Feb 01 108 PA Isabeau and friends meet Strala
From Chronicles
From the north, short Gabriel comes walking in, well, more trudging in at that odd and efficient pace that he often maintains. On his lips in a loud whistle is the melody to, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." Still, he slows as he actually enters the retreat. His gloves and woolen cap may be presumably stuffed in one of his many pockets, and his light overcoat is unlatched, allowing the somewhat-warmer air to hit his body. Otherwise, as he looks around, he appears pretty much as normal for this time of year.
Still below freezing. January is, at least, a thing of the past. Two sets of boots come marching in from Steel Street, earning long looks from the people at the gates to the camp. Isabeau, bundled up against the cold weather, and shadowing her at a short distance is the armored form of Johnson. The pair near Gabriel, traveling at a steady pace, with Johnson's head on the swivel. Up, left, right, and behind, not content to settle his gaze in any one direction, yet always a step or two behind the redhead. No more nor less. "Who you agreed to meet?" his voice drones, as Johnson's helmeted head for a long moment meets the gaze of a tense-looking armed youth. Things must be getting desperate.
Bartholemew is mingling about the refugee camp where the majority of people come and go paying attention to those that seem to belong here and those who don't. By appearance he almost fits with the ragtag population of refugees having been living here for bit. He puffs on an old cigar that is but a stub between his teeth just barely not burning his lip as he does so.
The youth's may look desperate, still jumpy from the chaos they left to come here. But those more experienced with life and therfore hardship know things could get much worse yet and stand stoic and impassive as guards. One such guard turns to look at the new comers as the enter and makes a relaxed march towards them. "Afternoon citizens. Your business here please?" He states simply, taking position in their path.
The older man can't help but noticed Johnson and Isabeau - but mostly Johnson - as they arrive from the north. He nods and waves a hand in acknowledgement, but his primary focus is on the young guard before him. Sentries this young remind him of the Maquis in the French Resistance. If the kid was holding a rifle and wearing a hat, it would be perfect. When he speaks, he does his best to clear out the Kentucky drawl. Not perfect, but good enough that he only sounds brain-damaged. "Heard that refugees are disappearing when they leave here. I only want to come and talk to some people, maybe Ms. Woods, if she's available." He nods past the youth. "Mind if I go on in? I'm not here to cause problems. If problems arise, I'll be the first one to leave."
Walking in next to Johnson, Isabeau pauses there for a moment, her gaze wandering over the refugee camp. A slight frown touches at the corners of her lips, and then she brings her attention back to Johnson. She softly lifts one of her shoulders in a bit of a shrug. "She wouldn't give her name, just said to come," Isabeau says softly, her tone holding a thoughtful cast to it. Her attention turns to Gabriel, and she offers a bit of a smile and a nod to the other man. As one of the youthful guards approaches them, Isabeau's attention turns to him, and a smile touches at the corners of her lips. "We've come to find out more information about what's been happening lately," she says, her tone holding a thoughtful cast to it. She looks to Gabriel and gives a nod to agree with his words. "We're not looking for trouble, or to cause problems," she affirms.
Bartholemew can't help but notice the city watch step up to question those entering finding himself a place to lean against to watch what goes on between them tossing his stub to the ground as its completely burned down to the chewed end now.
Johnson sure isn't looking for trouble! Though he may look like it. He's more the strong, silent type, a veritable null standing just a touch behind Isabeau. His head swivels right, looking for the sentry's pair, and he takes one step to the right, and a touch forward.
"Craven hmm? Well we'll keep that in mind so that if trouble does occur your retreat is clear." The man replies with a sneer at Gabriel before turning to nod at Isabeau. "Yes, I was informed of your coming. Are both these men with you?" He asks gesturing to Johnson then Gabriel. "Emily resides at the city gates to greet the new comers. You'll be meeting her liason, Strala." He explains.
Isabeau looks to Gabriel, and then to Johnson before bringing her attention to the guard, and she gives a nod. "Aye, they are both with me. We all seek the same thing, to learn more," she says thoughtfully. She wants to help, if she can. One of her eyebrows quirks upwards slightly, and she gives a nod to the explanation. "Where are we to meet Strala?" she asks, curiosity to her voice.
