Uncertain Allies in Freeport

The bodies have hit the floor. The two groups have decided that they need to depart before the elves of Xan'theril notice that Syn, Alexa, and Gabriel have left the restricted area where they have very. Pointed. Concerns. About them leaving. It hasn't stopped Ford from doing a pass down memory lane in the warehouse nor Trash scavenging the bodies. It is a brief, albiet final, call to the scene of the chaos before the group needs to make their way back towards the Temple.
The streets here are quiet. It is more of a graveyard than it is a old ruin of a city. The soft blue torchlight from the temple casts a glow on what was. A bustling city, especially where this warehouse is so close to the docks. The soft light dulls the aurora above, as it bright out tonight and casts a vibrant glow like water on waves down where two mercs were crushed, two burned, and two drained of their blood. A normal evening in Arhor'ha. Syn stands in the quiet street, tilting her head upwards to stare at the dancing aurora. The pain from all the previous battles pulse through her body. She flinches from the shooting pain, looking over to the torch she had placed down earlier. In the silence of the city, she leans over and picks the torch up. Its pale blue flame casting light against the ruined buildings. The trapped souls staring blankly through windows or huddled in back corners of their homes. “So this is what you created…” She mumbles under her breath as she slowly walks down the main street while her party and the new additions scavenge the remains of the dead mercenaries. “But why did you…”
She stops walking holding the torch up and running her hand along the stone wall of what once was. “Tsk.” She huffs, tossing the torch at the crumbled wall and turning to look at the others investigate the dead bodies. Her eyes meet the face of the war forged staring eerily at her from the other side of the street. She lets out a sigh and walks over to him, leaning her great club against the wall and sitting. “Syn.” She says sharply. “Is my name.” She takes out her waterskin and takes a sip. “Figured if you are going to follow me around you should know my name.” Her words have a tired tone to them, if not from battle then from all the things that have been occurring since the initial gate. Ford has not stopped staring at Syn since he informed Alexa that he is ready to head back to the temple. He doesn't seem bothered that a final sweep of the corpses for looting and intelligence needs to happen before then. He doesn't seem anything at all from an emotional read. One large helmet with a pair of amber-ruby gems that function as eyes. Flecks of green in that that refract the torchlight. He, too, looks different when the light hits him. The tapestries of black ink etched in his metal plates are different. There is less drawn on him.
"Syn Thatcher," the monotone voice replies to the introduction. It means something. "Is your name. I am Ford, a D'Acier class warforged. First mate to," the hulking metal chassis hisses as he looks around for Trash, "a currently wrecked ship. Common occurrence this year, it seems." As his head whirrs back, the massive metal man makes an observation, "You don't approve of the city, in this state or its former. History is written by victors and zealots. I haven't seen a book that did this place justice since I came back." She pauses taking a sip of water. Bring the water skin down to her lap and tapping the cork with an unnecessary amount of force. “No.” she replies. Her voice sharp and annoyed. “Syn. Just Syn.” She leans her head back against the stone wall to look up at the towering being. “Ford.” She acknowledges him, looking over the metal plates. “I don’t know how I feel about 'this' Freeport. Sad maybe? It’s rather somber here. It’s the current Freeport that I don’t approve of.” Her eyes continue to look at him rather intrigued. This would be the first time she’s seen a warforged. “What do you mean by coming back? You were here before…” She throws her hand forward to point at the ruins before them both. “before all this happened?” "Before," Ford says as he decides to let the topic of namesakes go with little more than a mental note, "During. After." His large metal hand traces where Syn's points. "This was a docking warehouse where we loaded and unloaded the hauls from sea ventures. There was an old dog named Killer that didn't have a sharp tooth left in his mouth when the pillars of light started coming down. Everyone worked with what they had and Killer was barking at angels like they were cheeky burglars." A 'click' sound meant to mimic a tongue-in-cheek 'so noted' emote. "He died quick. Painless." The hand continues on to another building, "This is where a cart vendor would post up during high noon and sell chilled fruit wine, brandy, and occasionally actual water to the working men here. She knew how to get the men to pay for the overpriced drinks just to talk to her when they could have gone," a hand motions further down the street, "To the tavern where she bought it before carting it down. Where they would go when inventory was done and they could discuss a buyer. Exaggerate on the stories as one got larger than the others." He reads off the words like they were facts, not unlike how Paulo speaks, but the difference is that Ford can't, or won't, inflect his tone at all. It comes off wholely metallic and mechanical by the end of it all. Syn's eyes follow as he points out the various buildings, telling the stories and the people who worked there. She grins slightly at the mention of Killer the toothless elderly dog. “Seems like a regular bustling city.” Syn looks down at her great club, noticing the cloth that wraps around the hilt slightly coming undone and begins to rewrap it. “So what the hell happened then?” She says, pulling the cloth into a small tight knot at the end of the great club. The towering giant of bronze and steel considers that for a moment. What went wrong? "Nothing went wrong," Ford explains in a monotone declaration. "There