Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
Pyotr swears under his breath and takes off after the frightened child, but he can see he is too late.
Initiative: (1d20+2=3)
I can see it now, all three of us hanging our heads in front of the company commander.
"All three of you, the best the military has to offer, let a tiny, frightened little girl escape? Three big, strong men." The CC can't help but to laugh hysterically as he assigns us to potato duty.
Initiative: (1d20+2=3)
I can see it now, all three of us hanging our heads in front of the company commander.
"All three of you, the best the military has to offer, let a tiny, frightened little girl escape? Three big, strong men." The CC can't help but to laugh hysterically as he assigns us to potato duty.
The Shaman
First Post
The Shaman
First Post
Angelique dashes past the surprised Pyotr but finds the towering Normand blocking her path. She shrinks back from his outstretched arms and straight into Marcel’s grasp. The little girl struggles mightily to free herself, screaming “MAMAN!” at the top of her lungs as she fights.
Across the farmyard several of the paras and gendarmes look up at Angelique’s shriek.
Across the farmyard several of the paras and gendarmes look up at Angelique’s shriek.
shadowbloodmoon
First Post
Pyotr cringes as Angelique screams. He knows that Marcel wanted to keep her from the basement for some reason and he rushes past them to block it off, knowing full well that if ahe wanted free from Marcel's grasp, she'd be free.
Bobitron
Explorer
Marcel uses his body weight to press the girl's back to the stone wall, making soft shushing noises as he forces her to stay put. "I'm sorry, angel. I'm so sorry. Your mother is gone. You can't be with her again until you see her in heaven." He is obviously having trouble controlling his emotions, his voice quavering slightly.
The Shaman
First Post
Undaunted by the three armed paratroopers, little Angelique struggles as Marcel presses her back against the stone wall. At the medic’s words however, her anger drains away as looks of disbelief, then fear, and finally anguish cross her face, followed by deep, wrenching sobs. She doubles over as if struck, and Marcel finds himself supporting her, to keep her from falling to the ground, rather than restraining her.
As Marcel holds Angelique, Pyotr and Normand see the gendarmes dispersing by the light of the headlamps on the trucks and the command car, arms at the ready, heading for the stables, the barn, the farmhands’ quarters. A small group cuts cross the farmyard to where the paras wait at the farmhouse. Normand recognizes Captain LaCroix – he is followed closely by Lieutenant Ramadier and sergeants Müller and Katsourianis, with a handful of gendarmes and Mantz, the grizzled farmer, trailing behind.
“Legionnaires, stand down,” the gendarmerie capitaine snaps coldly. He looks back to the farmer and says, “Monsieur Mantz, please see to the child,” then walks up the steps pat Pyotr and Normand, who must step quickly to get out of his way, and into the house.
Marcel feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up into the face of a civilian with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The older man says nothing, simply reaches out his hands and gently takes Angelique from Marcel, lifting her up in his arms. “My missus’ll see to her, son,” he says quietly with a thick Alsatian accent.
“Assemble back at the truck, legionnaires,” orders Kat, “behind the barn.”
“Good work, légionnaires,” adds the lieutenant, then the three men continue around the farmhouse. Gathering their gear, Pyotr, Normand, and Marcel trudge across the farmyard and behind the barn as ordered.
All but Pamuk and Syrovy are waiting at the GMC, along with the newly arrived paras of 3rd Section. Sánchez speaks to a few of the men while Ortu is bending the ear of another legionnaire at the rear of the truck – “...damn near blew himself up!” the gunner says as they approach, gesticulating with his hands. Pyotr and Normand recognize the listener as Sgt. Szabo, the 3rd section leader.
“Go ahead and get yourselves loaded up on the truck,” Szabo, the youngest of the sergents in the platoon, says as the trio arrives. “The lieutenant wants you to head back to town.”
With the two wounded men, Babaye and the gendarme, in the back, space is cramped as the legionnaires board the deuce-and-a-half. After a few moments, Burhan Pamuk and Karol Syrovy arrive as well. As everyone settles, Lt. Ramadier sticks his head in the back of the truck. “Good job, men,” he says, looking at the dusty, bloody paratroopers, then focusing on Marcel. “Fortier, the doctor in town is waiting for you,” he says. He steps back and pounds his hand twice on the rear of the truck, then turns away into the darkness. Sergent Szabo’s voice rises as he calls, “Third Section! On me! Listen up...” His words are lost in the sound of the big diesel engine starting, and the truck surges forward.
In addition to Marcel, Normand, and Pyotr and the two casualties, Nedjar, Pamuk, Syrovy, Asmussen and Ortu are riding in the rear of the truck – Vidal rides up front with Sánchez and Sgt. Katsourianis.
As Marcel holds Angelique, Pyotr and Normand see the gendarmes dispersing by the light of the headlamps on the trucks and the command car, arms at the ready, heading for the stables, the barn, the farmhands’ quarters. A small group cuts cross the farmyard to where the paras wait at the farmhouse. Normand recognizes Captain LaCroix – he is followed closely by Lieutenant Ramadier and sergeants Müller and Katsourianis, with a handful of gendarmes and Mantz, the grizzled farmer, trailing behind.
“Legionnaires, stand down,” the gendarmerie capitaine snaps coldly. He looks back to the farmer and says, “Monsieur Mantz, please see to the child,” then walks up the steps pat Pyotr and Normand, who must step quickly to get out of his way, and into the house.
Marcel feels a hand on his shoulder, and looks up into the face of a civilian with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The older man says nothing, simply reaches out his hands and gently takes Angelique from Marcel, lifting her up in his arms. “My missus’ll see to her, son,” he says quietly with a thick Alsatian accent.
“Assemble back at the truck, legionnaires,” orders Kat, “behind the barn.”
“Good work, légionnaires,” adds the lieutenant, then the three men continue around the farmhouse. Gathering their gear, Pyotr, Normand, and Marcel trudge across the farmyard and behind the barn as ordered.
All but Pamuk and Syrovy are waiting at the GMC, along with the newly arrived paras of 3rd Section. Sánchez speaks to a few of the men while Ortu is bending the ear of another legionnaire at the rear of the truck – “...damn near blew himself up!” the gunner says as they approach, gesticulating with his hands. Pyotr and Normand recognize the listener as Sgt. Szabo, the 3rd section leader.
“Go ahead and get yourselves loaded up on the truck,” Szabo, the youngest of the sergents in the platoon, says as the trio arrives. “The lieutenant wants you to head back to town.”
With the two wounded men, Babaye and the gendarme, in the back, space is cramped as the legionnaires board the deuce-and-a-half. After a few moments, Burhan Pamuk and Karol Syrovy arrive as well. As everyone settles, Lt. Ramadier sticks his head in the back of the truck. “Good job, men,” he says, looking at the dusty, bloody paratroopers, then focusing on Marcel. “Fortier, the doctor in town is waiting for you,” he says. He steps back and pounds his hand twice on the rear of the truck, then turns away into the darkness. Sergent Szabo’s voice rises as he calls, “Third Section! On me! Listen up...” His words are lost in the sound of the big diesel engine starting, and the truck surges forward.
In addition to Marcel, Normand, and Pyotr and the two casualties, Nedjar, Pamuk, Syrovy, Asmussen and Ortu are riding in the rear of the truck – Vidal rides up front with Sánchez and Sgt. Katsourianis.