Bartholemew patiently listens to the conversation between guards and the others trying to appear to be minding his own business though he is not the most stealthy of persons though he is not really trying to be all that stealthy in the first place. Just trying to blend in.
The older man takes the jib in stride. So much so that he doesn't even seem to care. Probably doesn't, truth be told. He then defers leadership. "The young lady seems to be the one in charge. I'll try to keep my questions for Strala." Gabriel turns his head and smiles at Isabeau.
Bartholemew earns a long look from the blank face that is Johnson. He reaches for his arm keyboard, tapping some buttons, and the screen displays a video of the man. It freezes temporarily, and then the screen winks out. Then Johnson's head keeps panning, just watching.
"At her post." The guard replies, gesturing to a guardpost stationed at the top of the fire escape of one of the three Refugee buildings. Its not a private location, as greenhouses have been errected on the roofs and refugees tend them but it will have to suffice. Immediately the guard turns to walk towards the fire escape and lead them up to their meeting.
Isabeau raises an eyebrow slightly as she looks to Gabriel, and she blinks once at his words. She doesn't consider herself in charge, but... she doesn't argue the point, either. Instead, her attention turns back to the guard before giving a small nod. "Thank you," she says softly, a smile touching at the corners of her lips. She glances once to the pair of men with her, and then she starts to follow the guard towards the fire escape.
Bartholemew doesn't seem to mind the big man's observation, he still watches and listens to what is going on with an apparent interest now. As they go for the fire escape leading to their destination he moves following a more indirect path in the same direction the group tends to move, noting their appearances and the building in which they mover to enter.
Gabriel is mute, just nodding at various random refugees who are mulling around, attempting to go about their daily lives. He follows Isabeau, and by extension, the sentry, wherever they may go, though keeping a sharp eye out for obvious places for ambush or worse. Not that anything should be expected in the camp. But it never hurts to be alert, and after this many years, he just can't help it.
Johnson gives Isabeau a look, stepping in front of her as they meet the stairway. His boots rattle the fire escape as he climbs, head peering in windows and at doorframes as they pass, up and towards this meeting. It will be his ugly mug that walks in first, apparently.
As the guard leads the group up the fire escape a moment can be taken to take in the refugee's camp. In comprises of three large industrial buildings. Designed to orginally employ and house their workforce they are tall and spralling structures comaparable with some of the smaller major factories on steel street. Strala's post is at the south east corner of the tallest of the three, offering her a full view of the Dregs stretchin beyond and two thirds of the wall the refugees have errected. Or are still errecting. While build and functional there is a fairly large work force focussed on reinforcing and improving the wall.
Isabeau is watchful, looking to some of the refugees who go about their daily lives, or what passes for it here. Observant, but not prying. As they're lead, so does she follow, falling quiet for the time being and keeping a pace behind Johnson. He leads, and she's not about to argue the choice.
Bartholemew continues to follow blending in with the other refugees as he can that are working and or traveling nearby making his way closer to the building that they climb the fire escape just keeping them in sight to know where they enter at.
The older man, skilled at noticing things - at least in theory - just continues to follow, doing his best to memorize what he can, but particularly the route that is taken to reach whoever and whatever the destination is. Gabriel remains silent and does his best not to look up Isabeau's skirt.
Johnson peers at the walls, and at the land beyond. The helmet is impassive. Though he doesn't do much more than reach to tap a key on that pad on his left arm, panning his head about, before following the leader. And being the first one into whatever it is greets them inside the building!
But the group is not let inside. They are let to a lookout post on the corner of the building's roof. There what must be a DBee towers over the ledge at 13 feet tall. She's clad in mismatched dog boy spiked armor pads, making her look even more formidable. To either side of her are two vibro lances, clearly designed to be thrown like a javeline, one for each of her four arms. Despite the size she looks comparably shapely and attractive by human standards, not model material, but a bit higher that average. "Strala, your guests." The guard intones politely and after a momentary pause Strala turns to give him a dismissing nod and he makes his way back down the fire escape. Smiling she considers the group with a nearly hungry look. "So, you three wish to find our strays?"