were forces outside that deemed that our existance was unacceptable. A city of," the iron man catches the irony as he looks down to the tiny tiefling, "Sin. When a brother strikes a brother, it is immediately taken as a thing of hatred. People here did it frequently. Even the closest would find that not trading blows is an insult the same as not politely trying the hostess' meal she cooked for you. When the things are put through that lens, you are stuck denying your nature to confirm to what makes others feel safe." A hiss as one of his valves exhales from the shoulder, "Or you be true to yourself and know others are threatened by your existance. Eventually they strike. Sometimes they strike so hard that only ash remains." The torchlight hits on where a broken cart is, showing it to be a market cart, "Sometimes worse. If anything went 'wrong' its that we ran out of time. But Freeport is something that lives in your heart. I've seen it razed twice and built thrice. They can keep hitting, but freedom doesnt die easy. Nor does it come without a cost." While Syn and Ford discuss the changes in Freeport, Alexa walks over to a body of one of the mercenaries a little out of the way. Leaning over she investigates the body to look for markers or signs to show where they are from, who they work for, and why they're here. The mercenaries that have harried both parties have enough in common to start putting it together. The two that are burned alive are no use to touch. Armor: Fine craftsmanship, polished. These men were not highwaymen looking to score an extra coin. No, coordinated forces. Human, all six of them. One had a hair braid common to Duodecim to help mark social status. But it was cut. Buzzed back in uniformity. Even the corps of Duodecim mercenaries strove to have an identity to match the client. Nationality means nothing to these men. Looking for other employers doesn't either. Gainfully employed. Enough to fight, but not to the death as two retreated. But these men didn't. Why? Why didn't they retreat and the other three did. Then on pauldron that was turn back. There it is. A tattoo on the skin just below the shoulder. Whyte. The Whyte merchantile family. Thats why there is no military insignia, its personal muscle. Why were they here? Now that there is the who, one can understand the why. What does the Whyte family want? Something valuable. Something they couldn't leave without. To rather die than come back empty handed.
And then Alexa spots Syn talking to a giant warforged with a talking sentient racoon, and a half-ork wizard. Whyte wants his property, or properties back. With a Thump Roya drops one of beefy soldiers arms. Roya holds up a pair of gold rings up to her face. After studying them for a moment she pockets them. Pausing for a moment then glancing out of the side of her eye over at the inquisitive Alexa. She strolls over to Alexa leaving the bloodless corpse. With one hand on her hip she Stands about 5 feet away from the investigator. "Do you see any precious metals on this one?" Tapping her foot nervously as she speaks. Alexa glances back at the sassy half orc. "Nothing that I can see. Some good armor, but that's up to you if you want it." Alexa steps back intentionally leaving the mercenaries tattoo visible. "Some interesting marks though." She watches Royas face to see her reaction to the tattoo. Crouching down to get a closer look at the mark. Blinking a couple of times then looks up at Alexa with a puzzled look. "Why are these particularly interesting?" She takes a moment for Alexa to respond before grabbing one of the meaty hands of the solider to start checking for jewelry. Noting the puzzled look, she offhand remarks "That's the mark of The Whyte family. It appeqrs they were after the crystal as well." Still eyes on Roya until she can gage her reaction She opens her tome and starts looking into it, planning what question to ask the corpse, and allowing Roya the time to search. After akwardly fubling with the soliders arms for a minute Roya drops the arm. She stands and dusts herself off. Her easily read face shows signs of disappointment. Clearly avoiding eye contact " and what would the Whyte family be after such an obscure artifact?" Still looking at her book, Alexa states "The family is known for collecting. This was probably the easiest, cheapest way to get it." "This doesn't seem like the easiest way of achieving your goals" picking up her foot and kicking the hulking body before continuing. "These mercenaries were clearly up to no good. I do honesty feel a little bad about little of a fight they put up." "Far be it for me to critique their methods. And they seemed valient fighters... you guys are just better." She keeps a stone like expression as she continues writing in her book....'Who is Ford.... But Why is Ford...' she writes, plotting her question. Her disappointment quickly shifts to confusion as Alexa seem to shift into her own little world. " Is there some information about my companion that you would like to share?" Taking a step closer to Alexa and getting on her tippy toes as she attempts to see what's on the pages of Alexa's tome. Before Roya can see her writing, Alexa taps the page lightly with her finger, giving the appears she's smudging the page, making her questions disappear. The page is immediately filled with history notes. Not showing any change in expression, she keeps writing, now focusing on statements about the Whyte family and the crystal. "He appears to have come from here, I haven't seen that artistry in a warforged in quite some time." Her eyes go to Roya, "unless you would like to tell me something about him." Red glistening eyes narrow as the focus on the blue flame across the way. “An existence deemed unacceptable...” She pulls tighter at the cloth around her great club, rolling it off her lap, settling beside her. “Now the question is, who gets to truly decide what is or isn’t acceptable in a world as chaotic as this one. What really becomes of the moral high ground when everyone thinks they are on it.”
