Central Commons -- Leopoldville(#359RJMs)
The center of Leopoldville is carved out of the vegetation that surrounds Stanley Pool. Most of this vegetation has been cleared to allow for a central commons. Small groupings of date, palm and banana trees clump together about the square, but the thick underbrush normally found along the lakefront has been cleared away. A number of huts line the periphery of the square as well, serving as homes to many of the native families -- particularly those who have converted to Christianity. Expeditions oftentimes set up camp in the commons while awaiting final supplies and preparations to go upriver.
The central trading post for Leopoldville claims the eastern side of the quad, while the docks are a short distance to the northwest. To the west lie the offices, barracks and the messhall for the Association. At the north end of the quad sits the blockhouse, while the south end is dominated by the church.
Contents:
Catherine
Obvious exits:
Docks North West South Trading Outpost

An odd traveling party approaches up the road, a group on foot: one colonial fellow, a sunburnt white man who dresses like an English expatriate, walking alongside what looks like a young woman, with four African porters in their mismatched clothes carrying trunks and packs.

Catherine pages: Just, you know, for observation. They came in right before sunset.

Azi lies against a shrub-like tree, whittling away at a piece of wood with a sharpened knife. He looks up, only briefly watching the porters. Dark eyes reflecting the setting sun's light narrow as he spies the woman.

[looking at Catherine]
-----
Like most redheads, this young woman has a pale complexion, with a generous smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her delicate features have a Celtic stamp, and in fact she is quite lovely by European standards: fine bone structure, a small but eloquent mouth, a strong defiant chin. Blue eyes, the color of the North sea in a storm, study the world around her with the bright, intense curiosity of a sharp mind. Her build, though willowy, gives an impression of gaceful resilience; perhaps it's her confident bearing, or the focused energy that usually shows in her movements. She looks to be barely out of her teens, with none of the lanky awkwardness of adolescence. Though quite fluent in French and Swahili, she speaks them with a lilting rhythm that hints at her origins.
She wears a traveling costume of soft medium-blue serge and lighter smoke-blue moire: a double-breasted serge jacket with peaked dark-blue satin lapels, a full underskirt of the paler moire trimmed with dark-blue pleats and tournure at the hem, and a gracefully-drapped polonaise skirt of the blue serge, open at the front and pulled back to show the layering beneath. She wears a pair of sturdy, sensible Balmoral boots on her feet. Her hair is pinned up in a braided chignon, but frazzled wisps and curls frame her face and neck with an orange halo; a broad-brimmed and practical straw shades her face, trimmed with a wide smoke-blue grosgrain ribbon and a collection of several bird feathers. All this blue serves to heighten the fiery hair and blue eyes, and also plays up the slight flush in her cheeks.
-----

One of the native porters, a slender tribesman from one of the delta villages, carries a rifle: a Martini-Henry in excellent shape, the sort that soldiers might have. It's to this one that the young woman speaks, eyes alight behind the veil that shield her face and neck from the sun and the mosquitoes. 'Ndeta, tell me again how you call the big place by the falls?' Her Swahili is fluent, though she speaks it with the accent of the British.

Azi gazes back down at his whittling for a little bit, the smooth curves of cut wood and shavings about him forming the graceful shape of the simple impala. At the woman's Swahili he looks up, watching her more intensely.

The black man answers in a quiet voice. 'Tsagani. English call, 'Stanley Falls' I think.' Then he points across to the other side of the square.

The white woman nods, and glances over to the white man who is evidently their guide. 'Mister Hicks,' she says in English, 'do take a break at the square, I'll go speak to whoever we can find. You look as if you need a rest.'

Lucien steps off the porch of the trading post; he straightens his uniform and fires up his pipe, lighting it.

Over the protests of the white guide, the woman strides faster toward the square, crossing it to greet the Belgian officer. "Salut," she offers. "Quite a walk up from Boma." Behind her, the white man begins ineffectually signalling the porters to put down their packs and burdens for the moment.

[looking at Lucien]
-----
De Pre's carefully groomed moustache dominates an otherwise unremarkable face; pale skin, muddy-brown eyes and weak chin conspire to portray a man of marginal significance. Despite his unimposing figure, he does earn some respect with the razor-sharp creases in his uniform trousers, the brilliant whites of his shirts, and the spit-polished shine to his black leather boots. Lucien is a man in the sluggish doldrums of an uninspiring career and an even more forgettable personal life -- yet his orders seldom require repetition; the chicotte insures this. His soft-spoken French undulates with the lyrical Belgian accent.
-----

Azi slides up to his feet, slipping away the knife and half whittled piece of wood into the folds of his loinwrap. He strides over towards the porters, hanging on the outer fringe of the group and greeting one with a nod. In a perpetual state of watchfulness, he notes to himself the guide.

