ArchivedLogs:Paradise

Paradise
Dramatis Personae Isra, Dusk, Iztali	Monday, 13 January 2020 (Part of the Future Past TP.)
Location Somewhere in Mexico
It's sunny by the pool in New Morlockia, the name given by it's residents to the once magnificent mansion of a rather wealthy drug lord who is currently 'missing', and the drinks are always free. Providing you don't mind slightly warm bottles of the local beer or shots of the worst tequila in the known world. Most of the residents of the mansion proper are Morlocks going about their usual business, standing watch or doing the chores a small community needs in order to survive. Outside the walls the once opulent gardens have been replaced with a sea of tents and a large vegetable garden which many of the full time residents are hard at work extending. A large patchwork pavilion, recently added, huddles near the wall. Some of its residents--the old, the wounded, and children--sit in a small clearing outside. An air of weariness and resignation makes this corner of New Morlockia seem less like a haven than just another camp. Though not kept there by force, these refugees from the US have found themselves at loose ends--many bereft yet again of friends and family, and all without a home. Isra sits on an upturned crate, staring blankly at a nearby trellis thick with vines. She wears a much-faded yellow backless sundress too large for her and tied on with rope. A thick book, its red fabric cover threadbare, lies open in her lap. The fingers of her left hand rests at the edge of a page as though about to turn it, although she hasn't looked down in quite some time. Her right arm ends in a neat mound of bandages a couple of inches below the elbow. Wings mantled elegantly, green eyes unblinking, she could be taken for an oddly placed statue of a gargoyle. Dusk, not so much statue-y. He's been busy, restless, out in the fields much of the days to help the /permanent/ residents of New Morlockia tend the crops to feed the temporary ones. It's done a fair bit for his /tan/, at least -- which really only serves to make the thick ropes of scarring wound over his body stand out all the more. He's in a pair of faded corduroys, a few sizes too big. No shirt, just a towel draped around his neck as he swoops in to alight beside Isra, a cold bottle of beer in hand. He cracks it open, offering it out to her with a lift of brows. For all the refugee status going on in New Morlockia, Iztali definitely looks like she has come from /outside/ of it. She looks /well/, tanned, hale and healthy in the midst of so much injury and weariness. Her dark hair is left to fall loose down past her shoulders, eyes sharp as they quickly take in the scene. For all the warmth of this climate, she is dressed rather conservatively: a violet linen shirt with long sleeves, simple grey slacks, sensible shoes, and very fine-thin gloves that match her skin tone remarkably well. She carries an empty knapsack with her, having delivered its supplies already. Upon seeing Isra, her expression briefly wars with itself between sadness, concern, and simple /joy/ at being able to lay eyes on her. “What it does take to get a visit from you.” Her hand reaches out to rest on Isra's shoulder as she crouches (albeit not /much/) to settle more on eye-level with the other woman. Dusk she offers a small nod and smile, friendly enough but with obvious priorities on her old friend. Only Isra's ears track Dusk as he descends, but she rouses herself with visible effort once he comes to rest beside her. She presses the long index phalanx of one wing against his as she accepts the beer and takes a delicate sip. The page she had anchored with her left hand flutters in an errant breeze and turns, followed fast by several others. She looks down but makes no effort to stop it, does not even appear disappointed to have lost her place. When she looks back up, her eyes find Tali approaching. Her ears press back against her skull. "Terror and chaos don't spread themselves, you know. But since the US government has that more than in hand, I figured we'd earned a vacation." Isra hands the beer back to Dusk so she can close the book--/Moby-Dick/, as it turns out. She rises, bracing more heavily against his wing than it probably appears, her other wing curling around Tali but only touching her lightly across the shoulders as though afraid to injure her. "Dusk, meet my good friend Iztali Choben." Her smile comes a little wan, but still fangy. "And Tali, you've read enough about Dusk, I'm sure, in our novelesque correspondences." Dusk's smile flashes quick and warm, bright and fangy in time with a dip of head. He takes the beer back, lifting it in a kind of salute-wave to Tali as one wing stretches out to brush gently against Isra's. "Yo. Hey. Welcome to the party." Tali leans into the wing hug, moving closer to Isra to add an /actual/ hug, as well. Though there is a faint caution not to disturb the injured arm, her motion is not otherwise hesitant. “I did mean it when I told you that I had gotten better control. I can touch people now. Though resisting input from bared skin is still tiring, so...” Her hand lifts, gloved fingers wiggling indicatively. As if in proof of this, she offers that hand to Dusk once she has released Isra. “So very nice to meet you at last. Pictures don't do you justice. Though if this one had taken me up on my offers earlier, perhaps we might have met ages before now.” She nods at the welcome. “Welcome to you, as well. Though this is not precisely my home, I have been sort of a...welcoming party. For many of the mutant population seeking refuge here over the years.” Isra's wing squeezes tight around Tali. "Old habits." It does not come across as an apology, exactly. "It pleases me to see you so well. I have missed our conversations while incarcerated." She casts around, looking a little lost. "We haven't much in the way of chairs, but if you'd like a