A New Sunrise (Mimsy, Lyra)

[Franky]

Searing 37, 122

Franky was up well before sunrise. Years in the Imperial Army had instilled the ability to operate on very little sleep and a love of strong coffee. He was out of bed, dressing in his mirror, noticing that his muscles were actually visible now. Before his oath to Malgar, his muscles had been deflated by the burning gases and scarring that came from it. And now, he was just as broad and strong as he'd been in his prime. A new man, the strength of who he was and the wisdom of who he'd become.

Franky buttoned up his shirt, grabbing his shield and belted sword, opening the door and heading down the stairs to the kitchen. It was quiet, empty for now. No one was awake yet. There weren't a lot of survivors yet, a couple of families, a handful of stragglers, some injured but patched up slightly. Ten or so in total, along with Mimsy and Weston.

In the kitchen now, Franky moved over, lighting up the lamp near to the stove. It had been a long time since Franky had to wake up the kitchen himself. A few seasons now. He checked the coals of the cooking fire in Chestnut's hearth, seeing their glow beneath the ashes. He stoked them a bit, dipping into a bit of lonely melancholy. The Gobbler wasn't meant to be empty and quiet like this. Chestnut was always the first of the kitchen crew to come in, around this time, whistling or singing terribly, while prepping the kitchen. Franky had learned that she had named every single object in the kitchen. People names. Every spoon, pot, even Fred the trashcan.

Franky put a pot on the stove to get water boiling for coffee. He checked the cooler and larder, inspecting for the ingredients that were most likely to go bad first. Franky had plenty of stored dried and preserved goods downstairs, enough that they wouldn't have to overly ration for a while. But Franky wouldn't allow for any food to go bad, not now. There was no certainty there'd be enough food moving forward. Franky had no way of knowing what state the farms of Zaichaer were in. If too much was lost, or no one was available to harvest and ship, Zaichaer would starve this winter, adding to what was likely already a severe death toll.

Save as many as you can, for as long as you can, focus on stopping that healing that scar in the sky. Franky still wasn't sure how he would even go about it. But he would do it and he would do it himself. This much he knew. He was woefully ignorant and didn't even have a bearing on the extent of the damages or the resources available. At least the storm was seeming to weaken. It was already lesser than it was before. Weston was doing an excellent job at defending the Gobbler and Franky had managed to clear a moderate swath of the local neighborhood for survivors yesterday.

And once the sun came up, Franky would venture further out. And he would keep going, keep pushing, until his mind finally figured out the solution to that angry gash hovering dangerously over top of them. He'd need help, and one never knew where that might come from. He doubted that anyone would've suspected a retired soldier and bartender would end up being able to get this far in this crazy plot of gods and chaos storms.

And yet here he was, waiting on water for his soldier coffee to boil.

[Lyra]

A faint scent of roasted beans reached Lyrielle's senses as she drew closer to the Hobbled Gobbler. Though the hour was late, or perhaps early, she knew the establishment's owner would not be caught slumbering. Two days prior she had been all but certain that Franky had died. Rumors and half-truths spoke of a foolish attempt to breach the rift that gaped like a jagged maw above the ruined city of Zaichaer. Franky, Rickter, and that other one... They had attempted not just the impossible, but the idiotic, and should have perished. Her whispers had gone silent, so it seemed that was the end of their brief, and climatic, partnership. As she stood back a few feet from the Hobbled Gobbler, Lyrielle realized again how foolish it was to believe that inevitable death would stop their return. What's more, as she stared at the Gobbler Lyrielle knew something more had changed.

The Gobbler stared back at her.

The tavern had been transformed, once smooth and rounded edges now angled and sharp. Eyes only she could see stared from where windows would have been, and the steps leading up to the door now looked like a tongue leading toward a mouth with sharp teeth. Almost imperceptibly the structure moved, window shades slapping their frames despite no wind, and ominous creaks accompanied the slight shifting of wooden beams.

"Hello beautiful." Lyrielle whispered, taking slow steps toward the building. She raised her hands as she would toward a wild animal, and as she spoke her tone softened and thin lines of her magic wove into the building's symphonies. Its soul was large, but not overly complex. It was like an animal, but its rhythms were closer to those of a newborn than a fully realized predator.

"Where did you come from?" She continued in a soothing tone, coming close enough to gently touch one of the wooden posts leading up the stairs to the tavern door. The wood felt the same as before, but if she concentrated Lyrielle could feel the life within it. Did it bleed now? Would it die? Questions, so many questions, but for now she kept them to herself. Instead, she stepped up onto the first step and paused before reaching the door.

"I know he is here. Will you allow me inside?" It seemed only polite to ask permission before entering the body of another creature. It wasn't a corpse after all, and Lyrielle wouldn't have her first impression be one of crass indifference to another soul. There was no answer of course, but as if in reply the lock on the door clicked and the door opened on its own.