The woman seems to possess an inner energy despite the heat--something that has so far resisted the pressure of the leaden sky and the muddy deltas. She speaks to the lieutenant for a time, apparently making introductions.

The white man is hefty, puffing a little in his wrinkled clothes, pointing the natives about and delivering instructions in halting French patois. "Now, now, fellow, give me the Martini, I think you're making the uniform uneasy."

Azi circles around, for all the world acting like just an observer - which he is, but in a far more interested way. 'Come from the river?' The question in remarkably smooth Swahili is directed towards the armed porter.

The slim man nods, studying Azi with intent eyes. 'Yes, from Matadi and Boma.' He offers a greeting. 'I am Ndeta.'

'Sean,' the Swara returns. 'Who is the woman? Another from the north, and quite out of place as it seems.'

Ndeta nods, flashing white teeth in a grin. 'She is crazy, this north-woman. She wants to go upriver to find her father. Some learned man who was here. But she can shoot the rifle and gave it to me to carry. And she can speak this language. Not like the fat man.'

Azi looks skeptical at Ndeta, a flash of a smirk over his features as he turns his gaze from the porter to the woman conversing with the officer. 'A woman who can hunt. And speak the common language. Rare indeed,' he comments softly. 'The fat man...Mister Hicks... what is he to her? Brother?'

Ndeta frowns slightly, and shakes his head. 'No. Some kind of paid lackey. She does not care for him. She says to me that she trusts him less than the village men. But that if she did not travel with a white man, the other white men would not act kindly to her. They would not understand. Like with the rifle.'

Hicks is upbraiding another of them now, frowning as he tries to get his point across, no, that box /can't/ have other boxes on top of it.

Hicks glances over as Ndeta gestures with the gun, and the argument starts up again. "Now now, fellow, you must not thrash that about. It's a precision weapon, see..."

Catherine is the one to stop the argument, glancing over her shoulder from the porch of the trading post. 'Ndeta, take the things over there.' She gestures to a place off the square, fairly close to a copse of palms. 'And give Mister Hicks the rifle, so he will be quiet. Make camp there, and rest, and have a good dinner; I will dine with the Belgian officer here.'

She notes Azi's presence, then--pale eyes studying him for a moment, a thoughtful look touching her features. For a moment she almost frowns, her head tilting slightly to one side as she studies... what? Not his face, or his bare skin, but the painted markings on his arms.

Azi watches Hicks' antics with an amused air, the tips of his ivory white teeth, and particularly the canines, showing. "I'm sure that Ndeta knows how to handle the gun, Mister Hicks," he comments in English to the fat man. Before the other could reply, he gestures to Ndeta and the others. 'If he rounds up anymore, we may mistake him for a hippo,' the Swara jokes, the corner of his eye catching the woman studying him.

A few quiet smiles, and a chuckle from Ndeta, are the answer to the jest. That brings an odd, bemused smile to the woman's face, as if she wonders what on earth he could have said to them.

Hicks frowns at him. "Huh. Didn't know you sp-- oh, you're not one of ours." He takes the rifle from Ndeta, who is willing to surrender it now that the word has been given. Ndeta then issues a series of orders to the man in his own dialect, and they pick up the trunks and packs once again. Hicks supervises this operation for a time.

The woman turns again to address the Belgian, politely. "Thank you so much, m'sieur..."

Azi doesn't offer to help pick up the burdens, quite sure that the porters can handle the trunks and bags. He does however, move along with the baggage towards the campsite, taking a moment to glance back at the woman before chatting with Ndeta some more. 'The lands upriver are dangerous. Why would the woman think to go there in search of her father? Most of the foreigners would stay in their village here.'

Ndeta shakes his head, shouldering a large crate. 'He was going to some village, someplace in the forest. He had a sickness. She will go.' He nods, a faint smile betraying his admiration of the 'insane woman'. 'She may even find him, if he is not dead.'

'Admirable, if not foolish,' Azi replies with curious interest. 'Sick men do not come out of the jungle alive,' he intones with truth. 'Does the fat man plan to guide her? He does not look fit for the job. You will go by river, or by foot?'

The young man shakes his head, frowning. 'I do not know. I do not think this Bwana Hicks will go; he wishes to, but she does not like him. She has told me she will try to find another, to take her upriver. Perhaps a boat.'

