Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime


Marcel's thoughts are troubled as he follows Müller, a dozen steps behind the blond German. Normand's sullen expression during the march to the village showed he was still dwelling on the past, despite his joke when exiting the truck.

Seeing Sgt. Kat's section move ahead into the village, Marcel's eyes sweep across the terrain, hoping to spot trouble before it starts. Pyotr's got sharp eyes, he thinks, but maybe I can get a better angle on things from here.

ooc: I doubt it. Watch result was a 7.

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The Shaman

First Post
As Sgt. Szabo’s squad takes up a flanking position, the rest of the platoon follows the trail taken by the two Arab boys into the village.

Mudbrick mechtas with white-washed walls perch along a rocky shelf ringing the fields and date palms in the oued. Kat’s section follows Lt. Ramadier along a path worn into the stony hillside that skirts the edge of the oued, leading to the east side of the douar.

The voices of the two boys running along the trail carry back to Raffaele as he studies the scene – Les bérets vert! Les bérets vert! they call excitedly in thickly-accented French, and the legionnaires are greeted by the stares of scores of Arabs.

The villagers peer from doorways and windows or stand still as statues on the hillside as the Legion paras approach. Passing a clump of date palms, the legionnaires see a half-dozen Arab men digging a long, narrow trench stretching along the edge of the oued while another group lays the foundation for a wall – lengths of iron pipe and stacks of mud bricks stand ready.

The two boys race down the slope to where the men are working on the wall and the trench – the boys call and point at the paras as the Arabs look up from their shovels and picks. A figure seated on one of the piles of bricks, another Arab, dressed in khaki with crimson shoulder boards and bonnet de police cap, stands and raises a rifle above his head, waving it slowly from side to side as the legionnaires draw closer, then walks carefully up the slope to the trail.

“Benoit, notify Le Capitaine that we’ve reached the village,” Lt. Ramadier says to his radio – Benoit Robbrecht, standing at the sous-lieutenant’s hip, reaches for the handset of the Motorola hanging at this shoulder.

The Arab in khakis approaches, a smallish man with a thick mustache. He salutes Lt. Ramadier. Moghazni Zabana,” he says, “SAS.” The Arab militiaman’s eyes play over the legionnaires, his face impassive.

“We’re here for Lt. Ferrand,” Lt. Ramadier replies, looking around the village. The tall, athletic officer towers over the Arab.

The moghazni, Zabana, nods, and turns to the two boys who’ve inched up the hill to get a closer look at les bérets vert. <اللغة العربية, العربية>
Go get the officer,
</اللغة العربية, العربية>, he says, and the boys race up the path once again.

Pyotr, Normand, Raffaele, and the rest of Kat’s section listen to the exchange and look around warily at the expressionless faces of the villagers. A few whisper comments to one another, too low for the legionnaires to hear – others duck quickly out of sight as the paras pause at the douar’s edge. Marcel feels a tap on his arm – Sgt. Müller motions for the medic to follow as the German makes his way to the platoon leader’s side.

Lt. Ramadier turns to Kat. Sergent, I want a house-by-house search for weapons,” the young officer officer orders. Sergent Altmeier’s section will secure the villagers.”

Oui, mon lieutenant,” Sgt. Katsourianis replies. He looks at the section. “David, Burhan, Mador, Barzini will make entry– the rest of us secure the exterior.” He motions toward a two-story mechta on the edge of the hill above the trail.

It’s clear that the villagers built the brick mechtas for defense – the slope is steep and the approach exposed. Eyes probe the shadowy windows of the house – from an upper window a young boy looks out, then disappears as the paras advance on the door. The legionnaires fan out, the choc element – David Nedjar and Normand on one side, Burhan Pamuk and Raffaele on the other – taking up position on either side of the entrance, the heavy wooden door standing open, the interior in darkness. From where he waits with the platoon sergeant, Marcel watches as the second section moves up the path, weapons pointed at the Arabs working on the wall.

“Ready?” Nedjar asks as the rest of the section moves to cover the corners and windows of the building. Before he can give the order to enter, however, a voice calls out, “Legionnaires, wait!”

Another khaki-clad figure, this one with arms and legs covered in mud, strides down the piste. He points to the legionnaires poised at the door, and repeats, “Wait!”

