The Fontana Summit

[Traxit]

A crude Kestrel matching the manifest harbours itself in the freeport momentarily after the Alliance Commander seats himself in anticipation of his guests, the guards notify him.

No more than five minutes and the Zoner delegate comes forth into the chamber, sporting the classic brightly-tanned outfit his people wear, with substantial dust discolouration and splotches of oil stains that grow larger in size and frequency towards his breeches and boots.
His facial hair spans across ear to ear and his lower cheeks, it's a greying and unkempt mess, his hairstyle is two months due for a haircut, but noticeably his mustache seems to be trimmed, deliberately groomed to minimise hair ingestion for when the Zoner takes the rare bite.
The obvious lack of care towards his appearance is akin to that of a grimy Junker, albeit in beige-khaki colours instead of brown-orange.
Cumulatively, it asserts the impoverished status the Erie Rebels have to endure while they fight for what is rightfully theirs.

He stops pacing into the chamber just ahead of the door-guards and under the proverbial red carpet, to look at the host and meet his gaze. He clenches his fist and puts it to his heart before bowing his head firmly. "Thank you, for the warm welcome, Mr. Cobra. Name's Tomas."

After gesturing his respect, he proceeds to his anointed seat and orients himself to lean left so as to face the Alliance Commander more naturally. With no further comment, he begins to nibble on the Luxury Food presented deliciously on the table. The gentle pickings show a civil demeanour, but the frequent outreach for seconds hints at a famished appetite. A thinly-veiled contrast fitting for the Erie Rebels, a once civil and content populace pushed to extreme measures, picking out scrappings like vultures.

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