Melons, Gourds, and a Singles' Night (Open)

[Franky]

Ash 31, 121

It was Raellas, the middle day of the week, and the first week of Earth's Rest, and the warmth of the previous month was fading as the first of the cooler days were beginning to come to Zaichaer. It was evening and the regulars of the Hobbled Gobbler knew it was Singles' Night. But this one was a bit more festive than was typical. For it was also the Imperial celebration of Melons and Gourds, which was simply giving your entire day in gratitude for the harvest of the many various squashes, melons, guards, and, of course, pumpkins.

For those coming from the street, the front of the Hobbled Gobbler was adorned with piles and piles of decorative gourds and squashes, some of which had been carved into a variety of amusing shapes and faces, with candles inside to better illuminated the entire business façade. As one opened the door to the Hobbled Gobbler though, they would find themselves greeted by a wave of warmth from both the bodies and hearths inside. A cacophony of talking and laughter would echo out into the chilly night.

Inside, tables were filling up fast, and there was standing room only at the bar. Each table had pumpkins and watermelons sitting as the center pieces, with long river reeds straws sticking out from them. Communal drinks, being shared by friends and strangers alike. Others were carrying individual, smaller squashes and cantaloupes, with a single straw in them, and everyone was sipping at these and mingling. While the normal colored flagons were available to those who were more familiar with Singles' Night, they were not a common sight on this evening.

For this evening, with this particularly extra festive air, everyone was mingling alike. The regulars seemed to particularly enjoy the newer sense of mystery and unknown among the first timers and less typical arrivals. Were they single? Were they meeting someone? Were they looking for a good time? On this night, it was all a mystery, until it was time to talk.

And at the back of the tavern, Franky was there, sipping at his own watermelon, sitting on the bar. It was another busy night, as it always was, but Franky was there with a smile on, ready to pass out drinks and collect coins.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

“Dark is the night but I fear no shadow. I carry the light of glory. I carry the sovereign’s song. Dark is the night but even Chaos shall be sundered and swept. For I know the truth…” She seated herself beside Franky. Lowering the hood of her cloak. Hair blacker than midnight and eyes a soft winter blue. Her voice held a distinct Imperial lilt, the words that flowed from her lips a familiar benediction recited by Imperial citizens worldwide. She smiled at him.

“The Emperor protects.” With those words she brought a mug of hot cider to her lips and took a sip. Setting it down she crossed one leg over the other. At first glance, she wore the clothes of a common woman. But to the eyes of a trained soldier such as Franky, there was more to be seen. The hilt of a dagger in one of her boots. The lump of a pistol at her hip. The clothes were tailored to allow freedom of movement at a moment’s notice.

“A piece of home brought all the way to the north. It feels good to know there is at least somewhere here that has culture.” She looked around. There was a geniality to the soft smile on her lips and a hint of longing at the edges of her eyes. Homesickness. It was gone in short order. She extended a hand to Franky.

“Veronica.”

[Franky]

Franky heard the familiar words of home, spoken in a voice he'd heard a hundred different times from a hundred different mouths. And as the new patron finished her words, Franky gave one of the appropriate responses, "And we protect the Emperor." It took a simple, obviously shown once over of the woman to see she'd joined the service just as he had. An Imperial soldier had found a tavern run by an Imperial veteran, running an Imperial holiday. None of this was a surprise to Franky. After all, it had been his intention.

Though not this specific stranger, whoever she might be.

Franky smiled at her compliment, one of the highest an Imperial citizen might give while abroad. "Someone had to show them the way." Franky sipped on his watermelon cocktail through the reed, now turning to face her more properly. He'd gleaned that moment of homesickness, one he'd seen many a times in his own mirror, but the moment it was stashed away with that Imperial discipline and efficiency, Franky knew.

This was no accident.

