Basalah's Story

The sound of a motorbike ripped through the forest before puttering to an idle.

Gromp Fungona dismounted the vehicle in the flattened spot of grass where, presumable, a large animal had passed through not long ago. He grunted and made his way towards a half eaten berry bush. They were no good to ingest, but they made a great dye. They made an even better poison.

In the midst of the wilds an interloper had invaded it, unseen, unheard, through something more esoteric means. Small enough to hide and in the form of something relatively small and unassuming. This wasn't her native world, this wasn't her native form, but the fear was all too familiar. This small invader knew too well the fear of teeth and claws, in a unforgiving wilds of her own world. One of her first acts was to hide. Having taken up residence in the cabinet of the kitchen of the old facility, she made her presence as minimal as possible.

She heard movement everywhere, sounds of animal calls, of cracks and crunches of feet both heavy and small. She curled up in there, holding her hands over her ears and tightly closing her eyes.

"Little Spark, are you..? Ah. I'm sorry, Little Spark, the Samsara it is... imprecise, whatever was done here left a kink in the veil," a somber male voice speaks in the back of her mind. Her voice cracks lightly as she places her hands on her face, uttering a name or title, Saraph. "Shh now, collect yourself, you must move forward. There is a flaw somewhere in the veil. I am sorry I cannot be by your side, but I made you strong. Remember, it takes only a little spark to cause a fire Basalah."

Her eyes flare for a moment, and, getting down on all fours, she cracked the cabinet door to peek out, her eyes unusually adept at what little light exists here. She was used to an even darker place, in fact. She forces herself out, quietly scurrying through the building, her red scarf dragging behind her. She paused along the way, another sound of footfalls even smaller than her own. Her ears twitch and she caught sight of a bushy tail. Its movements were... precise, with deeper intention. Curious. She quietly followed, making sounds even light to her acute ears. Eventually leaving the facility altogether, the flood of light nearly causing her to double back. She squinted tight and let her other senses guide her.

She heard another sound, heavier, her heart skipped a beat as she hid in some brush and waited for the massive... shelled... thing to part. As she hid, she observed the behaviors of the smaller creature, taking note that it seemed sapient as it protested at the massive monstrosity which seemed—far less so. As the interaction concluded, and the two parted ways, she thought to leave but before she could get too far to observe, another sound caught her attention. Ducked back in, the sound that approached sounded unnatural. There was a strange little... man? Riding atop a wheeled construct. Machines were not a foreign concept, but few exist where she's from. The other thing she knows is that thing he carries is likely worse news than teeth and claws. Regardless, he's relatively the most familiar creature she's seen since coming here, leaving reasoning a potential option if an encounter was unavoidable... then again, it never worked in her homeland.

Gromp Fungona continued to pick the berries, grumbling to himself about damned turtles and stupid space ships. He swore it was just yesterday their mountain village was considered a village. It was the same size, same place, but had grown all the much larger what with the influx of new people.

People, Gromp thought with a roll of his eyes and a tug at a particularly unreasonable collect of berries. People were everywhere. Big, stinkin', lumbering, loud, why wouldn't these damned berries give?!

The gnome let go of the berries and huffed. He folded his arms, evaluated them for a beat, and then launched his attack. Grasping the small branch in both his hands, Gromp shook the branch to and fro. He levered it this way, he yanked it that way, all the while grunting and cursing up a storm.

Maybe it was the universe's way of playing a joke. As soon as Gromp felt the sweat break in his beard, the branch gave way-sending the bearded gnome and all the berries tumbling backward. Gromp let out a frustrated yelp as he fell. There he lay. A gnome, huffing and puffing in the matted grass, laying flat on his back, some berries still attached to the branch clenched in his fist.

Gromp stared up at the foliage above. Fine. He could lay here for a moment. Take a breather. What was he in a rush for?

Seeing the small man struggle with a berry bush kinda... took some wind out of her earlier caution. She winced a bit as he fell back and just laid there. This... would be the first time she's seen foliage win a battle. She crawled out from the bushes and stepped forward, only to feel a snag and fall onto her face. Ouch. She rubs her face whimpering something foreign under her breath. Looking back she saw what it was... her scarf had gotten snagged on a branch. What more, she started to notice her altered shape, along with a tail... a tail!? She rubbed her face again, an existential crisis would have to wait.