That they are kept outside doesn't particularly bother her, even though it is rather cold. Isabeau takes a moment to look out across the camp, and her attention returns to the one they've been brought to meet. "To either find them, or to find what happened to them, aye," she says, giving a small nod. She tries not to seem too intimidated with the look they've been given.
Bartholemew waits to see where the group enters or disappears from view, seeing they have stopped on the roof he makes his way inside and goes to make his way up the interior stairway at a steady pace. Not hurriedly, just with purpose as if he belongs where he is, working his own way to the roof.
Well, that's certainly a surprise. Without bothering to be shocked, because so damn many things are shocking anyway, Gabriel looks around for a radio to determine how Strala was apparently expecting them. Radio, or brain scanning? When his eyes finally land on the eyes of the multi-armed woman, he asks, "Finding your strays, yes. Keeping anyone else from disappearing, that's the more important part. Not that I mean to sound cold, ma'am." His notes are short. Not clipped, but professional.
Johnson steps aside to allow the others up, positioning himself on the outside ledge of the terrace. His helmet tilts back, and back, barely waist-high to the giant. He doesn't say anything, though her weapons are noted, and the armored one takes a furtive glance over the ledge.
Strala smirks, taking a moment to consider each of the three before nodding slowly and turning to look out at the dregs beyond her post. "Well then I have good news and bad news. First of all, I know exactly what is happening to the ones going missing. But, I cant really do anything about it. Our arrangements have my hands rather tied on the issue." She states openly with a shrug before looking back to the other three. "But your hands are clan and unbound so far." She notes with a smirk. There is a radio hanging beside her javelins.
Isabeau raises an eyebrow slightly at what information is shared, her expression taking on a bit of curiosity. A brief glance is given to Johnson, yet her attention returns to Strala. "The hope would be for them to remain unbound. It would seem we would be better able to help if 'tis the case," she says softly. "What's been happening to them?" she asks, tilting her head slightly to one side. The question is spoken before she really gives it much thought, but if they're to be of any help, then it's one of the questions that needs an answer.
Bartholemew continues his way up unless interrupted, but as long as no one bothers him he looks for a way to the roof, moving up the stairway steadily. With nothing to add, Gabriel simply listens, and watches all of the goings-on. Johnson steps back to peer down the stairway they just walked up, ensuring it remains clear, and then shifts to the left a touch. Subtly interposing himself between Isabeau and the next sentry point as he listens.
"They are being tortured and killed by those that reside in the junkyard." Strala answers coldly, considering the reactions to that carefully. "Unfortunate certainly, but evil is always present. We cant let it stray us from the order and good we are building here. Tragedy is a risk of any society. Our's currently has a higher risk than average, but society is worth the risk no? And its not like we are the worst hit. Even in this city, there are at least two factions taking this worse than us." She explains, perhaps a bit vague and distant, leaders perogative.
Isabeau blinks at the mention of the junkyard, and then she looks to Johnson for a moment before her attention turns back to Strala. "The junkyard," she says softly, giving a faint nod. "The gangs must be how," she muses, frowning slightly. Perhaps something in it bothers her, or perhaps she's just considering the twist things have taken. "It would seem the loss of those in your society here has been made more publically known than the losses from these other two factions that you mention," she says softly.
Bartholemew finds his way to the roof, surprisingly unaccosted by any guard. Stepping out onto the roof he takes a look around before making his way towards the lookout post where the group is talking with the huge DBee. When he gets close enough he awaits patiently in military parade rest to be addressed at the leaders leisure, seeming to not want to interrupt the current conversation of the refugee leader, he doesn't even face them but listens to what he can.
With little idea what is being discussed, Gabriel decides that he can speak with his colleagues later to clear it up. Instead, he begins his own line of questioning. "Are you building a fortress, ma'am? Hardening yourself against evil within the city? Pretty soon, you'll be able to take on the KDPD." Sure, it's a show of ignorance, but at the moment, there's no reason to try to lie about knowledge that he doesn't have.