The blue dot on the map is Kat’s section, including Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele. The red dot is the platoon command and Marcel. The green dot is where the Arabs are working. The yellow dot is the person who called out, “Wait!” The grid on the map marks ten-foot-by-ten-foot squares.


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First Post
Normand turns his weapon in the way of the running figure.

"I bet that doorway is booby-trapped. Keep an eye on it guys, I have that idiot in my sights."


Marcel takes a single step forward, raising one hand high above him with the palm out in the universal symbol to stop. His other arm holds his carbine, a finger resting outside the trigger guard after removing the safety. "Stop where you are and identify yourself!" He then repeats the statement in Arabic if the man doesn't reply immediately.


First Post
"M. Nedjar! There was a boy on the second floor looking at us. I'm going to look around the corner to make sure no one's running away or getting ready to attack."

Barzini runs the thirty or forty or so feet to the eastern-most (if the top of the map is North) corner of the two-story building, goes down on his right knee, and kneeling close to the building leans his head and muzzle of the ready-to-fire MAT49 forward, looking to the North and North-west.

The Shaman

First Post
Raffaele whips off around the corner of the mechta as Nedjar hesitates, looking up at the window, then at the open doorway at Normand’s warning. Racing around to the rear of the building he surprises a pair of goats that scamper, bleating as they scramble up the rocky slope. Peeking around the building, Raffaele sees an Arab woman with an armful of laundry, watching the tableau unfolding down slope. She glances up at the sound of the goats and spies Raffaele – with a gasp she drops the clean clothing to the dusty ground, standing stock-still in surprise at the sight of the Legion para.

“Stop where you are and identify yourself!” Marcel calls to the approaching figure. He stops and sees the weapons pointed in his direction by the medic and the grenadier, then glances down at his own mud-caked uniform. Lieutenant Thierry Ferrand,” he replies with a smile, Sections Administratives Specialisées.” The officer rubs a mud-crusted shoulder board, revealing twin gold bars.

A hand grips Marcel’s shoulder firmly. “It’s a little early in the day for shooting officers, doc,” says Sgt. Müller. The sergent-chef continues quietly in German, and Georg von Krenzl, Lt. Ramadier’s runner, chuckles softly.

Kat and Vidal draw close to where Pyotr, Normand, Burhan and David wait at the doorway. “What’s this all about?” the sergent says impatiently.

Lt. Ferrand walks up to Lt. Ramadier and extends a grimy hand. “I received word yesterday to expect paras. Please excuse my appearance.” Marcel gets a closer look at the SAS officer. He stands a full head shorter than Lt. Ramadier, but then many men do. Ferrand’s skin is deeply tanned on his face, arms, and legs where his pant legs and sleeves have been rolled up. The pale blue kepi of the SAS is nowhere to be seen, and the lieutenant’s scalp is burned pink beneath his closely-trimmed brown hair. Ferrand’s face is open and frank, his smile genuine. He looks to be in his early thirties.

“Lt. Ramadier, 1st REP,” replies the platoon commander, saluting. Ramadier glances up at Kat’s section, waiting at the house. “We were preparing to search for weapons, mon lieutenant...”

“The villagers’ weapons were inventoried when we arrived,” Ferrand replies. The smile is still there, but his eyes are hard. “There’s no need to inconvenience them again over a couple of shotguns and an old Lebel that was an antique before the Marne.”

Lt. Ramadier shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Sir,” he replies after an awkward pause, then turns to the German platoon sergeant – Müller nods without a word and whistles to Kat, motioning to the section leader to pull back. At the mechta Kat grimaces. “What the devil?” he says again, looking at the house once more. “Fall back,” the Greek orders impatiently, warily watching the windows and doors.

Mon lieutenant,” Lt. Ramadier resumes, “My CO Capitaine Martini was expecting you to meet us this morning in El-Biya, to provide an intelligence briefing.”

“I won’t be back in El-Biya for at least two more days,” Ferrand replies. “We are covering the village cistern and building a new pen for the goats, as you can see,” he continues, gesturing at the workers and supplies, “and there are inoculations to finish.” The SAS officer is courteous but firm.

Lt. Ramadier stiffens. “Sir, my orders come from Capitaine Martini...” he begins, but Ferrand cuts him short.

