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.
Obvious exits:
Docks North West South Trading Outpost
GAME: This room may be monitored with +watch.

Once more, the 'well-spoken savage' is whittling away beneath the very same tree. The sun is beginning on it's way down towards the horizon, filling the sky with a myriad of colors from cool rivers of blue to flaming red.

The camp of the newcomers is a collage of cloth shelters. Laughter and quiet conversation, in a coastal dialect, come from the canvas lean-to of the African porters. From another, closed tent comes the sound of snoring. Between the two, like a buffer zone, is another square tent, this one lit from within by warm lantern light, the sound of quiet Swahili barely audible from a distance.

Abruptly, there is movement in the lit tent; Ndeta appears at the edge of the porters' fire, murmuring to his companions. Then the light goes out, and Catherin follows--her dress strange but practical, within the relative privacy of the circle of camp.

Azi glances up from his whittling. His eyes have been glancing towards the camp every so often from his vantage point, keeping a curious watch on their activities. The woman continues to puzzle him, as he'd not truly understood why she would throw her life into such chaos for someone she would probably not see. One could almost feel a certain eagerness in him, itching inside for him to get up and investigate. However, he keeps his respectful distance and tries to be content with mere observation.

After a time, Catherine and Ndeta link up again near the porters' fire, to resume their conversation; among the smattering of strange words there is now and then a phrase or question in Swahili.

There is a small dispute at some point, solved by Catherine fetching the rifle from her tent and slinging it over her shoulder. Then the young woman is striding away from the light and noise, into the quiet of the square and past it, an angry momentum in her steps. Catherine pages: Azi is fairly out of sight, yes? I mean, he tends to hang out in the shadows?

Azi continues watching for a time, alternating between his whittling and his observations. A little bit of time is taken, glancing up into the skies to see Seline's full face shining amidst the twilight, the hint of the stars beginning to poke out from the daylight's mask. At the woman's argument and stomping off with gun in hand, he furrows his brow.

Catherine paces across the square, past windows lit and unlit, her steps quiet in the soft desert boots. The nomad's garb suits her, wreathing her in black, scarf wrapped about her head and neck hiding most of the red of her hair. She is headed, apparently, for the river's edge. By the time she crosses the square her stride is easier, the anger dissipated, sapped away by the heat and stillness.

Azi slides up to his feet, slipping dagger and carving into his furwrap. With barely a sound at all, he slips into the shadows and trails her the way a true predator would, but his intention is not the physical hunt. As Catherine slows, he slows as well, not wanting to surprise her, especially with the gun in her hands. For the moment, he merely continues to watch her with interest, keeping wary notice of the rifle.

Catherine moves northwest, towards the docks.

You move over to the docks.

Leopoldville Docks -- Congo River
The tropical savannah surrounds Stanley Pool like a hostile nation laying siege. The Belgian King's colonial outpost of Leopoldville is built in a clearing at the transition of this tropical savannah to tropical rain forest. Grasses, trees, shrubs of all varieties choke the waterfront where they have not been cleared for the dockworks. Some of the tall grasses reach a height of three meters; near the waterline, monstrous trees, creepers and shrubs flourish. The main river channel flows closer towards the large island in the center of the pool, leaving the inlet tranquil and protected.
The center of the colonial outpost huddles along the lakeshore; the lake spreads out to the north and west.
Contents:
Catherine
Roi des Belges
Obvious exits:
East Commons Stanley Pool

Catherine paces out along the wooden dock, tipping her head back to look at the waxing moon for a time. She studies the steamer, frowning in thought, her brow furrowing a little. The English she speaks is strange, incomprehensible, full of un-English sounds and glottal stops. "Why didn't ye tak the boat, da?"

From afar, Catherine s/in/is. You get the point. Heavy Scottish accent, think Chicken Run. 'Is she speakin' English?'

Azi finally steps out of the shadows of the tall grass, coming into almost full view. "What troubles you?" He calls to her in a steady rolling French.

The rifle is readied at the first sound; it is not the snap-preparation of a soldier, but the calm, efficient movement of a hunter that brings the weapon to hand. She does not bring it up to sighting position, but the Martini-Henry ends up in both hands, held across the front of her body, ready to shoulder should the need arise. If not for the flash of pale skin, in fact, she might be a Tuareg tribesman in that anonymous black. His question startles those pale eyes, though, and she lowers the gun a fraction, watching him guardedly. "The answer to that question would take a long time," she replies after a moment.

"The night is only beginning," Azi returns, stepping into further open. "Are you in trouble?"