She tugged herself free and made her way by the wheeled construct, feeling the wheels and chassis. Perhaps while he is incapacitated she could take the wheeled—no, not only does she not know how it works, she would just more likely incite an unwanted conflict. She made her way over to the small man instead and crouched down beside him.

"Ayph any?" she utters meekly in a foreign tongue with her voice, at the least, seems familiar coming from her own throat. "Ham ath hy..? Hhhhh... hello?"

The last word that escaped her throat came unexpectedly. What was that utterance?

Out of the corner of his ear, there was a slight kerskuffle in the bush. Gromp let out a slight grunt. Screw the bushes. Surely there was an easier way to get the damned berries. Harvesting them by hand was a personal touch, a luxury.

Expensive.

He rolled the idea of manufactured dyes applied to his hand crafted leathers in his head, noting the pros and the cons and constructing various realities in all directions. He could turn the dye pit into a hot tub, he mused upon, and smiled. He was busy calculating all of the time he could reallocate to anything at all, when someone said "Hello?" far too close for comfort.

Gromp snapped opened his eyes to something peering down onto him. A lurch later and a milisecond backward, the gnome was back to his full height and on his feet. He pawed at his red hat with one hand, quick-drawing a FUNGONA G9 with the other. This one was custom, his own piece. Made of imported silver from some far, far away planet.

"THE FNUCK!?" Flabbergasted, he aimed his pistol but didn't ready it for fire. He took in the raccoon...thing...before him, and figured it didn't seem the most dangerous. It was weird as hell, but it wore a scarf. A scarf meant it either had sentiment, or it understood how to reason around the cold. The thing had a brain.

"Inappropriate!" Gromp scoffed and shifted from foot to foot. He harrumphed. His pistol hand relaxed. He glanced back to his bike, noting that it was still there.

She flinched as he yelled something and pointed his weapon on her, and she found herself looking down its barrel. She had no idea what it did, just that she was on the bad end of it. It took a moment for her body to connect to her brain and she fell back, wide-eyed. Pathetic, Expecting mercy from a stranger when her own didn't have any.

But then nothing.

Despite clear frustration the little man relents, chastising her lack of tact. After gathering herself she stood back up. She observed him, his attention shifting from her to his construct. As tensions dropped she began to gather the berries scattered about.

"U-um?" she utters, holding them out in cupped hands.

Ah, shit, Gromp holstered his gun with a sideways mouth and a hard look at the raccoon-looking creature before him. They were about the same size, which wasn't too unusual. Gromp knew his kind was considered small to apparently most every other sapient thing out there.

"Thank," the gnome took a waddle forward and held open a satchel attached to his hip, "Throw 'em in, eh?"

Gromp tried to smile at the berry-helper. It didn't come across as much more than a grimace. It was the thought that counted, right?

She watched intentively as he holstered his weapon, a relief certainly, but also taking note of how he handled it. She had no idea what it did, but now she had a good idea how it would be used... not that she looked forward to it.

He seemed to trust her at this point, enough to waddle up to her. He certainly seemed lacking in mobility, maybe why he needed that wheeled construct? He reminded her of an elder, and as they say about elders, she wasn't about to disrespect. She did wonder why he would want these suspect berries, but reached out and carefully poured them into the satchel.

"W-welcome," she stuttered, gripping at her scarf. She wasn't sure if showing too much intellect was safe.

Silently and unseen, a small golden circle formed among some barrels, and out from it emerged a small interloper. She was only moments before in a place filled with giant turtles, ravenous beasts, talking rodents, and strange small men in pointy hats... an experience she may need therapy for, but that was in a pile amongst other traumas. As she peered around her new surroundings she found it to be a lot more civilized.

She scurried amongst the locals, clutching her scarf in an effort to keep a low profile. She has found this as something she's innately skilled with, helped by no small part by... being small. She did not know why she ended up here, her guide has been unusually quiet as well, but she knew for certain one thing: she's very hungry, and the scent of food was like a lantern among the famished, or however the saying goes. Right now that was her only guide, which just so happened to lead her to a tavern. It seemed inviting, she could tell at least it was a tavern, not that she could read any of the signs. As she slipped in among the patrons, she found a new problem: how was she to pay for a meal?

As if to answer her plight, a man's voice boomed over the room, the crackle of the speakers causing her to cringe and clutch her ears. It took her a bit, but she understood clearly three main point of interest: food, shelter, and payment.