“And mine come from Colonel Marchand in Géryville,” Ferrand answers firmly, like a schoolteacher’s remonstrance to an outspoken pupil. “I was informed that the paras would be operating in the area. I received no orders about an intelligence briefing. We have a great deal of work to complete here, sous-lieutenant - ” the emphasis on Ramadier’s junior rank is subtle “ - before I can return to El-Biya.” Ferrand tilts his head slightly. “Unless you care to help us.”

The platoon leader’s face is dark as Pyotr, Normand, Raffaele and the rest of Kat’s section rejoin Marcel and the platoon command. “Help you how?” Ramadier replies with annoyance, abandoning military courtesy.

If Ferrand is offended, he doesn’t show it. “With your legionnaires’ help I believe we can finish the projects this afternoon and return to El-Biya by nightfall. If you leave two sections with me to finish the cistern and the goat pen,” he continues, “you can take the third section on a patrol with Zabana here - ” he nods to the moghazni “ - and he’ll give you a first-hand look at a new route the ALN is using to move men and supplies between sectors.” The SAS lieutenant looks at the platoon leader expectantly.

Lt. Ramadier draws a deep breath and holds it, then exhaling slowly he nods. Oui, mon lieutenant.”

Sgt. Müller steps close to Lt. Ramadier. Mon lieutenant, this officer - ” the word is an epithet coming from the sergent-chef “ - is not in your chain of command. Our operational orders are clear, including conducting searches for weapons and viets.” The German glances at Ferrand, who shows no reaction.

“Our orders were to rendezvous with Lt. Ferrand and return with him to the company bivouac,” Ramadier replies quietly. “I’ll square it with Le Capitaine. You know how he is, Hans,” he adds, almost under his breath.

The platoon sergeant says nothing, his face blank. Oui, mon lieutenant he answers evenly. “Who do you want? Altmeier?” The last is clearly a suggestion, and apparently the young officer is bright enough to recognize it. Lt. Ramadier nods his assent.

It takes a few minutes to sort out the duties. Lt. Ramadier and Sgt. Altmeier’s section join the moghazni, Zabana, to look over a tactical map – the Arab is clearly pleased to be doing something else other than watching the construction of the goat pen. Sgt. Müller remains with the other two sections, amidst much grumbling from the legionnaires.

“What was he thinking, Hans?” Kat asks Müller. The German sous-officier says nothing, just shakes his head as the SAS officer approaches. Lt. Ferrand explains what he wants to Müller: Sgt. Szabo’s men will assist with building the rock-walled goat pen, while Sgt. Katsourianis and his section join Lt. Ferrand to complete an enclosure for the communal cistern. After these projects are completed the legionnaires will lay the pipe from the cistern to the goat enclosure.

Marcel is given a different job. “Our nurse, Sister Courcy, is conducting examinations and vaccinating the children for smallpox. I’m sure your assistance would be appreciated,” Ferrand explains as the legionnaires walk through the village. The eyes of the Arabs village are glued to the paras as they arrive at the cistern.

An Arab boy is enlisted as a guide for Marcel. Before the medic can depart Sgt. Müller pulls him aside and slips his sidearm into Marcel’s hands. “Keep it on you, under your smock,” the sergent-chef says quietly, “and sling your carbine so it can’t be pulled away from you.” When he’s ready, Marcel turns to the wide-eyed boy, who leads him quickly along a stony path to one of the mechtas.

The cistern is built at the mouth of the spring that feeds the village fields. The bottom is carved from the native rock by years of weathering – Lt. Ferrand’s project is to expand the capacity by raising the walls, then covering the whole thing to reduce evaporative loss. A pipe will be extended to the goat pen to keep the animals away from the water source – “Cholera is a scourge in these villages,” Ferrand explains, [colors=sienna]“so protecting the water supply is very important.”[/color] The indifferent expressions worn on the faces of the paras doesn’t deter the enthusiastic officer as he shows the paras what he wants, laying the brick courses to create a low dome over the cistern.

When Ferrand finishes, Kat turns to the section. “Sánchez, take the AA-52 and secure the rest of the section’s weapons. You and Kerenin are on watch.” Ortu’s mouth drops open, but Kat cuts him off. “Not a word. Put your muscles to work instead of your mouth. Barzini and Mador, give Sánchez your satchels.” The section leader unslings his own MAT-49, locks the magazine forward in the safety position, and hands it to Sánchez before removing his jump smock. “Let’s get this done,” he says without enthusiasm.

