What a Mess... (Open)

[Sampson]

"Ah. It warms my heart to see what the World Government can do for a community."

Sarcasm was not Richter von Rosen's forte. Still, faced with the sight of Centaurea, in all its still un-recontstructed glory, sarcasm was the only recourse the regal man felt he had. He dragged along his chest of possessions, looking about him as flippantly as a man on holiday. "Understandably, reconstruction is a long, painful process. And yet, even now I see before me a glorious testament to military power."

An unfriendly breeze kicked up a trail of dust, the only sound that came around to answer him. Centaurea looked as horrible as ever. Broken battlements and neglected corners of masonry, topped with faded flags and standards. How long had it been since the military ever had a use for this place? Surely the people should have at least attempted a sense of normalcy by now. If there was any responsible person out there in the Navy, this place would have been an economic stronghold twenty times over. As it was...

"It is far too quiet here," Richter said as he passed the gate into town. "I didn't spend an eternity at sea to continue talking to myself on land. Where is everybody?" He had a bad feeling, as was usual when a lone pirate wanders into an unfamiliar territory lined with Navy flags. Thinking quickly, he turned around and opened the rolling chest, pulling out a red umbrella before shutting it again. And so he went, whistling a tune, an umbrella in one hand and a rope tied to a chest in the other, into a mostly forgotten military settlement to do who knows what.

[Romena Santana]

His lime tinted skin and pure ebony eyes slowly fell back into a relaxed, content nature as the beams of radiated sunlight showered his face with a bundle of curious warmth. Intoxicated so easily by the feeling of infatuating calmness, he gently passed his head onto the surplus of grass which in turn formed a most comfortable and suiting pillow for the Fishman.

Was Fishman the most accurate term in today's society though? Although he bore their moral insignia with pride, he did not quite see how his sub-species of Fishman had come to be decorates as a part of their race except for the sole fact that they were just that, a sub-species. Evolved from Amphibians, the Salamander to be exact, they weren't exactly fish.

A man, of unknown age and relatively dynamic interests (or so Makovi assumed) had been minding his own business, approaching what for some could be considered deadly territory. Makovi heard him walking in the distance, naturally, as the Fishman senses were heightened in his acute sense of relaxation and meditation.

Was it the Navy though? He had been stranded out here, reluctant to approach the Navy for assistance off this dreaded Island for days. If this was a Navy officer, he'd see where he came from. If not, he'd ask for help. Arising and moving extremely quietly, making absolutely the smallest of sound, he moved up against a ruined housing alongside the man's walkway.

His back brushed up slightly against the wall, almost as in preparation for the sudden force of weight it would support in moments to come. Leaning against it, his hands slid across the cold metal of his twin pistols, and he prepared to observe the man from behind, then make his move. If he was friendly, all the better. If not, then just another life he's removed from a world of pure sin.

[Sampson]

With seemingly no one around at this hour and a wealth of things to look at, Richter did what he always did when he was faced with boredom: talk strategy. He looked from building to building, making little mental notes as he went.

Let's see... It appears most of the important buildings are well out of the range of standard long nines. Of course, everything's so tightly packed together that heavy gunpowder weapons would cause more blind destruction than strategic damage. That could make it difficult for snipers, as well. Nothing's open except for the harbor. Troublesome... very troublesome. Richter was so lost in the formulation of plans, both for attack and defense, that he eventually lost awareness of what was around him; the stranger could have walked out into the open and slipped right by him. He scratched his chin, scanning the buildings around him. A particularly tall building drew his attention.

"Eureka!" He snapped his finger, his face brightening like a sudden break in a storm. "I bet that building even has high walls!" Whistling a tune as he went, Richter marched into the adjoining alleyway, pulling his trunk behind him. Barely taking his eyes off of the roof, he stood up on his trunk, tucked the hook of his umbrella into his belt, and proceeded to climb up the side of the building. He reached the outer ledge and peered over. Just as he thought, there was a wall around the roof, ostensibly to prevent people from falling off, but it still could be used as a modest defense against enemy snipers.

He was just about to pull a leg over the side, to see what kind of view the building boasted, when he suddenly looked back at his trunk. "On second thought, it might be bad luck to leave my effects unattended. Hmm, what to do..." He sighed, and then suddenly looked out into the street. "Oh, I say. Is there somebody there? Excuse me! Ho!" If he seemed upset at the thought of someone seeing him like this, clambering all over buildings taking notes, he certainly didn't show it. In fact, he went about his work much in the same manner as a painter on the street, too concerned with the craft than for the appearance of it.