"Ah, um, I," was the rather pathetic sound that escaped her before other voices easily drowned out hers. Among them was a figure nearly as out of place as herself, with her pointed ears and tails a plenty. This woman's elegance stirred in her a mixture of admiration and envy. Was she another interloper as herself? She even had an energy to her, not too unlike herself, but perhaps a lot more refined. She was so entranced she had not realized how intensively she was staring at her now with those bright green eyes.

This place is idyllic...
Outside, an individual wanders into the market, a bedraggled mark from all the others around... him, maybe, although it was hard to tell. He wore a long coat, concealing almost all of the shape of his body behind its thick, seemingly leather material. A wide-brimmed hat covered the upper half of his face, concealing most everything except for the occasional glimpse of what appeared to be cold, lifelessly grey and white eyes. A red scarf, if it could be called that, resembling more a long, cloth rag, was wrapped carefully around the lower portion of his face, covering up to his nose, the red tail thrown over his shoulder, and allowing for naught but the aforementioned eyes to be seen. It was surely unsettling, perhaps even disgusting, what hid behind the mask, grey flesh with an odd texture.
His ungainly movement, reminiscent of a drunkard or medicated, was unsettling, making it seem like he was barely strong enough to be walking, but the persistent strength behind his figure shone through, however dully, the stumbling seeming an almost cautious behavior, like he was faking it, maybe to look more vulnerable than he actually was...
He carries a shovel, held in one limp arm, the blade facing the ground. It's caked in mud and... perhaps blood, once you look at it closely. The blade of the shovel is sharp and jagged, as if it had been used as a spear-like weapon before, and parts of it had maybe chipped off, the durable steel being generally worse for wear.
The man stops for a moment in the market, eyeing the people eyeing him, and scans in a circle around him, feet planted steadily, helped by the handle end of the shovel, planted alongside the feet in the dirt.
Nobody around him had likely seen him before, or had any knowledge of how he got here, perhaps regarding him as a homeless person... although that seemed strange, considering that Cluj wasn't known for it's homeless population.
Indeed, he seemed alien, in every sense of the word. He clearly wasn't from here, and there was something... unnatural about his appearance.
It didn't matter to him, of course. He knew his own story, knew why he was here, just not what he was doing.
He steps off to the side of the street, against a building, cautiously surveying the area before spotting... a bar. Such a strange thing. It had been quite a while since he'd been inside such an establishment, quite a while indeed.
He steps away from the building, and steps lazily across the street, reaching behind him to grab his shovel before continuing into the establishment.

Quite a crowd. We might... have us a party.
He looks around as he opens door to the establishment, for a moment standing motionless. He doesn't know exactly why he decided to enter... He hasn't felt hunger or thirst for a long, long time. He is still reminded of his... well, his human nature, he supposes. He eyes the crowd.
Soldiers. How quaint. And indeed they were, the recognizable, organized type of folk, clearly strengthened by their time in service. Perhaps the strength was earned, perhaps learned.
A woman. No, a beast pretending to be a woman. Or... maybe a woman pretending to be a beast. He is momentarily reminded, perhaps by the noticeable... ears, of the woman, or perhaps the foxlike nature, of an old friend... or perhaps he was an enemy. The lines do blur, after all. Perhaps this one was friendlier, however.
Other people pass his vision, their forms unimportant to him, rendering him not acknowledging but aware...
And then he sees, lower to the ground, a smaller figure. A beast... Nay, something living, in a sense of the word.
Then... there's the unmistakable stench of magic. His times with the darker side of it have perhaps weakened his ability to sense it so quickly, but there's the more... inspired side. The side given by Gods or a bloodright.
Interesting indeed... What has guided us here?
He steps further into the bar, carefully maneuvering around people to come to the bar, where he takes a seat some distance away from the fox-eared woman, which he warily eyes for a second. He places the shovel leaned against the bar, and opens his jacket to rummage around, finally pulling out a notepad and piece of charcoal. He spends some time writing a couple words before showing it to the woman, holding it out in a hand covered in leather gardening gloves.
It said, in short, roughly written straight letters of Common, Speak Common? What is going on?

Andrei grippedd the vox-box for a moment, then pointing to the droid, who stood on two cocked legs. “What are your parameters, droid?” Andrei questioned slowly in Common again.



Before the droid rambled on too long, the Commandant waved a hand softly. “You are a Guardian for the travelers now.”