Her brow furrows slightly. "No," she says quietly. "Not any more than is obvious." A trace of bemusement comes to her expression, and she lets the muzzle of the rifle drop--holding the weapon in one hand, while the other comes up to sweep the veil back from her head.

Azi tilts his head to the side curiously, gazing out over the docks and the water before returning his attention to the woman. "You were angered," he notes the most obvious, trying to figure out the purposes to the woman's clothing.

Catherine lets out a breath, lowering her eyes. "Just... frustrated," she answers, half-turning away. She slings the rifle again, the mindless gestures of habit serving to steady her nerves, perhaps. "It's nothing like what I expected. The Congo. It's.... I expected a challenge, but..."

Her posture is straight despite the words--and after a moment's thought her head lifts, and she looks out over the lakeshore, the river, surveying them.

"The wilds are not a place for the soft at heart," Azi says with none too comforting a tone. "Everything around you has a rhythm. Everything has a spirit. You expected maybe this to be a challenge men can easily conquer?" His eyes narrow. "Your luxuries are nothing in the Congo. Out here, it is the laws of the wild."

Catherine shakes her head minutely. "I have no need of 'luxuries'," she returns softly. "And it's... hard to understand the spirit of this place. So... fragmented, everything at war, subjugated, doomed..." She ducks her head slightly. "When I try to see a spirit, all I see is destruction. Corruption. Slavery."

Azi gazes at the woman with a troubled look, accented further by the painted markings that shine in the dwindling light. "What you see, is what your kind has brought to these lands," he replies, not bitterly but with simple fact. A short moment of silence, and he sighs softly. "Come," he invites her. "I will show you, the spirit you seek." He turns, pausing to look over his shoulder at her.

The young woman turns to look at him, the pale-sapphire eyes sharpening. But that sharpness is more than just the expected distrust: there is a quickening, a fierceness that betrays the need to /know/. She is still for a moment, taking the measure of him; then her chin dips in a small gesture of assent, and she moves to follow.

Outside Leopoldville -- Savannah
Encompassing the small colonial outpost stands a ring of thorn bushes which limits the approaches to the town. Beyond this makeshift fence flourishes a mixture of vegetation, blending the biomes of the traditional African grasslands with those of the rain forest. Shorter brush are punctured by taller emergent evergreens. Stanley Pool remains the dominant geological feature of this region, while the barrier hills of the basin are bisected by the tremendous rush of the Congo over the series of cataracts towards the ocean. Scores of smaller ravines and tributaries pour into the big river and convert this region into a dynamic series of bluffs, cutbanks and rocky plains.
Obvious exits:
Road to Matadi Leopoldville Eastern Barrier Mont Leopold

Azi slows here, coming to a stop near the borders to Leopoldville. He turns to the woman, and seeing that she is still behind him, nods to her. He motions for her to come up closer and duck a bit in the grasses quietly.

She moves with more stealth than he might expect, but certainly less than a forest predator. The signals he makes are clear enough; it takes her a moment of observing him, perhaps, but then she adopts the crouched posture of the savannah hunter, hiding herself in the grass just behind him.

'Now,' Azi murmurs, for some reason switching to Swahili, perhaps to make it more natural feeling instead of the French of the foreigners, 'Keep still. Even here, the feeling comes. A rhythm, only those who can touch the wild, understand. Find it, but not with your eyes, or ears, or breath. It is a rhythm, only the heart can feel. I feel you have this sense. You have the feeling, inside.' His voice seems almost a whisper now, a trickle on the wind but still surprisingly clear. He lets his last words fade, allowing the woman he finds curious to concentrate on feeling the heart of the land.

The apprehensive breathing slows, gradually, taking on the quiet pace of the grasslands, the same slow throb that dominates the chants of the savannah tribes. The girl drops to a lower crouch, one hand splayed to touch the bent grass before her, a rustling sound springing up beneath her fingers. She tips her head back, then, and opens her eyes to look at the sky, the nearby clump of treetops, the wall of grasses that surrounds them.

Soon, a rustle in the grass comes, just barely floating onto the slightest breeze. A small herd of gazelle, about ten to fifteen animals, seemingly materializes from the grasses near the brush. A few stand close to the two humans, about a spear's throwing distance away, browsing in the twilight for leaves and soft grasses. Elsewhere, an insect chirrups into the dusk periodically. The flutter of wings betrays a bird's restless sleep, up on a tree's branch as it too twitters sleepily.

[And we had to crash. Doh... perhaps there will be an ending. Not likely, but ah well.]