Marcel...[sblock]The boy leads Marcel to a mechta and points at the doorway, which is blocked by a drapery of some kind, then turns and runs away as if from the Devil himself. A few curious Arab women watch the medic as he stands before the entrance.[/sblock]

Pyotr, Normand, and Raffaele...[sblock]Lt. Ferrand speaks quickly in Arabic to the assembled villagers, and work on the cistern resumes. The Arabs watch the legionnaires carefully, their expressions inscrutable. They say little.

The SAS lieutenant, on the other hand, is voluble. “I enjoy meeting legionnaires,” he says earnestly, standing up to his calves in the warm spring, setting bricks in place. “My uncle was an officer in the Legion during the Twenties, stationed in Syria. Such a rich history.” He wipes his forehead, leaving a trail of dirt. “How do you men find the life of a legionnaire?”[/sblock]


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First Post
Normand starts to talk, stops, then shrugs and starts up again.

"I'm thinking that if I had stayed home and became mayor, I would have had to deal with politics a whole lot less, sir. Might have ended up being shot at a whole lot more, though, so it's a wash."

He then looks up at the lieutenant, and grins broadly.

"Légionnaire's humor, of course. It's really great."

Then, he shuts up and puts his back into the work, making sure he takes on as much of the heavy lifting required as he can.


Marcel apologizes to Ferrand with a smile and a casual salute before stepping back to let the discussion run its course. Sgt. Müller's comment draws a grin that exposes his straight white teeth, even brighter than normal amidst his dusty face.

Once his role is decided, he turns to follow the young boy when Müller stops him. Nodding slowly and listening carefully to his advice, Marcel slings his carbine across his back, securing it tightly, and tucks the automatic pistol into his web belt, sliding it under his jump smock and pulling the cloth back into position to disguise its bulk. Thanking Müller, he leaves his unit.

[sblock]The lad's pace raises Marcel's heart rate as he scrambles down the stony path. He ruffles the kid's scruffy hair as he passes by, rushing off after pointing out the door. What's he scared of? Marcel reflects on his own fear of the hospital as a young child. Poor kids. They suffer, regardless of the side they are on. He can't help but see the vision of the dead children in the basement of the farm. Shaking his head, he snaps back to reality.

"Sister Courcy?" he calls out. "I am Marcel Fortier from the Legion. Lt. Ferrand asked me to help. I have experience with vaccination and medical examination." He steps just outside the curtain, off to the side in case someone exits unexpectedly.[/sblock]

The Shaman

First Post
Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]Ferrand chuckles at Normand. “Politics. Yes, indeed.”. He looks up at the big Frenchman. “I know better than to ask where a legionnaire is from, but your French would sound right at home on the wharves of Marseilles.” The lieutenant accepts a brick, places it in the course. “I lived in Nice for a little while, after I got out of the Army the first time. I heard that accent many times.”

“You’re a rappelé, mon lieutenant?” Nedjar asks.

Ferrand nods. Oui. 1er Régiment de Cuirassiers, stationed in Landau, in 1952. I commanded a tank platoon. I returned to active duty last fall.”[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A woman’s voice floats through the carpet hanging over the doorway. “A moment, s’il vous plait.” After a dozen seconds, the carpet is drawn back and a European face peers out.

Bright blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face framed by shoulder-length chestnut hair gaze at Marcel. She appears to be in her mid-twenties, with good skin starting to show signs of sun exposure – tiny wrinkles materialize at the corners of her eyes while she looks over Marcel, as if inspecting a basket of day-old fish in a market. Her upturned nose wrinkles slightly, adding to the impression. “You’re who, now? she asks, her full lips pursed. “Legion paras?” There’s a hint of reproach in her voice as she says the last.

Sister Courcy listens as Marcel repeats his orders. “I see,” she replies. She steps aside, motioning with her head for the medic to enter the mechta. The room is in deep shadow and anxious seconds pass as Marcel’s eyes adjust to the darkness. Seated on a pile of carpets is a trio of Arab women – all three are veiled, but from the eyes peering intently at Marcel it appears that the three are of different ages. Generations, perhaps?