“You,” He then turned his attention to Lancelot and the new arrivals. “We will offer you bonus pay as off-world, foreign mercenaries. You’ll fight with the other sellguns,” He motioned to the Verians and Boklunders back at their respective tables.

One of the other Popularas, standing off to the side from the Commandant, adjusted his glasses. The Gemonese man bore the yellow stripe of the auxilia quartermasters, holding a tablet in the crux of one arm as he stepped forward. “I would suggest the foreigners outfit themselves with a Fokus and droid patch, the gear market will be able to provide.”

“What’s so important you need a section of mercenaries to walk your Popularas out in the woods?” The leader of the Verians spoke, placing his small feathered hat down on the table before him.



The words from the Commandant seemed to chill the air, one of the Boklunders turning in his chair slightly as a silence settled in the tavern. The chieftain of the northmen, a bearded Baltig named Skayvr, chortled. “Right, no one alive anymore to even walk the thing off the star deck of a crypt-ship.”

The droid listlessly turned towards Lancelot, the shuddering band of light ringing a blocky head a steady green. “You may enjoy your food and drink now, personnel are preparing for the arrival of the Exogarden.”

As the droid spoke to her, and also the Commandant, Lancelot heard a new voice, a soft timid sounding tone, spoken over by the other voices voicing their needs for work. Her vulpine ear twiched and her gaze briefly searched the room before falling on Basalah. A tanooki ? Here ? Lancelot briefly wondered.

Then she knew she was pretty much fully visible to Basa as what she truly was, a Kitsune, nine tails and all, and yet to all the humans in the room she appeared like any normal human, or at least humanish, woman with a mask on her face. The mask helped in many ways to translate words spoken.

But she heard Basa's words clear. A quiet voice, also searching for work by the look of her. The Kitsune woman turned her face towards Basa, who could easily see past the mask she wore to see her true vulpine face. "Also looking for work ?" She asked to the Tanookie.

As the droid spoke to her, asking for further info, and ther Commandant giving his speech of which group they'd be known as, Offworlders ? Oh well that could work. Lancelot nodded her thanks, slightly jerking her head in motion towards basa, "Shes with me" She said simply. She indicated a nearby table that had the rest of her gear on it, namely, her traveling cloak and a straw hat.

She turned to the Droid, "Thank you."

Soon as she sat back down she indicated to the seat across from her own for Basa to take a seat. But it was then when the unspeaking stranger showed a page of a journal or sticky note towards her. Briefly she couldnt read it until her mask translated it. He could not speak ? She simply nodded. her vulpine nature now curious of who the unspeaking stranger was.

Basalah's ears drooped and eyes shifted uneasily as the commotion seems to have drowned her out. She gripped her scarf tightly and began to breathe uneasily. But then the sound of footsteps approaching shook her from the dangers of her own inner mind. A man emerged, draped in dark. She raised her eyes to watch him, ears still drawn back warily, her large eyes scanning for anything to pick up on. She found him to be... a hard read, and in that mystery, a familiarity. Seeing that red cloth wrapped around his face she gripped her own as she stared up at his eyes. Gray and cold they were, lifeless, and while for many who would call them off-putting... for Basa, they just looked... tired. He's a survivor too.

"Also looking for work?"

Her ears shook and she quickly looked back up to Lancelot. She was talking to..? She noticed her? Someone who is everything I am not... noticed me..? As she thought how to respond, the commanding figure took attention towards them. Off-worlders? That is a way to put it... but bonus pay?

"Shes with me."

Her ears stood up, she once again snapped her gaze to Lancelot with a shocked hiccup, her eyes wide now. Did she..? She was taken aback, she was certain, especially one of such glamour would not even give her a passing glance, let alone represent her. When Lancelot motioned her to take a seat she looked back and forth before hopping into it. Her eyes narrowed as she thought on how to respond... let alone utter even a first complete word. It wasn't common there being those to listen to her speak, so she often chose to remain silent.

"Work? Yes, though... maybe a purpose," she said, trailing off a bit at the end as she fidgeted with her scarf, her eyes unfocused and wandering as she thinks through her words. "I'm... Basalah, th—though anything works."