Azi watches as one by one the baggage is moved. 'If she needs a guide, perhaps I can be of service,' he notes, for the moment not concealing any of his motives. 'If she has the resources for one, it may be faster to take a watercraft, but not any wiser.' His face darkens with a disdaining scowl at the amount of trunks around. 'Why do they insist on bringing so much?'

Ndeta chuckles. 'The man carries more than she does,' he confides in a low, dryly amused voice. 'You should have seen them argue. And there was meant to be yet another, a soldier of some kind. But he never came.'

Azi smirks, the painted markings on his face only accenting the expression. 'What will you and your friends eat, Ndeta? The hunting is fair, outside this village.' His feral smile flashes once as he glances briefly at the buzzing Hicks. 'I'd suspect /he/ would not fair too well out in the wild. One wonders how he became a guide.' With a slight roll of his eyes and a wink to Ndeta, he slips closer to the fat man, peering around him. "What are you called?" he asks straight out of the blue in proper British.

Hicks glances over his shoulder, frowning. "Mister Hicks. I hope you're not fomenting insubordination among the carriers," he adds, his brows drawing together as he straightens. He gives Azi a raking look up and down. "And you are?"

Azi straightens up, just a few centimeters shorter than the man. "Sean. Sean Tremaine," the native replies with utter confidence. His dark eyes peer directly at the other's like twin orbs hiding of a feral fire within. "We," he gestures to Ndeta, "were just making small talk. What do you plan on having for supper, Mister Hicks?"

Hicks clears his throat, and looks elsewhere, as if he is quite busy getting the tents unpacked... or rather, watching the porters unpack. "I believe we'll be dining with the officer, there." He waves a hand over at the porch, and then dusts off both hands. He catches sight of a wave from the girl. "Yes, and I should be going in."

Azi chuckles thinly, nodding and stepping back from the man he made uncomfortable. "And your men?" he queries, motioning towards Ndeta and the other porters.

Hicks glances over to him, unconcerned. "We have /provisions/, of course," he says with a tinge of annoyance. He senses the watching again, perhaps caught out of the corner of vision.

"Provisions," Azi repeats in an almost mockingly toned echo. "Right then, go and have dinner. Your provisions, will be well taken care of." His eyes stray, and this time he turns to gaze at the woman.

She is watching him again with that thoughtful look, studying the markings on his arms. Then the pale eyes shift to his face--and snare on his own gaze, startled, caught in the act. She steels herself visibly to meet the scrutiny, calm, steady.

Hicks stumps off toward the porch, muttering something to the woman as he reaches her. She answers without averting her gaze from Azi--only turning away when Hicks speaks again and gestures to the door.

Azi smiles at the woman, giving Ndeta a fleeting glance before he strides towards her. "Your eyes gaze at me like you would an exotic animal," he calls to her in fluid French.

She turns, swiftly, looking over her shoulder to the man. Hicks looks back as well, far more hostile.

"Not at all," the woman says in answer. "As one would look at the unknown. Are the markings tribal, or are they... specific to you, yourself?"

Azi allows himself a small distance from the couple of Europeans, respectful of the woman's boundaries more than Mister Hicks'. "It would depend, which you speak of," he replies, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

Catherine unpins her hat, part of the preparation to go inside; Lucien has already gone in to lead the way. "The paint," she answers. "On your arms. I've not seen that sort of patterning before. It /is/ paint, I believe, rather than tattooing?"

Hicks scowls, disapproving of the frank conversation--or perhaps of any conversation at all, between his charge and the well-spoken savage.

Azi glances to Hicks, then back at the lady. "A mixture of both," he replies with careful consideration. "The patterning, I could tell you of a different time should you seek the story. Your dinnerdate is waiting for you, and does not seem to welcome this savage's presence. So if I may, wish you a good meal, and perhaps we shall see each other again." He smiles charmingly before turning to head back towards the camp that Ndeta and the others have set up.

She doesn't say anything; no words follow him. There is, though, the low mutter of Hicks' voice as he follows her inside.

Azi wanders back into the camp of porters and comes up beside Ndeta. 'I think the woman is very curious. Like a bird with a shiny pebble.' Glancing at the tents set up and the small cooking fires being started, he gives the native a nod. 'Perhaps I shall see you again, Ndeta. Until then, good hunting.'

Ndeta does not rise from building the fire--but he offers the brief flash of a look, a small smile. 'And to you, Sean.'

Azi grins and slips off, heading off towards the wilderness and fast disappearing into the brush with barely a rustle in the grass.