Lyrielle smiled, patting the doorframe as she entered, "Thank you. I will be certain to find a treat for you later."

Walking inside Lyrielle turned around in the main room of the tavern, golden eyes taking in the inside which was changed like the outside. From the ruins of her manor, Lyrielle was able to recover one of the black dress robes that fell to just above her ankles. She wore no shoes, and her silver hair fell loose around her shoulders, hiding her pointed ears. Where her skin was exposed to dark lines as tattoos moved in slow, ever-changing patterns which stopped at her neckline. She was in no hurry, so she moved to seat herself at the bar, letting a cheek rest on her hand as she waited patiently for Franky to show himself. Behind her, the door closed with a soft click.

[Mimsy]

Mimsy touched her hand to the ground and stirred her aether into mother. She followed the dimming line of the protections she had woven thus far. Expanding her senses outward she wove together an anchor and set it into place before spreading a shield outward from that anchor. Quietly she walked the perimeter of the Hobbled Gobbler, setting up ancillary anchors as she went. She created a single layer to the shielding, making them rise in rectangular shapes upwards into the skies just slightly above the roof of the Gobbler. The task she gave each face of the wards was a simple one, merely to forbid the passage of the Dread Mists. The effect offered protection not only from the mists but also from those creatures horribly warped and infused with them. It was a rudimentary protection but she did not have the time or ability to refine it much more than that. When she had put the last ward in place, she turned back to the Hobbled Gobbler.

Mimsy had risen just before sunrise in order to give herself enough time to get to work. She was not the master of the warding that the man, Rickter, had been. She could not be a bulwark against such horrendous catastrophe but she could offer what she could to those who needed it. She tugged her shawl closer over her shoulders. Despite being the middle of summer, she was cold. It was likely her nerves. She placed a hand on the door to the tavern, glancing around the outside for any sign of people. It was a ghost town for the moment. The day was still early and many were not keen on wandering the streets unless they had strong reason to do so. Mimsy chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, her brow creasing with worry. Seeing the ruin and rubble had her mind turning to the days ahead. There was much to rebuild. She did not know if Zaichaer had the means of rebuilding. Not after such a devastating attack as this.

She reached up for the door handle but found the door was already slightly ajar. She blinked at it. She could have sworn she closed it before she stepped out for her morning routine. Stepping into the main room of the tavern she gently closed the door behind her. She blew a stray tuft of hair out of her face and was about to shuffle off to the kitchen when she noticed a guest.

“Oh!” Mimsy shrugged off her shawl, draping it over her arm. She smiled brightly at the silver haired elven woman at the bar. “Good morning, Miss! Goodness, what time is it?”

She must have taken longer to set up the wards than she thought. Smiling brightly she shuffled off toward the kitchen, making a placating gesture to the woman.

“If you give me just a bit, I’ll have breakfast ready shortly!” With a pep in her step, Mimsy popped into the kitchen only to see the proprietor of the Hobbled Gobbler boiling a kettle of water on the stove. She blinked at him. She really must have lost track of time if she was so behind already.

“Mister Franky!” She looked at the pot on the stove. She saw nearby coffee beans. Mimsy put two and two together. She frowned.

Setting her shawl on a hook, she rolled her sleeves up and went to the sink in order to wash her hands. As she was drying her hands she shuffled over to Mister Franky and gently tugged at his pants leg.

“Now, Mister Franky, I apologize for my tardiness but you really mustn’t bother yourself with kitchen duties. You’ve got much more important things to do than this and I won’t have it. Now, off with you. I will have your morning coffee out to you in just a minute.” The whole while she talked, she was gently tugging Franky toward the doorway to the kitchen.

“Breakfast will be out shortly.”

[Franky]

Hearing a familiar voice from the bar, Franky looked over to the door as Mimsy walked in. She was always so upbeat and positive, but Franky could feel, and had since his return yesterday, that there was something deeper within her. An old scar, one that still ached. He smiled at the lass, "Good morning, Mimsy."

And a moment later she was tugging at his pantleg and scolding him in her own extremely friendly and polite way. The hobgoblin could only smile. Nothing made him happier to see people take agency over what was important to them. She'd set to work in his kitchen while he was gone and he had no desire to take that from her. She'd more than earned it and proven herself worthy. He was sure that Evzark and the crew would've already wholeheartedly accepted her, for they too often kicked Franky out of the kitchen as well.

It was nice having someone keeping the Gobbler warm. Franky was already missing his staff, his chosen family. He hoped they were doing well, wherever they ended up after evacuating with Vanessa and Anton.

And Mimsy was right, he did have more important things to do, for them, for her, for everyone.

A slight jesting smile on his face, "There's nothing more important than the first cup of coffee for a day. The first cup built kingdoms and empires. The kitchen is yours, Mimsy. Thank you." He turned to make his way out to the bar, to see who Mimsy had been speaking to earlier. He stopped at the doorway, a hand resting on the door frame.