The stranger began to write, and Basalah perked up to watch, looking up and down from the stranger to the paper. It was an unfortunate shortcoming for the small one, as she was... quite illiterate. She no more knew to write or read common as she was able to read or write her own native tongue. Why had her mentor omitted this bit of her education? Perhaps the Saraph was also illiterate, or maybe it was an oversight? Or simply he thought it wasn't necessary? Or perhaps his gift her could allow her to learn it, as long as she can connect meaning with the writing. Unfortunately... what she finds in the stranger is... weariness? Worry? It is hard, somewhat similar to when she tried to read the Saraph.

"What is he saying?" she asked, looking to Lancelot.

The Stranger looks, seemingly almost disinterested, at the small figure. He reaches back into his jacket, pulling out a palm-sized stone, the rough face of it glinting with a dull metallic shine, similar to that of silver. He places it on the countertop, wrapping his fingers around it protectively, then loosening them, and slowly slides it down to the silver-haired creature, letting it rest in front of her. He then, also slowly, reaches for the notebook, and spends a couple seconds drawing a picture, seemingly in response to the confusion of the small creature.
Holding out the paper in front of the tanooki, the drawing, made with rough, straight lines similar to the text above it, depicts a gift-wrapped box, or a Christmas present. He sets down the torn-out paper next to the stone, and pats it with his hand before wearily withdrawing it. A vague shape behind the cloth covering his face forms and then disappears, the remnants of a smile.
He then takes up again his pencil and paper, writing quickly and carefully, before holding it out to the fox-eared woman.
A gift for the small one. Such things should be valued.
I cannot speak, which leads to a lot of listening, and which can teach you things.
You are not entirely human, but I suppose that comes at an advantage. The small one can hear people. And many others have their own things they proclaim, however silently.
You did not answer my question wholly. What has called us here?
Basalah, in their heightened sense of... understanding, perhaps, could likely sense a dull, positive energy emitting off of the shiny stone, although traced with what appears to be... perhaps fear. It gave off a feeling of... positivity in frightening times, frightening places, yet a desire to persist regardless.
The Stranger is indeed tired, and withdraws his gloved hand after placing the second torn out page in front of Lancelot, reaching into his jacket yet again and pulling out a small flask, raising it to his face and drinking through the mask.

Outside a single Komatsu LAV pulled up, and it's passenger, Major Nishiyama Masatsugu checked to make sure that he had recieved the proper directions. He let out a slight huff as he checked the map one more time, and then compared it to the place he was supposed to be arriving at.

Clasping his Howa 89, he checked to make sure the weapon was safed while his driver moved around the front of the LAV to open the door to his seat.

"Korera no bōto ni wa hōkō-sei ga naiga, minkan minpei kara no ikkan shita gunji-ryoku o kitai dekirudarou ka?" He asked his assistant.

"Sore ga watashitachi ga koko ni iru riyūda to omoimasu, shōsa." The assistant replied as the Major looked up towards what appeared to him to be a dilapidated bar.

"Hai..." The Major replied with a deep, gravely voice as he stepped outside, and pulled his watch cap over his head, prominently displaying the insignia of the Imperial Taiyou Ground Self Defense Army.

"Mō onsen ga koishīdesu." He said to himself, letting his type 89 hang loosely from his shoulder while his assistant pulled the bar door open, and the Major slowly stepped inside, surveying the interior, and removing his dark sunglasses.

"I looking for operation commander." He called out above the din of the bar interior. "I special advisor Major Nishiyama Masatsugu, at your service!" He called out, offering a brief but sincere bow.

The Commandant took a sip from a canteen at his waist, a stiff lip perhaps revealing it was more than simple water as he held the microphone by his face. Every few moments, there would be a soft cackle of feedback, the Commandant having to squint through a light projected against the small stage while he spoke. "Good then, uuuuh for the off-worlders, welcome to our homeland, and we appreciate your efforts for the people and the grateful states of Hadriatica."

The quartermaster was next to speak, sharing the microphone with the Commandant as he nudged in from the side. "Uhh, barracks and housing will be behind the cantina." With the orders of the Commandant given, the GPC personnel standing on the sidelines were then free enjoy the bar themselves.

One of the Verians at a nearby table waved his feathered hat over towards Lancelot and the other off-worlders, holding up a handful of small devices fitted on the side of the head. "Salve, viaggiatori - you might find it easier to understand everyone with these." He offered, his gloved palm stretching out. Several of the other Verians muttered amongst themselves. Taking up two tables, the section of twenty men had a veritable feast between them.

