a look of disbelief. "You should pay more attention to your own cynical speeches, because you just answered your own question pretty thoroughly. Most of the people who came before me, historically speaking, were /assholes/. Slavers, conquerors, bigots and wife-beaters. Different than them is the least I can do."

He tips himself away from the wall and gives another eloquent shrug. (It's all those wing-flapping muscles.) "You can call it noble and poetic if you want; I call it doing the bare minimum." He takes a breath, letting the silence be for a moment. "As for the Invaders, I agree something is screwy with how they're acting. I'd like to set that straight before I leave. Steve Rogers wouldn't burn out a town just because someone ordered him to. Even a Steve Rogers who has a lot of growing up still to do."

There's a hitch of concern there that he won't give voice to, so Sam instead turns to the matter of his guest and Emmaline. He ducks his head and smiles. "'Roused' her, huh? That's one way to describe it. Part of the time I thought she wanted to slap me, and some of the rest I was wondering if she was just going to let the Torch take care of it."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Steve Rogers is here. He will do this, and as a point of fact, is doing it." The Brit doesn't smile, but gestures vaguely beyond the wall enfolding the remains of the village. An outpost of humanity in a sea of trees. "I'm not the kind to tell you what to do, not at all. But pony up and ask, you're just as likely to end up flung inside as shot. From your perspective, soldier, he has done it and swallowed whatever regrets he had. Necessary orders from a higher command, something about genocidal dictators. Or rather a small price to pay to keep the war from steering in Germany's favour." A slight shrug becomes a less elegant motion, one defined by a stretch of his arms to his sides.

"Emmaline tolerates no fools and here you are, far away from her sick room. What does that make you? Lucky or worse?" He doesn't smile too wide, but it's a slightest show of teeth all the same. "What happens when you leave? What happens if you walk away and remake the world in whatever image you hold now? War leaves its scars. Where are yours?"

Sam Wilson has posed:
"From my perspective?" Sam echoes, fixing on that phrase with a suddenly penetrating expression. "I don't recall telling you or anyone else here about my perspective, other than the fact that I'm from out of town." He raises an eyebrow. "But you know more than you're letting on. Probably Emmaline and Rochefort, too. This is some kind of a mythical thing, isn't it? Like a test?"

He crosses his arms, lip twisting. "I was expecting to have to fight Schneider, but instead, I'm having my heart weighed against a feather." He gestures at the wall -- the same general area the stranger indicated. "Did this even really happen? Or is it something Schneider caused when he came back here and tried to redirect history? Or is it just something made up to make me lose faith in my heroes?"

He shakes his head. "Because since everybody seems to forget, I was jumping out of airplanes strapped to a big metal rocket kite years before I met Captain America. /That/ takes faith. And you want scars? The only reason Steve had a position to apply for is that I'd already lost my wingman. I'm lucky and worse all at once."

He reaches down and draws out the Lance, looking it over. "The difference between me and Schneider and whoever else is that I don't think it's my job to wave a magic wand and remake the world. It's my job to save little pieces of it a day at a time. Today, this is the piece."

He slips the Lance away again. "So, since you're such a perceptive guy, how about we start there." He extends a hand. "I'm Sam Wilson. What's your name? And do you know how I can save this town and get back to where I belong?"