Johnson, ever-vigilant, catches sight of the armed vagrant approaching from the roof. He steps forward then, a hand pressing Isabeau to the side as he flashes Strala a questioning glance. His entire demeanor has shifted, from watchful indifference to something much more tense. His voicebox speaks up, in the far more capable Dragonese; "Is this one of yours?" he asks, pointing at the man. Coincidentally with the same arm that has the hosed nozzle. Probably a coincidence. "He was also on the ground, in the crowd."
Strala stops to look sternly at the newcomer. She looks to take him for any other refugee. "What is it?" She asks sharply, clearly expecting something important for her to be interrupted while seeing guests.
The redheaded woman raises an eyebrow slightly at the touch of Johnson's hand to push her to the side, and she steps in the direction intended. Her brow furrows, her attention turning towards the vagrant that he points to, and she tilts her head a little to one side. Isabeau stays quiet, for the time being.
Bartholemew goes to attention as he is addressed, "I have come for the same reason they have Maam." he barks sharply in answer to her question. "I couldn't help but overhear at the gate the intentions they have, Maam." keeping within professional military ettiquette.
Johnson makes a noise that the translator doesn't quite understand, and the buzz it makes sounds as he reaches back to pull up a half-moon-crescent-capped pole to click higher over his left shoulder. It may be an antenna, but it would be a thick one. He speaks in Dragonese, the voice coming from his voice box on his chest, "She doesn't want you to. You're a refugee. The longer there's an exogynous threat, the stronger her control over this camp is. The longer the junkyard is consuming lives, the weaker the gangs become. She faces a fraction of their attrition. If you violate gang territory while they're strong, you might start something she can't win." His helmet turns back towards Strala, the box conveying amusement as he adds, "Yet."
Strala smirks looking between Johnson and bartholamew with a shake of her head. "Were he one of us, he would know as much." She states as she reaches to take up one of her javelines and level it at Bart. "Time to come clean, who are you?"
Isabeau remains off to the side, not involving herself in this skirmish. And despite wanting to put some of her own abilities to use, she keeps a leash to them, since she doesn't want to end up in trouble herself. Quiet and watchful, then, is how she stays.
Bartholemew still standing at attention not seeming worried of the raised javalin, "The names Bartholemew Maam, I was a soldier on the Tolkeen front." he also gives battalion identification numbers and the name of his former commanding officer identifying himself as honestly being a part of the war then goes silent for her reaction.
Johnson takes one step back, crowding Isabeau just a smudge, and reaches his left hand back to brush against her midsection. With that complete he looks right, and back down, glancing at first the wall and then the nearest other guard post to watch for reactions afar, if any.
Having asked his question about a fortress being built, Gabriel has remained off to the side, just looking around but going nowhere, and generally staying out of the way of things.
Strala nods slowly, letting her javelines point float in Bart's general direction for the moment. "Fine, next time though, just ask. Would hate to skewer someone that was just trying to help." She says with clear agitation before turning back to the others. "Where were we?" She asks considering each to recall where she was. Gabriel gets caught up on first, her gaze getting hungry again as she looks at him. "A fortress? Depends, what does a fortress mean to you? To me a fortress is a defendable settlement designed to withstand the forces that would press it." Isabeau raises an eyebrow slightly as she's crowded, though she does nothing to ease it, and a flicker of understanding passes through her eyes as Johnson's hand touches her midsection. He's protecting her, she realises. Her gaze flits briefly to the edge, then returns to the situation at hand. She looks past him to Bartholemew, an unknown entity in and of himself, and she frowns slightly. Quiet as Gabriel is addressed, Isabeau listens, and she finds herself giving a nod of agreement to the definition of a fortress that's offered.
Bartholemew goes back into parade rest as Strala goes back to business. Remaining silent unless addressed.