She was here with a purpose. And he was vital to that purpose, whatever that might be. He stuck out his hand and shook hers in kind, firm but friendly, smiling, "A pleasure to meet you, Veronica. My name is Franky, welcome to my tavern." Then taking a chance, he spoke in Goblish, a language that was common enough even among the non-goblins of the Imperium, "Though I'm known as Major Frankorg of Risea Village back home."

Weston was behind the bar, and slid a fresh gourd, filled with the matching gourd wine with it, two straws on it, in between Franky and Veronica. Back to Common, "What brings you this far east? Here for the proud Zaichaeri apples?" He smirked at his joke, "They certainly make an excellent cider, though are quite bitter and hard to eat."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

She accepted Franky’s hand with enthusiasm. The simple pleasure of sharing a moment with another Imperial citizen, another soldier no less, being a moment to enjoy in a place so far from home. As she withdrew her hand, she tucked her hair behind her ear. To the untrained, it was a simple thoughtless gesture. To Franky, it showed the tattoo of an open eye with five stars accompanying it on her wrist. This was an Inquisitor. She replied in perfect Goblish.

“Bishop Veronica of the enquête judiciaire.” They were known only by reputation but with that single statement, Veronica had let Franky know most everything he needed. She was an Inquisitor the intelligence division of the Emperor’s Court. No, this meeting was most definitely not an accident. She switched back to Common without missing a beat.

“I think I have found an apple or two worth biting into. They do not quite compare to the golden harvests of Arlais or the festivals of Rheimance, but I seem to have acquired a taste for Zaichaer’s particular brand.” She finished what was left of her cider with a smile before looking to the gourd wine that was brought over by Weston. She let out a satisfied sigh, the mug of cider immediately forgotten.

“Ah, you know the way to a woman’s heart. Though what I wouldn’t give to be biting into a piece of Hob Cobbler along with this.” A favorite dish in the southern half of the Imperium. It was a dessert brought into popularity by the Goblin population that lived there. A mix of bitter fruits with just a hint of sweetness to them, baked in a golden crust that was only lightly buttered. It was a commoner’s dish but it was widely enjoyed by even some of the upper reaches of Imperial nobility because of its simplicity and how adaptable the recipes were.

“Tell me, Franky, are you a betting man?”

[Franky]

Franky's eyes went momentarily wide as she revealed Inquisitor emblem to him in a very subtle to others way. His nostrils flared, his throat tightened, and he could feel his pulse rising. But he closed his eyes for a moment, covering himself by taking a drink, using that moment to get himself under control.

He had no reason to fear the Inquisition. He'd broken no laws of the motherland and was honorably discharged from his post. Still, there were more than enough stories of the Inquisitors throughout the Imperium. They did not show up for niceties and celebration. They showed up when there was a problem at hand and needed to be solved, by any means necessary.

Where Inquisitors walk, smoke follows.

Franky was still on the defensive, and suspected that most people that knowingly dealt with a Bishop were in similar positions. He was not used to being put on the back foot here in his tavern. But his training continued to play in his mind. You've done nothing wrong. She's here to solve a problem through you. Not to solve you.

Still, there was nothing exactly clean about his past with Beatrix, even if he'd been the one to march against and kill her personally. But it was all there in the many, many detailed reports. Not one lie told.

Weston smiled gently at Veronica's comments. "We try our best to serve to all kinds exactly what they want." He turned to the kitchen, casting a momentary eye on Franky, seeing how shaken the man was. Still, Weston did his duty. He moved to the kitchen opening the door, which let out the very distinct goblin voices yelling at one another in rapid Goblish.

"You cannot just put cream in that! It ruins the entire balance!"

"It is *MY* kitchen and I will do as I damn well please!"

"I'll chop your hands off before letting you desecrate that dish!"

"I'd like to see you try!"

A butcher's knife came flying out the door but Weston caught it in his metal hand with ease. "Oy, calm it down you two!" He pushed into the kitchen, the door swinging behind him.

And Franky heard Veronica's question through a slight muffled haze. A deep breath, and he had his face back on as he turned back to face her. "I do enjoy making a wager rather often, though I'm certainly no savant when it comes to winning them." He figured she was speaking in a coy manner intentionally, considering the setting, "What's your game of choice?"