seat we could probably find some more crates. Or the ground, we have some lovely ground here. Not, however, quite enough for any sort of long term solution." Her eyes sweep the gardens and the sea of tents beyond. "The Morlocks have been very gracious hosts, but we came away from that raid with so very many injured." The sentence does not sound complete, but she does not seem keen to finish it. A faint flush tints Dusk's cheeks pinker at Tali's compliment; he leans in to grasp her hand (carefully) in his, an oddly gentle-cautious shake before he lets go. "... imagine that number's been growing preeeetty hard, huh?" Though his smile is in place, still, now it comes with a grit of teeth. He rocks back a step, one boot resting behind the other, wings pulling in tight behind him. "The ground's excellent. I think we just -- don't want to. Draw attention from the local, uh. Whoever. The Morlocks have a pretty sweet deal here but I think the cops'd make their life shit pretty fast if they thought they were starting some kind of underground railroad." “Yes, I would rather prefer if you kept yourself out of internment from here on out.” Tali's delivery is dry, though her eyes betray greater concern. “It has, but usually in small groups or stray individuals. I cannot say we have ever had an influx that would dream of rivalling this.” She takes a seat on the ground, well used to as much, without commenting on it. “We suffer the benefit of a very inept central government with very corrupt local governing system that has more concern for profit than exercising their bigotry. The general populace is not...exactly accepting. But the environment overall here is slightly more tolerant and greatly less military than that to which you are accustomed. Those individuals who have any desire to maintain...secrecy. And merge into the general population might do so here with far less risk than in your country.” Tali’s hands lift to gather her hair back, fluffing it off of her neck. “As far as those who find secrecy impossible or unpalatable, I might recommend two options. The Morlocks will take those into their ranks that they wish. Others can find welcoming homes with my people here and to the south, though crossing borders does offer some potential for discovery and deportation. There are linguistic concerns for those that find it problematic. My community primarily works in native dialects, but near to everyone is conversant in Spanish, as well. English is...rare.” She finally lets her hair fall again. “Those who for whatever reason...feel the need to return home. Would be advised to do it the way they came here. The American border is not a place to be.” Finding a comfortable seat on the ground does not come quite so easily to Isra, if only for the unusual conformation of her legs. She finally folds herself into a stable position, legs, tucked neatly beneath the hem of her dress and one wing bracing against the ground the way some might lean back on an arm while so seated. "Long may your people's lands remain safe. Your letters make it sound like paradise, though I know not whether it only seems so by comparison to our considerably...suboptimal experiences Stateside." Her hand clutches the aged novel as if it offered answers she could not find without. "If your medical facilities can handle them, we should send some of the wounded--those who will require somewhat more involved care, at least. Children, too, most of them orphans, or effectively orphaned." Green eyes pick out a scrawny boy weeding in a nearby garden plot. "We frankly don't know yet how many will want to go, but it would be helpful to know if there's a realistic limit to how many refugees you can help us place." Dusk sips at the beer again as Tali speaks, crouching down himself with wings braced on the ground behind him. He passes the bottle back to Isra. "Marrow said they'd be okay with taking in /some/ of the wounded and children here but they don't want too much ripple. Don't want to keep people who /look/ like fighters, though." His brows furrow, head tilting towards the sky. Quieter: "... a lot of us have reason for returning home. I just want to make sure people here are gonna be taken care of before we take off." “Hear, hear. It is rather a paradise for those who enjoy fishing and farming endeavours. We are not a wealthy people by /modern/ standards, but we care for our own.” Tali nods understanding at the concerns. “Our medical facilities are rudimentary, but present. There is also more to be found in folk medicine than people tend to give credit these days. Welcoming in mutants has blessed many of our communities, however, with healers. Far more than ever we had before. They hold positions of particular reverence. We should be able to tend your injuries, though it does take time and energy for these individuals and triage is helpful.” A hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Help to place? Dozens. Effectively place...? It is difficult for any one of our communities to take in more than ten adults at a stretch. Children are easier. They incorporate into existing households more smoothly and tend to require fewer material resources. It is quite an honour, among us, to bring these children into our homes. We also do not balk from those that appear other than the standard primate-human configuration. The wayob have always been respected in our culture.” Her jaw tenses a little at Dusk's revelation. “You are honestly going back to that?” "Good..." Isra nods, eyes defocusing; she grips the book, talons leaving small divots in the cloth cover. "Good." The beer Dusk places in her hand brings her back to the moment. She drinks from it, then looks at it as though she has never seen it before. "Oh, I have been terribly rude. Would you like something to drink? We have alcohol, some carbonated soft drinks, and probably water somewhere. Or, if you don't mind gargoyle and vampire