"Hai fame - are you hungry? These Gemonites cook a damn good pig." Another one of the Verians spoke, the younger Gardenite pushing a dish along the table. "Have a bite, the Popularas all say this'll be one hell of a leg."

Two of the Verians at the table were in a game of cards, holding the square, slim pieces of metal in their hand. "Think they've got some baubles to lose in a game of Stig?"

"No no, you're just looking to spread your debt - don't be an edicyte." The second one said promptly, shoving a hand out onto the pile of cards and loose dollars on the table between them.

When the Taiyou entered, the Commandant checked the tablet in his hand. "Ah, I was wondering who the Taiyou would be sending." He said calmly, giving a brief bow and salute in return. "Captain Petralios ... Captain!" He called, and from one of the tables a man in grey stood up. "You - the Major here will be in command of your company for the operation ... we need someone who has actually led troops in the field."

"Welcome to Cluj, Major." He spoke, though his language seemed slower as it was re-translated, somehow as he spoke. "I don't know why the Taiyou have sent an advisor all the way out here for a burial mission - but I don't question why the Gardenites do what they do anymore."

Lancelot smiled as Basa introduced herself, The Kitsune woman kept her mask on, appearing mostly human to the speechless stranger, and to everyone else besides Basa she appeared perfectly human just by look alone. "I am Lancelot, Lancelot Dulake." She said introducing herself to Basa, and in a way, the speechless stranger.

Not that it really mattered who could speak and who could not. "A purpose ?" why were they there after all ? In Lancelots case it was simply to receive a parcel, a basic list of eight names. Eight different people who made the dire mistaske of earning a Force Dragon, and Silver Dragons ire

In this case Lancelot was the last person to receive the list, compile it, and observe the named beings upon said list. Sadly, each person ahead of her with the list were slain, or had sent out the list before their untimely demise. Lancelot being a Kitsune, was tasked by the Force Dragon known only as Naratas Aigatis and his wife, Diamond daughter of Light the All-Mother to recover the list and get it to their own daughter, Crystal

The problem arose when Crystal received word that Strahd had been destroyed at the hands of her old party from when she was first exploring the worlds and explored what she could of Barovia. So now she wanted to go hunting on her own, and eliminate each one of those members on the list of names. But they must have known they were now the prey because each person tasked with complining the list were slain, either by the persons requested, or otherwise. In most cases it was the named beings indicated on the list.

Lancelot smiled once again to Basa, thwe way the Tanooki referred to herself, saying thaty any name would be fine, Lancelot said simply, "I believe Basa has a nice ring to it." They all had a purpose, a calling in life, and sometimes the Kitsunes calling was to enjoy the company of others.

Some soldiers near a larger table offered some spaces for them to sit and join their massive feast of a meal, another table where some Men were enjoying what looked to be a game of cards. the meat smelled wonderful to the vulpine nose of Lancelot, and she briefly thought it over before nodding at the offer. Food smelled good enough to share of course.

As the Speechless Stranger set the gift upon the table for Basa, and wrote the note. What had called them there ? Fate, destiny, purpose, work ? All possible answers, but truthfully she wasnt sure. A gift was a welcome one and Lancelot had to smile now able to fully understand what the speechless stranger was writing. "It is a gift for you" She said to Basa indicating the item the Speechless Stranger had indicated for Basa.

She then saw what else he had written, so he knew too she was not exactly what she appeared to be ? She was torn, should she show what she truly was as a being ? Her true nature of a Kitsune ? But she also saw that he had written keeping such secrets came with some advantages. She simply pointed to what he wrote, Yes she wasnt exactly Human in the sense that she was a human being, She tapped on the words, "If it can remain between us" She started to say when the door opened

Her attention was taken by the arrivial of a Man, Asian in appearance similar to herself, dressed in combat gear carrying a weapon unlike anything she had encountered at least recently. He was referred to as an advisor ? And yet the man was armed, ready for battle, and yet also had a odd sense of welcoming to him ?

The Stranger, one she has been also quite interested in, had placed before her a peculiar gift, a silvery stone that emanated a feeling. If anyone had seen her eyes, those little rings in them rotated slightly, and her pupils dilated and constricted. She did indeed feel it, what was perhaps a pure reflection of the previous owner. It gave her perspective... and even something of a kindred spirit she had not expected. She clutched it carefully and looked up to The Stranger.