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

She chuckled, reaching into one of the pouches on her waist and withdrew two dice. They were both twenty-sided but instead of numbers written upon the surface, there were words written in Common. A game that would have been familiar in many circles, especially in military ones. Fool’s Gambit, the rules were simple. One dice was rolled to assign a simple task. The second dice was rolled to assign a condition to that task. Something that had to be incorporated into completing that task. Typically, players assigned a penalty for refusing a task and a reward for completing one. The one who completed all of the tasks without folding was declared the victor.

“You are familiar with Fool’s Gambit?” She extended the dice to Franky depositing them into his hand. “We will need a good whiskey. None of this Zaichaeri swill. If you have a Sangen whiskey, that would be best. Roll for a task. With every task you take a shot. You may freely refuse a task only once. After that, you must take two shots for every refusal. First person to two refusals, loses.”

Veronica rest an elbow upon the bar, peering at Franky with half a smile on her lips.

“First to two victories is declared the winner. If you win, I owe you a service. If I win? You owe me a service. Deal?” Her blue eyes studied the Hobgoblin in front of her. The favor of an Inquisitor was a powerful thing and not something given often, if ever, to those not directly in service to the emperor himself.

[Franky]

Franky's slight grin grew at the corners just a bit more. Of course he knew Fool's Gambit. Every soldier worth his weight in the Imperium carried the dice around. Franky had a set tucked behind a bottle of brandy under the bar. At the mention of a good whiskey, Franky nodded, "For such a game, I'll have to go to my private stash."

Her offer of terms was both most unexpected and far more heavily weighted than he expected. A once in a lifetime sort of deal to be offered, and despite his misgivings, despite the words of warning in the back of his mind, Franky was truly a gambler, and a bold one at that. He didn't know what he would ask of her should he win, but he suspected she already knew what she wanted from him.

She could've asked him outright. She could've even demanded it. Yet she left it up to a game of chance and drinking and... That was it. It wasn't a drinking game, it wasn't a game of chance, not really. It was like how the best poker players often would say that they didn't play the cards, but rather the person across from them. This wasn't a game. This was an evaluation, a test of either readiness or worthiness.

He was sure of it, and he certainly wouldn't disappoint.

"I agree to these terms and may the Emperor bind me to them. If you'll excuse me, I'll be just a moment. I know just the bottle to grab."

Franky stood from his stool, slipping easily around the bar and into the kitchen. It was chaos in there, as it always was. The two goblins were being held back by Weston as they waved knives about, and yet somehow the food was still being cooked perfectly. Weston looked over at Franky as he walked to his private stairwell. A slight head nod, a question, and Franky answered in kind. Weston then returned his focus to the goblins.

A quick jaunt to his office, Franky reached into the back of his cabinet, grabbing an old, dusty bottle. There were bottles of whiskey for birthdays and holidays. There were bottles for special occasions, births and marriages. And then there was this bottle. It was unassuming, no label. The glass was a dark amber, obscuring the nature of the liquid inside. But its cork was a deep, blood red crimson.

Franky moved quickly to return to his seat, just as Chestnut walked out with a plate of steaming Hob Cobbler, setting it before Veronica. In her usual cheery, sing-songy voice, "Made by the best Goblin chef in Zaichaer, formerly personal chef to the Goblin King himself!" Then she went into a falsetto about the goblin king and a fairy queen consorting as she walked back to the kitchen.

Franky grabbed two of the good, crystal whiskey tumblers, standing on the inside of the bar, now opposite Bishop Veronica. "You probably are familiar with this bottle, though many are not. However, this particular vintage should always come paired with a story. You see, this is a Sangen bourbon, though that's not unusual. They have rum and bourbon aplenty with all of their sugar cane down in those swamplands. No, this particular bottle is special because it marks the victory at the battle of Chanterelle Shanty."