cooties..." She holds out the beer with a one-winged shrug. "But it sounds like anyone like to want to settle among your people should be able to. This is a relief. I don't want to put the Morlocks in a difficult position, neither do I want anyone to feel pressured to go back. But yes, we are." Without changing positions, she somehow visibly collects herself. Her eyes cease blinking and the tip of her tail quivers. "We must. There are other camps. There is New York. The Resistance is constantly ferrying people out. Some we can send to relative safety, others will want to join us. So it goes." "Wayob?" Dusk echoes this both aloud and fingerspelled, a small puzzled frown drawing his brows together. "I don't think anyone here is looking for /luxury/. Just -- safety. /Welcome/ is -- an extra blessing on top of that." His arms fold around his shins once his hands are freed of Beer, and where Isra quivers he just /hardens/. Sharper /smile/, the talons of his wings pressing down to brace him more firmly to the ground, posture not tensing so much as /settling/ firm and anchored where he crouches. "{That's my fucking people dying up there.} Where else could I go?" “I have no fear of contagion, simply...to drink from the same container directly after another is not much different from kissing for me? I tend to be a little defensive of my plate at mealtimes, as well.” Tali rests a hand on her slightly-plump belly to supply, in jest, rather a different interpretation from her intended meaning. “Consuming things has a more certain tendency to give me visions about their experiences, or those of things they have touched, than simply contacting objects does,” she explains to Dusk, simply, in case she has not been a topic of discussion between the other two in the past. “The Wayob...are the perfect merging of man with his chu'nel, his animal-self. It is a tradition among my people to call on their chu'nel to achieve tasks of greater difficulty. There are many tales of warriors of the past, so perfectly intuned with their chu'nel that they became jaguar-men, the fiercest of fighters.” Her head shakes slowly, looking between Isra and Dusk. “As my people would say, one does not get between Wayob of the bat and matters of life and death. It is your purview, after all.” This is said with a sadness and a resignation more than reverence, however. Isra remains in her stillness. "You don't know how tempted I am, this time," she admits at last. "Not that you have not offered a dozen times or more before. No farmer am I, nor much of a fisher except in extremis, but you /do/ live in a splendid latitude for optical astronomy." A crooked grin twists her gray lips, sharp and quick and not the least faint this time. "Besides, your people respect my field, which endears them to me almost as much as respecting /me,/ though what kind of chu'nel would me look like this, I'm sure I do not know." She takes a sip of the beer and offers it back to Dusk. "In seriousness, I /would/ like to visit, if we have time. I'm not much use in a fight until this gets a little further along anyhow." Her fingers explore the stump of her right arm gingerly. "It will be easier going back, knowing there are true havens--not just places to hide. But it isn't enough." Dusk takes a swallow of beer, too. "I could get you your own. Beer. No gargoyle-cooties /or/ deluge of memories attached." He tips his head slightly, listening to the explanation with a slowly growing smile. "Huh. Huh. Man. One day I need to go somewhere where this," the claws at his wings twitch restlessly, "is /respected/ and not." His smile thins. "... But. My home is what is is." He turns slightly to look Isra over, thoughtful. "Dragon," is what he supplies. “Oh, no, you...you would not be for fishing and farming any more than I am. There are far too few qualified calendar keepers these days. It is part of why my grandmother kept trying to convince me to be a shaman after her. That and I had studied the old religion and old ways long and well. But I was far too scientific for that in those days.” Tali's lips twitch upward again, wry and amused. “My, but how things change once you /also/ are a seer and speaker to the land and the ancestors.” Her head tilts at Isra, regarding her closely. “The wings are definitely bat. As for the rest, one might argue...panther? It is not unheard of for great spirits to have more mythical forms. We do not truly have dragons in our myths, but there are...serpent deities, some of them winged in later eras in certain regions. Though typically more of a bird-wing arrangement in artistic depictions.” She nods at Isra quite /firmly/. “I am going to continue tempting you down here 'til I no longer have the breath to do so. You are both welcome to stay as long as you wish. You might consider making a longer stay among my people. That visit would also...do you well, Isra. Our healers will be occupied for some time with life-threatening injuries. The regeneration of a limb takes a significant amount of energy, but it could be done once they have had time to draw their strength back.” "Maybe someday I'll let myself start dreaming about a cliffside aerie under a clear sky. Build telescopes. Teach. Keep calendars." Isra shakes her head, ears swiveling forward, then back again. "Alas, the world needs me more for my brawn than my brains at the moment." She sounds more amused than dismayed. "As for the arm...I'll put more thought into options it when it's better healed. At minimum, Micah can probably help me cobble together /some/ kind of rudimentary prosthesis. I don't need it to do much. Be a weapon, mostly." Her lower vocal chords engage toward the end of the sentence, lending her words a low, eerie resonance. "You have a much more involved task; your people are a light in a dark, dark time, and you a light to them. Thank you." Her smile is softer now, tips of fangs showing. "I'm glad I got to see you again, my friend."