The passage above rang with harsh words and stomping feet, muffled somewhat by the feet of stone and Geode between the entrance and the Kiva. One could tell that at least one voice was heavily accented and uncouth, the other rather educated and refined.
The boots drew closer, accompanied by the sounds of mild struggling. Soon, two men appeared at the top of the Kiva's ladder, the sounds of a verbal battle ensuing.
"... No reason to be doing this, Richard, I'm a businessman, not a -"
"Shut yer gob, Luke, ah'm not dealin' with yer crap right now, now get down that ladder an' help me out."
Moments passed, and then the ladder bore the weight of two new arrivals.
The first was a dark-skinned male, well dressed in a maroon turtleneck sweater and charcoal corduroy jacket, round sunglasses, pinstriped black trousers and a pair of patent leather dress boots far too shiny to be a true spacefarer's but not clean enough to be a legitimate businessman's. His face wore a look like showing up to this was a mild inconvenience at best, but he took a free spot in the circle.
The next was a familiar face. The thick beard and cowboyish exterior of Richard Sykes entered the room, dressed in a black flannel shirt with a bandana tied around the right bicep, beaten jeans and thick pilot's boots, his beaten hat held in one hand as he nodded solemnly at the gathered Popes and Popess. "Ladies, Gentlemen," he grunted, assuming his place in the Kiva. "This's my workin' associate Lucas. He's new ta th' organization an' ah figgered he should be here fer this."