The Battle of Chanterelle Shanty was not one of the most well known battles, "I was there in those swamplands, early on in my military career. Difficult terrain. Walking through snake infested waters that came to your chin, sleeping amid clouds of mosquitoes, constantly losing soldiers to swamp rot. Chanterelle Shanty was a small, unassuming plantation village. They grew sugar, cotton, and dyes and they had one old man there who loved to distill his own whiskey. Chanterelle Shanty was a tactical nightmare but a necessity. You see, it sat upon a small backwater flow, a hidden serpent of a river that flowed all through the southern swamps. It took the Imperium scouts two years to accurately track it twenty miles."

"My first command was to take a unit deep behind the lines, secure the Shanty, and block that secret river. We lost a quarter of our soldiers just reaching it. We eventually surrounded the village, moving in, but they were willing to try and wait us out. They had private mercenaries, and the battle itself was short and brutal, but the entire surviving lot of them held up inside of their distillery, a last stand. And they could, after all, the distillery is what gave them clean water in the height of summer. The swamp water couldn't be made pure until colder temperatures came, and our mage died to mosquito fever. They just had to wait and we would die."

"We spent the time blockading the river, which then flooded the farmers' fields, devastating the crops. I knocked upon the distillery's door, telling them that our objective was done, and that we simply needed to wait to receive word from down river. I offered a chance for them to live peacefully under our watch. And much to my surprise, they accepted."

"All except for that one old man. He said he had no interest in breaking bread with invaders that had just devastated his familial home for a generation. I couldn't blame him. It was what we had done, but it was necessary. And so, a tentative peace was achieved as we held the village. Our forces recuperated and gained strength, morale was high among them. We even helped them with trenches to ease the flooding on their fields without undamming the river. They had lost a season but they would be back in the next."

"After we'd received word that we no longer needed to hold the village, I entered the distillery, and set up a table for me and the old man. He never did tell me his name. I asked him to tell me his story, for when the Imperium took Sangen, we would return to repair the damages done, and make him whole."

Franky's face glowered a bit at this, because the Imperium ultimately hadn't beaten out Sangen. Between the Alliance and the difficulties of fighting in swampland, the Imperial March was halted.

"So we shared a bottle, a fresh vintage of his, not yet aged. Something about not wanting to give the good stuff to a dirty Imperial officer. But I listened. His story was not the amazing tales of dragon slayers and soldiers of fortune or anything of such. It was a man who loved his home and his family and had found peace."

"Years after we pulled out of Sangen, I received this bottle from the man with a letter. He congratulated me on our defeat. This was the last bottle he'd ever make, for the Sangen government seized his property for growing food crops, to recover those last in the war. It was made from the grains and sugars he grew in the fields we managed to save from the flooding we caused."

"At first I thought it was a taunt, and I've nearly dashed it on the rocks many a time. But now, I know it for what it is. It's a reminder of how to make things right, and that that may often not be enough. This is that old man's swan song, a culmination of decades of love and craft. And I offer it up for this game of ours. It feels appropriate."

With that, Franky pulled out the red cork, looking at the bottom side of it, smiling. He set it down before Veronica, bottom up, to show they tiniest of words scrawled there. 'Imp. Solace' Smiling at Veronica, "You can have the cork for good luck, save it for when you need it."

He then poured the Sangen Bourbon into the tumblers. It was so perfect, it did not appear to be truly a liquid, but rather a statue carved of golden crystal. It seemed to move thick and slow, and there were notes of swampy oak, a hint of cranberry, a bit of peaty smoke, and the sticky sweetness of sugar cane. When the two glasses were given the appropriate amount, Franky held his up between him and Veronica, looking deep into her blue eyes.

"Skol."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

“Skol.” Veronica raised her glass, meeting Franky’s eyes before then touching it to the bar, raising it to her lips and tossing back the shot. She held the shot glass to her lips, breathing in the scent of the bourbon and savoring the flavor. She let her eyes shut for a moment before letting out a content breath.

