Frost 1st, 122
Franky was in his office, staring out the window at the darkened, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. It was terribly weak, due to the rationing he'd put into place at the Knob. The world had gone crazy since he helped to get the Rift sealed. He watched as the darkness of the night was fading, replacing itself with shadow, a strange phenomenon that had been going on for nearly thirty days now.
Arms draped over Franky's shoulders, the warmth of his wife's body pressing against his back. She kissed the back of his neck. It was strange, to be allowed these moments of normalcy in this beyond unprecedented times. Dalma and the rest of the staff of the Gobbler had come back after the mages from Kalzasi managed to stabilize the rift. Franky was housing them all in the Gobbler itself, for their own safety. Every room was now shared by as many could sleep upon the floors.
And it truly was the safest place in the Knob. The Gobbler hid those within her from the horrors outside, and the very few that managed to be brought in by curiosity or intent found themselves quite gobbled up. Franky sipped once more at the piss poor coffee that Mimsy had tried her hardest to make more palatable, but supplies were too thin for even her best efforts.
"Where are you going out to today?"
It was a good question. Franky, and a handful of others, had been slowly working to secure the upper portion of the Knob, acquiring supplies, locating survivors, fortifying their positions. Between the monsters from the Mists, the creatures coming out of the mines, and these shadow creatures now, Zaichaer was in all out war with all that was not people. Franky's brow furrowed, his face showing his age and the stress from these recent seasons. He took in a deep breath and sighed.
"Northway, I saw a warehouse with its doors still secured yesterday."
He drained his terrible coffee. It was the only luxury he'd allowed himself to have, at Mimsy's insistence. He was the one leading these efforts, the one keeping everyone here safe and alive. Even with rationing in place, they were burning through the Gobbler's reserves. Thankfully, the beer and ale and wine that Franky did have in large supply were nutritious enough to keep people from wasting away. The strongest alcohols were put in reserve for cleaning wounds and as painkillers.
The Gobbler was still operating, but it wasn't refusing any who could pay. Rather, it operated on barter, on favours, on labor.
Dalma unwrapped herself, moving to sit atop his desk. She looked at him, shaking her head, "Everytime I venture into the Astral Sea, I see nothing but unending Darkness. I know not if this is because its all that Galetira is focused on or if that's all there is to See."
Franky nodded.
"I'm not sure what anyone is able to do these days. The gods won't fix it and us mere mortals can't fathom it." He set his mug down on the window sill, "We just have to survive it." He felt his inner self, his true demon form smile at that, even though the mouth his wife could see remained in its perpetual frown. Survival was Suffering, Franky knew this to be true more than most. Franky dressed, woolen trousers and shirt, a thick woolen cloak to overlay it. He grabbed his sword from beside their bed, and his shield from where it laid upon his desk. He leaned in, touching noses with Dalma, then kissing her softly. Picking up the shield, he looked at the small pocket she'd sown into the leather strap, for keeping Talon's feather safe. It was a powerful relic and it helped protect him while he was in the field.
Still, even with a literal symbol of hope with him, Franky found that saving Zaichaer felt hopeless. It was a war on too many fronts. And by spring, half the surviving population will have died to starvation or exposure, he was sure of it. He pulled the longer strap of his shield over his chest, carrying it upon his back, his sword kept in hand. There was simply too much for mortals to handle, and he couldn't help but wonder how the other parts of the world were faring. Were his children and grandchildren alive in the Imperium? Was Yeva safe in Ecith?
How could he look to the future with so much chaos?
One problem at a time, that was his soldier's discipline talking. Supplies for winter. They had a small, safe stronghold, and if they could continue to grow it and hold it, they could reclaim the Knob, possibly the city. Franky squeezed Dalma's hand, giving her a nod, before stepping out of his office. He could hear many of his staff downstairs working already. They were tireless and all of them were stepping up.
Except for Millie.
She was the only one that didn't come back. He'd been told that she had continued onward to the Imperium. And something about that cut him deeper than he'd expected. She was the first one to join him at the Gobbler and now she was gone. They had had their goodbyes that day he sent everyone out on Vanessa's ship, but part of him always expected her return. Franky was careful in his footsteps, navigating around the displaced Zaichaer refugees, of all race and wealth. Most that were bunked here were from the Knob and Grungeworks, but there were others too, former soldiers without a leader, lesser nobility that had to flee West End. Chaos was the great equalizer.
Slipping into the kitchen, Franky was pleased to hear the familiar arguing and threatening with knives of his kitchen staff. They'd been integral at determining what was safe to eat from the monsters that were brought back by Franky and Weston and the few others out helping to fight back against the world. And Mimsy was a delightful addition, as well, ever pleasant and positive. Chestnut was busy cooking a stew, whistling. He watched as she put some pieces of wood into the water. Without even looking up to acknowledge him, "It's for Hobbie. She's hungry."
Franky's eyes narrowed. Chestnut shouldn't know about the Gobbler being alive. Only himself and Lyra knew this. Yet ever since Chestnut had returned, she'd nicknamed the tavern 'Hobbie' and had been feeding her through the hearth. And Hobbie had come to quite enjoy this, purring to Franky whenever she did. How Chestnut knew, he'd never know. Giving straight answers to any questions was not something Chestnut ever bothered with, and Franky doubted she'd start now.
Moving through the kitchen, he stepped out into the transformed barroom. As the only point of entry left unbarred, the barroom had been made into a defensive stronghold. Traps laid all throughout the entry way, and one had to navigate furniture and barrels and crates nailed down to get to any other part of the Gobbler. Weston was there, keeping a meticulous checklist of supplies. Franky nodded at him when the man spoke, "Cloth." Franky nodded. Some supplies like food, medicine, weapons, were always needed, but Weston had been good about communicating the less noticeable needs.
Franky wove through the defensive maze, peeking into the theatre, where many were still sleeping. The stage had been turned into the impromptu clinic, the audience a sleeping area. The casino and fight pit both were filling up as well. It would be a long winter with this many mouths to feed. Approaching the door he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Then Hobbie opened her maw and Franky stepped out into the streets once more.
He cast his gaze around, seeing all the neighboring buildings were fortified just as the Gobbler was. They'd managed to secure several blocks in this fashion. They had enough space, but not enough bodies yet to defend it. As Franky went northward, he nodded at the few that looked down at him from the rooftops, they all knew that none of them would be here if it weren't for Franky achieving the impossible of warning them and protecting this end from the worst of the blast.
Franky reached the first barricade, seeing Glasha, Oaky, and others posted there. This barricade marked the line of territory that they had the manpower to defend. There was another on the south side road as well. There was a second barrier beyond both, indicating buildings that had been swept of supplies and survivors, but had not yet been secured. Each day, they worked to expand their efforts a bit more. Franky nodded at Glasha, who just whapped Oaky on the back of the head for some comment he surely just made, as the guards moved the wagons of sand used as a gate. An investment in a war against Kalzasi now served as gates. Franky found something funny in that.
Between Gate 1 and 2, the buildings were open, their windows broken out, the doors clanging in the wind. Franky pulled the shield from his back at this point, and held his sword readied. These buildings were empty husks, but that didn't mean that monsters couldn't spawn. He continued his march along the skeleton that was once Zaichaer, reaching Gate 2. He climbed the stairs of crates and made his way down to the other side, an area some had begun calling the Dreads. The fog was thicker here, shadow creatures more abundant, horrors unknown from the Warrens wandered freely.
Franky wished he had a cigarette. He bit the craving by squeezing the hilt of his sword, marching into the Dreads, in search of food, medicine and weapons. And cloth, of course.
