Dirk's protestations, of course, result in a firm poke in the back with a spear. It's not hard enough to draw blood, but it sends a message.
No one else speaks to him on his guided tour into the village. The other villages Dirk spotted spying on their exchange earlier now watch him warily from around doorways and behind huts, clicking and humming under their breath to the others in earshot. One of the guards breaks off to go gather away a child, not much more than eight or ten and wearing what appears to be a modified hemp sack for clothes, away from where they're gawking close to the edge of the road.
The other four push Dirk to the far side of the village - square XI.U.14 - where, in the sun and facing the sea, sits a much larger, more elaborate wood, thatch, and metal scrap building. Inside sit three middle-aged people on...airplane chairs? Yes, definitely airplane chairs, raised atop wooden crates and pallets above a rough stone and sand floor. Each of them wears an assortment of obviously scavenged, modern-looking clothes, patched with scraps and some natural materials.
The guards behind Dirk stop just within the doorway, rhythmically slamming the butts of their spears into the ground (a pattern that Dirk will immediately recognize as spelling "S.O.S.") before they block his way out. The person in the center - a woman, long, sandy blonde hair, heavily tanned and freckled, wearing a loose dress over a pair of torn jeans - speaks first.
[Name, outsider?] Unlike the guards, she uses the formal form of Morse code, down to clicking out the punctuation. [Or should I ask for your sign?]
no subject
No one else speaks to him on his guided tour into the village. The other villages Dirk spotted spying on their exchange earlier now watch him warily from around doorways and behind huts, clicking and humming under their breath to the others in earshot. One of the guards breaks off to go gather away a child, not much more than eight or ten and wearing what appears to be a modified hemp sack for clothes, away from where they're gawking close to the edge of the road.
The other four push Dirk to the far side of the village - square XI.U.14 - where, in the sun and facing the sea, sits a much larger, more elaborate wood, thatch, and metal scrap building. Inside sit three middle-aged people on...airplane chairs? Yes, definitely airplane chairs, raised atop wooden crates and pallets above a rough stone and sand floor. Each of them wears an assortment of obviously scavenged, modern-looking clothes, patched with scraps and some natural materials.
The guards behind Dirk stop just within the doorway, rhythmically slamming the butts of their spears into the ground (a pattern that Dirk will immediately recognize as spelling "S.O.S.") before they block his way out. The person in the center - a woman, long, sandy blonde hair, heavily tanned and freckled, wearing a loose dress over a pair of torn jeans - speaks first.
[Name, outsider?] Unlike the guards, she uses the formal form of Morse code, down to clicking out the punctuation. [Or should I ask for your sign?]