“Say what you will about Sangen, they know how to make a good vintage.” She picked up the cork, rolling it between her fingers. Wordlessly she pocketed it with a nod of her head.

“I remember that place well.” Old memories danced in Veronica’s eyes. It was the look of someone who was accustomed to keeping silent about the trials and tribulations she had faced there. The Inquisition had been hard at work in Sangen. Among the people of those swamplands and plantation towns, the practice of Necromancy and some nasty variations of Elementalism were strong. Tales of bayou witches and shadowmen circulated among the populace, often serving as things that Inquisitors had to investigate due to the potential hazards they posed to the Imperial troops. It was guerilla warfare. Conventional fighting in Sangen had seldom been an option. The Imperium had learned much and lost much as well.

Veronica picked up the dice. She took out a single gold coin with her other hand, kissed it, then held it up between her fingers so that Franky could see it.

“King’s luck to you, friend.” Placing the coin down on the counter she rolled the dice in her hand then dropped them onto the counter where both of them could see.

“Kiss.” She looked up at Franky with a glint in her eyes before moving to the other dice. “With a stranger.”

Veronica took a deep breath. She nodded to herself. Picking up the bottle of bourbon she poured herself another shot.

“Skol.” She repeated her motions from earlier, taking the shot then rose from the bar, undoing the clasp of her cloak. Setting her cloak on the stool she ran a hand through her hair. She looked around the tavern until her eyes settled upon an older man who seemed particularly focused on his drink. Looking to Franky she gave the hobgoblin a wink before strolling over to the old man’s table. Veronica tapped the old man on the shoulder. He looked up from what was presumably his alcohol, blinking at her. Tossing the man a winning smile, she flagged down one of the barmaids taking more mugs from her and paying for them. Within moments she was talking to the old man and in short order he was smiling. The two of them shared a laugh before she leaned over and whispered in his ear. He blinked at her. Looked at his mug. Downed the whole thing in just a few gulps then wrapped an arm around Veronica’s waist. She swung herself into his lap, grabbed his face and planted a kiss firmly on his lips. He flailed for a moment before leaning into it. After several moments, she pulled back, ran her hands through his hair and hopped off of his lap meandering back to the bar. Behind her, several other patrons had gathered around the old man and had started talking with him animatedly.

“I do believe it is your turn, Major.” Veronica seated herself on her bar stool, propping her chin up on a hand with a smug smile.

[Franky]

Franky answered her offering of coin with an Imperial reply. He placed one down of his own, "And may the Emperor bless you." Then he watched with amusement, seeing her first toy with him, with a single word, before redirecting to her intended target. Even the words of an Inquisitor were dangerous, the ability to seduce was not beneath them, but rather taught as one of the many skills necessary to achieve the success of their missions.

Because there, as she dropped that single word, he found himself wishful and hopeful he'd be chosen. And he was a bit dashed when the choice of a stranger was chosen instead. And he knew she knew how it affected him. That was simply how the Inquisitors worked. They knew all. He shook it off, not looking to get rattled. A breath through his nose as he watched her upon that lucky man's lap, and once more she was back at his table.

At her reminder that it was his turn, a grin grew on his face as he plucked the dice from the table. Perhaps it was time to counter her intuitiveness with his beliefs in something more. He thought back to his wife, the firedancer, the mystic in his life, and her many words on the subject of fates and luck and chance. He closed his eyes, seeing his wife's form in his mind. She was dancing around their family's hearthfire, the outdoor one in their family's ward. As her hips swung and circled, his hand followed suit, shaking the dice to match her movements. It may have seemed odd, certainly superstitious, as he shook the dice for longer than what was considered normal in games such as this. But once his wife turned and looked at him in his memory, he tossed the dice.

The bounced lightly over the wood, end over end. Anger. Foe. "Make a foe feel anger."