She stands up, brushing her legs off from the dirt. “They’ll smite down a city of innocents but leave those who can rebuild a new Freeport and enslave hundreds into a life of slavery. Ironic.” On her tippy toes she reads upside-down. Seeing lists of families and government statistics of free port her eyes glaze a bit. She drops back down to her heels. She looks up at Alexa and makes eye contact for the first time. "Fine Ms.Stone you seem preoccupied with other things I will leave you be. As for information about my friend Ford I'll reiterate what he said: family comes first." Scooping up Tinyfang and placing him around her shoulders. Looking back at her one last time before she moving turning away she says "And Ms.Stone please be careful. From what I've gleaned from you so far you have some very powerful friends." Then with a look of genuine concern she casts her look down and turns to walk to another fallen solider. The warforge that towers high enough that he better resembles a metallic tree looks to the tiefling as she tends to the cloth on her weapons and the fire to her words. Ford says, "Morality is something invented so people can cope with the fact that good people do bad things. 'Good' bad things." There is a monotone laughter of a high-low Ha Ha Ha that follows, casting down the street further than the pale blue light illuminates.
"No one in Freeport was innocent," Ford affirms with a sense of neutrality to the topic, "Tragic, yes. Sad, definitely. Innocent victims? No, nor is anyone in the current, from your account of the place. You take an issue with slavery." With the way Ford talks it is difficult to determine if he is making a statement or a question there. Alexa genuinely smiles at Roya, "I will be careful, thank you." She watches as she walks away from her, waiting until she is out of earshot. She goes over to the corpse and kneels down. Placing the corpses hand on one page, she writes on the other. "Who were you sent here to collect?" A number begins to appear in Alexa's book. It scrawls out of the paper as the ink rises up to the surface as if hidden just beneath the thin veil of this world and the next. The number '4'. Four. Ford. “Yes.” She says with an angry tone. “My entire life was spent in chains within Freeport. It comes to no surprise that I am a little put off by the fucking city and those working in the slave trade.” She kicks a rock with the tip of her boot as she says that. Syn remains quiet at the end of her sentence. Thinking back on the years spent in Freeport before pushing off the wall and grabbing her club. “I have other things that I'm curious about but they can wait. We have to get bsck.” throwing the club over her shoulder, looking down towards the rest of the party looting and investigating the bodies. “HEY! WE GOTTA GO!” Roya almost loses her balance due to the sudden disturbance of the relatively calm air. Looking up ready for combat again.But she calms her nerves as she sees it was the horned woman. Leaning down to pick up 3 additional gold rings she hurries back to Fords side. She looking up at the hulking automaton she pulls out the loot she gathered out of her pockets. "Ford can you please store this on your person for trash. The precious metals might help trash treat your condition. " Roya smiles at Ford as she offers the assortment of jewelry to him. Ford is good at listening. He stands and doesn't move much. Its also possible he isn't listening. There isn't a sense of eye contact or acknowledgement. "A new dawn comes if we are ready for it or not," Ford says cryptically in response to the need to move forward. He turns to Roya and the loot that was gathered, "Good eye. Thank you," the big guy says, tapping on a panel on his abdomen until it opens. The jewelry jingles as it settles into the compartment next to scrolls and leather scraps from their adventures. When he isn't Kool Aid manning through walls, the warforged is an effective pack mule.