The nurse is dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of uniform trousers in the leopard-pattern camouflage of the paras, the latter tucked into a pair of heavy lace-up boots. Both the shirt and the trousers hang loosely on the nurse’s slight frame – at first it appears to be simply a poor fit, to be expected in the French Army, but a closer look suggests that they may have fit at one time and she has simply lost weight. She runs a delicate hand over her face. “I need someone who can speak Arabic more than I need a medic,” she says. “I don’t suppose you’re useful in that regard?”[/sblock]


First Post
Pyotr listens as the orders are given out. He smiles inside as he is given watch. "Yes, Sergeant." A part of him feels for his squadmates and he goes about his duties apprehensively, helping Sanchez secure the men's weapons and tripodding them nearby. If the Lieutenant trusts this little sideshow, Pyotr would have to as well.


First Post
"Nice, eh? We'll have to play some pétanque later on then. I've heard niçois are under the false impression they know how to play.


[sblock]Marcel bows slighty, the gesture out of place among the simple surroundings and in a combat uniform. He smiles broadly at Courcy as she inspects him. Well isn't this nice! I travel all the way out here just to find a lovely lady, lonely and obviously in need of attention. Marcel lets her take the lead in the conversation for the time being.

At her inquiry about his language skills, he nods and turns to the gathered women, greeting them in perfect Arabic and asking for the purpose of thier visit.[/sblock]

The Shaman

First Post
Normand, Pyotr, and Raffaele...[sblock]“But of course,” Ferrand says with a hearty laugh. “Every Nicois is a Bourbon pretender, yes? Ah, a jeu de boules sounds very good right now,” he adds, accepting a brick from Asmussen to add to the course.

“I’m not Nicois myself,” he continues, “as I was reminded several times during my tenure at the Lycée Imperial. I’m from Languedoc, in the southwest of France.”

The Arab villagers, dressed in their striped burnouses, seem impervious to the oppressive heat, but several of the legionnaires quickly doff smocks and t-shirts as the sun hangs at zenith. Silvio Ortu’s array of tattoos – the shield of the 1er REP on his right forearm, a risqué belly dancer on his left forearm that swings her hips when he flexes his muscles, a heart with a dagger through it on his right bicep, the Virgin Mary on his left bicep, and a heart with the name “Maria” scrolled through it on his chest – elicit grins from the Arabs. The Sardinian, to the surprise of everyone in the section, actually seems to be enjoying the work, skillfully laying the courses and, perhaps even more shocking, keeping his mouth closed.

Karol Syrovy takes up the slack.

“Altmeier gets the patrol and we get this,” the slender Hungarian says to Sgt. Katsourianis, as he hefts a bag of cement over his shoulder. “The goddamn German mafia looking out for one another again.”

Kat ignores the comment, but Nedjar looks up from the pan where he mixes concrete with a hoe. “Well, we may be the only section in the Legion that doesnt have any Germans in it,” he says with a grin.

“We have Asmussen,” Syrovy replies, tilting his head at the tall blond legionnaire hefting bricks.

“Jens is Danish,” Nedjar answers, “not German.”

Syrovy shrugs. “Same thing.”

Jens Asmussen looks up, blinking back confusion. “Danish,” he says. “I am Danish. I am not German.”

Syrovy laughs sharply. “You’re a legionnaire,” Kat replies.

The conversation carries over to Pyotr, warily watching the villagers who seem to be just as warily watching the legionnaires. Most of the Arabs going about their business seem to be women or children, or the elderly – the adult men all seem to be working on the goat pen, or the cistern. There seem to be fewer males than one would expect, judging from the size of the village and the families present.

Pyotr’s gaze wanders to the high hills surrounding the village. A couple of children with a herd of goats are picking their way along one of the slopes – the others appear to be deserted, silhouetted against the bright blue sky. The Ukrainian’s eyes return to the village in time to see an Arab man duck quickly into a shadowy doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]The Arab women remain silent. “They won’t answer you,” Sister Courcy offers, her tone sanguine. “They’re in purdah, and you are a man who has improperly entered their home.” She wipes a wisp of brown hair out of her eyes. “I’m sure my bare arms offend them, too, but I’m too bloody hot to care.”

“I want to give the daughter a gynecological examination,” she continues, “and I need you to translate my instructions for me. Can you do that without being rude?” She looks about the room, and picks up a small rug. “Turn away,” she instructs. “Face the wall there, and I’m going to put this over you to give her as much privacy as possible. Do you understand?”[/sblock]


First Post
Pyotr stares for a moment, hoping to get another glimpse of the Arab that was attempting to hide. Not seeing him, he quickly motions to Sanchez to get his attention. Pointing his two fingers to his eyes and then in the direction of what he saw, he stands up, checking his submachinegun before starting to head in that direction.