That one would be tricky. Risky even. Franky didn't even really have true foes here. Well. Now that he thought about it... He looked across the bar, seeing a small group of low ranked Zaichaeri privates. They weren't exactly regulars but they'd come in here before a few times. And they were all human. Franky nodded at Veronica, and stood up. He grabbed a tray and filled several flagons with the cheapest, oldest beer he had on tap. A truly awful barrel, Zaichaeri made, stuff he didn't even charge people for anymore. He really just needed to throw the entire barrel away.

He walked through the crowd, balancing the tray with ease, and approached the table of soldiers. The men and women in the group, six or so strong, looked up, confused. "A round on the house, for the finest soldiers in the land. A thank you for keeping us all safe." He passed out the beers, receiving laughs and cheers from the soldiers. He grabbed the next to last beer, slipping a finger over the rim and into the liquid, setting it before the PFC sitting closest to him. It was subtle, but not enough to not get noticed by the privates sitting across from the PFC. Franky pretended not to notice their eyes go wide, a Zaichaeri taboo being violated like that. Franky grabbed the last flagon for himself, filled with water, and held it up.

"For Zaichaer!"

The soldiers joined in the cheer, though the two that noticed were a bit more subdued. Franky then raised the flagon to his lips and the rest of the group did the same. With a nod, Franky turned and left. He didn't need to look back to know what was about to happen. One of the two witnesses grew pale and green and queasy and rushed out of the tavern to vomit in the street. The other, in a hushed whisper told the PFC what had happened. The man looked horrified, glancing down at the flagon he'd just drained. With a loud growl, he threw the flagon at the wall of the tavern and stood up, storming out of the tavern, the other privates chasing after him.

Franky sat back down at the bar across from Veronica, waving off Gug who came over to see what had happened.

A subtle turn of the head, a slight grin, "Your roll."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

“No fear, I see.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of Veronica’s mouth as she regarded Franky. She considered the Hobgoblin for a moment before looking to the edge of the bar. Perched there was a spider, plainly and with perfect stillness. Its many eyes stared at the two of them with a cold blankness that only arachnids possessed. Seeing the spider, Veronica extended her hand to it. The little creatures moved languidly to her hand, its spindly legs dancing as it climbed into her palm. Veronica brought the spider so that she could look upon it at eye level.

“Do you know the story of spiders, Franky?” With one finger, Veronic pet the bug upon its thorax.

“Long ago, when the world was still young, the gods were faced with a problem. The Dreamer had built his veil but it was so strong that it blocked mortals from the truth of their gods. It was the Stitchmother who provided an answer.” The spider in Veronica’s hand turned all of its eyes upon her. Its forelegs moved wistfully as though swaying to a music that only it could hear.

“She beheld the wall between the realms material and the realms aethereal and saw its flaw. So she gave the pantheon a gift. From the stars and the void she plucked its body and from the silken strands of her hair she wove the first web, teaching her creation how to weave as she did. The Dreamer tore down his first wall and in its place, together he, the Stitchmother and the first spiders wove the veil that now stands between us and them.” Veronica ran a finger along the length of the spider’s body. It almost seemed to lean into her touch.

“As the saying goes, if it is a place between places known and places forgotten that you seek, where dreams are woven into reality and where secrets wish to be found, follow the spiders. For they are the weavers of the veil and where they go, there can the answers to many questions be found.” Veronica leaned down, she set the spider upon the floor watching as it scuttled off. It was an obscure story about the Mistlord Myshala and the Dragon God of Dreams, Thiovan. Nevertheless, one could only wonder why she chose to speak of it.

“Whatever wish is in your heart, Major, mayhaps the Goddess of Wishes is listening.” Veronica picked up the dice and rolled them. The first one landed causing Veronica to laugh softly.

“Partake of a vice.” The second dice landed. “Companion’s choice.”

She quirked a brow, turning her eyes to settle upon Franky. A sly smirk spread across her lips.

“Well then, Major. What is your poison of choice? Liquor? Drugs? My vice is your for the choosing.” Propping one elbow upon the bar she smiled at him with a catlike amusement.