"I... thank you," she says, but there was more to it than words, a silent promise was made, whether he's aware of it or not. For her, kindness is something owed in turn, even a small kindness, and this... seemed something of a deep importance.

Basalah looked up at Lancelot, gripping her scarf a bit less tightly than before She introduced herself, and there was a bit of thought in those big green eyes, a curiosity. To her, names held meaning, and to be given a name was one of the most important thing in one's life. She also listened as she decided to call her Basa, a shortening of her gifted name.

"Lancelot... ah, it means?" she asks, a genuine curiosity as her eyes probed for an answer. She then shifted her gaze, scratching her cheek as she furrowed her brow in thought, before seemingly smiling under the scarf. "And ah, Basa, I... yes, I rather like that."

She had decided that she was best to follow along and make herself useful, and assist as she needed... perhaps it would help her own mission, seeking out clues to an energy source. Her ears perked up when she caught wind of what kind of mission this was, upon hearing the mention of a burial. Burial..? She didn't understand the culture, she didn't understand the word "sarcophagus" earlier, but she now found it strange that mercenaries would be necessary for a... a funeral..?

"Burial mission..?" she quietly asked, looking again to Lancelot.

The Stranger calmly takes the flask from his lips, setting it back inside of the jacket he wears. He exhales slowly when he hears the words "Burial," an old, familiar phrase he had spent a lot of time hearing, in the times before.
He had once had a job, akin to gravekeeping. It wasn't glamorous, and indeed he was often hated, vilified even for it, his distant demeanor earned through his kinship with the dead. He looks over to the side, eyeing the collective of soldiers, situated around a feast, of sorts.
He pushes his chair back from the bar, holding up a single finger to the other two, as if to signify that he'll be gone only a moment. He then rises to his feet, and lumbers over to the table where the men-at-arms are seated, taking slow steps, as if to stabilize himself.
When he reaches the table, he stands awkwardly outside of it, at a corner where nobody is seated. He holds up, again, a single finger, asking those seated to wait, before drawing out a notebook and writing on it for a couple seconds. When he's finished, he again holds it up, facing the group of soldiers, patiently waiting for them to take notice.
He again writes in Common, a language he presumes is known to them, and the message is as follows.
I offer my services to assist in this burial. I have some experience as a soldier, and the matter of respect and death is something I value. I do not ask for pay. I simply wish to help.
He nods politely, as if in addition to the message.

“Benvenuto - welcome, then.” One of the Alpinists at the end of the table responded, waving to the empty seats between the men. There were a dozen or so in total, small bags and backpacks on the floor and table alongside them. “I’m Captain Francisco, the lord of our county dispatched us to aid in the burial of an old friend - some old alliances and friendships amongst the Sector Lords.”

“I heard Lord Giovanni and this Neaustran fought in the Commonwealth Wars together, back when this planet was just a light port. Wouldn’t be surprised if anyone’s heard his name on this planet in a century.” Another soldier reported, putting some food on his plate before praying quietly to himself.

“The old Gardenites that live out in the hills and the frontiers haven’t been seen around here in about as long.” A third soldier inferred, one leg crossing over the other to steady his plate as he took a large fork full of meat and veggies.

From nearby, one of the grey-coated Popularas stopped in his tracks as he overhead the Alpinis speaking. “Ah, you guys talking about the Verinorde? They left to go live in the hills after the wars - just up and left everything to us.”

“Lots of the Old Ones left the cities, they can only live in them when their numbers are high. With all the Edenites calling for purges they’ve been segregating themselves for the past century - I’m surprised there’s not some Imperial here trying to raise a mob to burn the sarcophagus.” The second Alpinist said, cutting at his meal with a knife and fork for another bite. The Populara gave a fervent shake of his head.

“The Verinordes fought for us when no one else did in the liberation war against the central government in Langara, Cluj welcomes the Gardenites.”

Amongst the other Popularas, the Commandant had departed, leaving several of his sergeants about the taverna floor. One of them wore a rugged vest, plates dangling with the reflective Gemonese “Takerta” pattern camouflage used by the Popularas on the planet of Hadriatica. He approached the Alpinists and the new additions to the expedition. Beside him stood the rugged, bipdeal automaton that rested on stocky legs.

“Welcome to Cluj, travelers. I’ve had the droid programmed to liaison for you while you’re on the planet. He should be able to help you with any questions. I’m Sergeant Cosmin, the administrator for the town garrison.”