"If you get a chance, can you... see if there's any food that burns really well in the kitchen hearth?" He rubbed the frame, feeling the Gobbler purr once more at the touch, "I think the Gobbler might appreciate it."

And without any more context, Franky stepped out into the bar, unsurprised to see Lyra sitting there. He suspected that she was not much of a sleeper, during a catastrophe or not. He smiled at the silver haired woman, making his way behind the bar, "Good morning, Lyra." Lyra would be able to see Franky's true form, hovering around the visage he was wearing now. His true form looked as he did in his youth, fiery red hair, with eyes to match. His skin was a deep green that had been blackened, mottled, almost feeling rotten and degraded. It was what his skin had looked like when the gases from the Imperium's bombs had begun to work. There was also a perfectly formed hole carved right where his heart should've been. Lyra would be able to focus on either of Franky's form easily, similar to how one adjusts to transition lenses.

And likewise, Franky saw Lyra's as well. Physically, she appeared mostly in the same shape, but her edges seemed less defined. There were black tattoos moving and swirling over her skin, and he could see faces and hands pressing against the skin from within, trying to escape, it seemed. Still beautiful, simply different than what he knew her as. He arched an eyebrow at this, "It seems we've much to talk about. I'm pleased to see that you survived this storm."

Franky leaned back against the prep counter of the bar, arms crossed, looking at Lyra, "It's a whole new world now, it seems. Thank you for holding up your end of our deal. It is my turn now."

Franky did not feel the need to parse his words, not in Lyra's nor Mimsy's presence. Time was limited and Franky had so much work to do, "The Rift is frozen until Ash. It will reopen then, and chaos renewed. The Presidium is destroyed. Zaichaer, as it was, has fallen. It is time for me to build a new kingdom from the ashes."

Simple statements, truthful observations. "What are your desires now, Lyra? It has been an eventful few days, but we get a single moment's respite here."

[Lyra]

The sound of small footsteps drew Lyrielle's attention, and she followed the little gnome's walk through the tavern with a mixture of interest and bemusement. She had seen her like before, but to find one in this setting, at this hour?

Wasn't she... the elf pondered, half remembering the other woman's presence on the day of the storms, but she had dismissed the creature at the time and held little recount of her activities that day. Lyrielle did not say anything in reply, but smiled and waited patiently for the owner to arrive.

Absently she looked at the palm of her hand, tracing a pattern with a nail before making a small cut. She watched as a trickle of red beaded there, and again marveled at the flesh she now possessed. A part of her had thought she would feel trapped, confined within skin and bones, but Lyrielle felt none of those things. Instead, she felt... solid, grounded in a way she had not in centuries. Was it because of the body she now had, or had there been something else that man had done?

At his greeting Lyrielle smiled up at Franky, "Good morning."

The smile faltered somewhat as her eyes looked at the hobgoblin. She saw the man she knew, and the man he was overlaid, walking in sync in an eerie display of duality that Lyrielle had not been expecting. The former was the image of the older tavern owner whom she had made agreements with prior, the latter was an intimidating figure whose handsome features had been charred black. She stared into the hole in his chest for a long second before looking up to meet his eyes and then passed them. There she saw the warmth of a fire in the hearth, a mountain on which rested a crumbling city, the scent of cigar smoke, and felt the burn of aged whiskey. The two images resolved themselves until the man she recognized was clear, and her smile returned.

"Much indeed." she said in response to his first statement. Glancing down Lyrielle licked the blood from her palm before folding her hands in her lap. Patiently she waited until Franky had finished speaking, then taking a moment, formulated her response.

"I am pleased that this place, and you, survived the events of the last few days. I thought I felt the hand of another staying the winds, but I was not certain." Her thoughts returned to that night, the comet in the sky that flew toward the rift. She wanted to ask, yet at the same time knew that it did not matter at all. Instead, she gave thought to Franky's words, which she noticed held a very particular phrasing. What were her desires now?

The words of another oath came to her.

I, Lyrielle tu Kovash Elmari, last of the true Dinor'afiel swear by the blood of Akrivar, he who keeps oaths, that in exchange for all the scattered pieces of my soul to be returned to me, the lands of Zaichaer will fall before the true power of the Northern Cities, and the Imperium will be made to kneel or be eradicated.

As she mused her smile slipped away and she idly scratched at the bar's surface. Her markings were still there, her wards still activated, though eventually, those would fade. Up until two days prior, the entirety of Lyra's actions since being freed were focused on a singular goal... a goal which was now fulfilled, at least in part. She had a body once more and could interact freely with the physical world. What's more, she had taken a step down a new path, one which help more possibilities than she had time to consider at the moment. Franky's question, while simple, was not so easily answered. Instead, she looked up and asked a question of her own.

"This kingdom... what is it you plan to do with it, once it is completed?"