The older man shrugs. "Fortress is a fortress. You build it to keep things out. Sometimes you get trapped in your own fortress. But it's none of my business." Gabriel shrugs. "Just asking." He glances between the huge woman and Bartholemew. Johnson reaches out to touch Isabeau's arm, and points down the ladder. Reaching for his translator then, he punches some keys. Broken American comes out in a monotone voice, "Done here. Not problem. Lose less refugees to junkyard than gangs." He raises a hand, in a parting wave, and offers, "Have fun building castle." And then he nudges Isabeau, motioning for her to move ahead of him and depart.
Strala's javeline pivots to point lazily at Johnson, not very threating as its not raised, but its there none the less. "I was not finished yet." She states to him simply before looking back to Isabeaus with a nod. "Indeed our situation is more noticeable for two reasons. One, we still afford the luxury of hope for help. The gangs gave up hope long ago. Two, will quickly growing our population is still very small compared to the rest of this city. So those that come into the dregs and go missiing are harder to notice by the whole." She explains before looking to Johnson again. "A word before you go sir."
The redheaded woman tilts her head slightly to one side at his touch to her arm, and then she gives a small nod. At the nudge, she steps softly ahead of him, moving towards the stairs to start to head down. At the words, she pauses, looking to Strala, and one of her eyebrows quirks slightly. "There can be hope even in the darkest of places," she says softly, her tone thoughtful in nature. She'll wait for the word that Strala has for Johnson, as he's her escort, so to speak.
Bartholemew is attentive listening but adds nothing else. Standing ready if spoken to, but not before.
"Ah, pardon me, Strala," Gabriel says, speaking up. "I'm not very well versed in any of this. I just try to help out where I can. On the other hand, I've been doing this kind of thing for a very long time, and any details, no matter how inconsequential they may seem, are often the most important. If there's anything that you can add right now, I'd appreciate it. Anyone in particular missing? Always men, women? Always humans or non-humans? Hell, always blue-eyed or blonde-haired?" He shrugs and prepares to leave. "I'm not going to take up any more of your time right now, because honestly, I need others around to help me interpret what I hear. But if you can think of anything, anything at all, please contact me. It's much easier than me showing up and trying to pull teeth." He smiles a bit ironically and quirks an eyebrow. "Otherwise, you'll probably see me poking around the area." He smiles and gives a short nod. "Thanks for your time, I can see that you're busy."
Johnson slows uneasily then, still mindful of what other sentry posts might be up to. His head swivels to the nearest one he can see, and pans for another, before peering back up at Strala. Punching his translator again, he swaps it back into Dragonese to speak again, briefly. "You claim your hands are tied, but you have so many hands. Ten thousand. Twenty thousand -- most have two." A touch of humor laces his tone. "The gangs cannot have bound them all."
Stralia whispers back, "Indeed, the ones that reach for yours are not bound. The interloper was not honest about his background, keep that in mind should he tag along with you."
Stral smirks at Johnson, leaning in to whisper her reply so that he may be on his way. Stepping back she looks to Gabriel with a chuckle before shaking her head. "No, simply not being one of them is more than enough justification for agents of chaos. They know the situation as well as we do, so they take advantage of it while they can. Hoping to goad us into playing their game. oh, and I missed your comment about the KDPD.. What makes you think we will conflict with them?"
Bartholemew doesn't move continuing to listen to the conversation as it moves to something other than the issue at hand.
"The cops?" comes out in a thick draw. "Just theoretical. They may be incompetent, but they might not like fortresses being built in their backyard. But just a theory. Just one possible avenue of a timeline, that's all." Gabriel shrugs. "Meant nothing else by it. I suppose if you have nothing to add at the moment, I'll be off, ma'am. But here's where you can contact me if you think of anything else." He holds out a slightly-ragged piece of paper.
Strala shakes her head. "Its not their back yard, as they have so bluntly told us under different circumstances."
Johnson's armor shakes slightly, the noise coming through the translator being a laugh. Through the filter of being translated to Dragonese, it actually sounds creepy as hell. He says something else in Dragonese, and scrawls something on a sheet of paper to pass along to Strala before nudging Isabeau back.