The Amazing and Mighty Marcel:

[sblock] Marcel's grin fades as he sees her intent. "I don't have a problem with the translation, miss. The rug, though..." He shrugs. "Ah well. We do what we must. For medicine, no? Is there anything you need for supplies? I overstocked before leaving base." The grin returns as he puts the unlit cigarette in his had into his shirt pocket and swings the heavy musette bag off his shoulder. "I won't let you sweep my under the carpet forever, though, mademoiselle. When this is over, I think you could use some relaxation. And, of course, my company." [/sblock]

The Shaman

First Post
Normand, Raffaele, and Pyotr...[sblock]Pyotr watches for the Arab to reemerge, but there is no sign of him after he disappears through the doorway. Sánchez nods at Pyotr’s alert, and quietly gets Kat’s attention as Pyotr moves to take up a better position.

I need a rough idea of the route that Pyotr is following. The green dot on the map is the location of the doorway.[/sblock]Marcel...[sblock]A flicker of gratitude crosses the brunette nurse’s face at the offer of supplies, but the look is quickly replaced by something between annoyance and boredom. “It’s ‘sister’, not ‘miss’,” she says flatly as she tosses the rug over Marcel’s head.

The examination takes only a few minutes – translating Sister Courcy’s examination is challenging, doubly so without being able to see the patient. Finally the rug is whipped away. “In my bag is smallpox vaccine, legionnaire” she says perfunctorily, pointing at her field pack on the floor – strapped to the side is an M1 Carbine, identical to Marcel’s. The nursing sister calls for the children of the household in pidgin Arabic, and two girls and a young boy appear, the latter dragged by the arms by his sisters as Marcel withdraws syringes and ampules from the pack.

Sister Courcy vaccinates the girls as Marcel tends to the boy, a big-eyed child of about five years old. “Legionnaire,” she says as preps a syringe, “Lt. Ferrand would not allow you to address me disrespectfully in his presence. He’s a good man and a kind man, but he’s also a French Army officer.” The nurse inserts the needle into the older girl’s upper arm.

“You’re new to the Legion, yes?” she asks Marcel as she presses the plunger. Satisfied that the vaccine has been administered correctly, she looks at the medic’s uniform. “The new pattern camouflage,” she says, “and still in good condition.” She glances at her own uniform pants, faded and worn. “If I notice it, so do these Arabs, and they will take advantage of it if they can.”[/sblock]


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Marcel speaks!

[sblock] Marcel submits to the rug without comment and gets about the business of medicine, efficiently translating as best he can and helping with the vaccination. Once they finish and Sister Courcy comments on the fresh uniform, he opens back up, rubbing the uniform self-conciously where it covers the pistol. "Yeah, I know." He shrugs again. "Nothing to be done except wear it in or swap it out, I guess, but I can't imagine I'll find a veteran in my size that would be willing to do so. Maybe one of the guys back at the base can find me a jacket, anyhow."

Looking the woman in the eyes, Marcel smiles softly. "Hey, umm... no offense meant, Sister. It is just nice to see a beautiful face out here. Easy to forget you have a title. I'll be careful not to do it again. If I start to overstep the professional boundries, let me know." The smile goes wider. "But I'm sure you will. You don't seem like the type to let others fight your battles for you."

Walking to the small cistern of clean water near the wall, Marcel removes a small bar of soap from his jacket and washes his hands. As he rinses, he takes an extra cake still in the wrapper and leaves it on the edge.

"So, Lt. Ferrand. You have been here with him long? He seems a good enough sort. He was busy butting heads with my LT when I left to meet you. Apparently his strength of personality won out. Our mission was to search the homes for weapons. Lt. Ferrand assured us the weapons have been inventoried, but we do have our orders. Seems they are to be ignored for now." He looks back over his shoulder as he wipes his hands dry.

"You have been amongst this group for some time now? Are you confident there is no insurgent activity?"

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First Post
Barzini is obviously not happy about the order to turn over his weapons to Sanchez in the middle of an unsecured village. Even as Barzini tries to explain a better way to lay the bricks, he is distracted by the feeling that something bad is about to happen; his words come out jumbled and unhelpful, inspiring no one.

Charismatic Leadership attempt to aid Craft (structural)of Lt. Ferrand = 1 + 1

Epic Threats

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