Ash 89, 121
Franky laughed emptily as pushed his coins toward the Orkhan across from him, having just lost the final hand of Draw. It was still early in the evening but Franky was already getting a head start on his latest of habits. He'd been throwing away gold and silver every night on games of chance and drinking up his own supply from the bar. Though he did at least pay for it all, if only to keep the books in order. But for the last week or so, he'd been late to the morning meeting with Weston, and today had slept right through it.
He raised his hand to summon over one of the barmaids, to order his first drink of the night. Something strong and smoky sounded good. Start another night off right. He continued to smile and laugh and joke with the others at the table until he felt the presence over his shoulder of what he assumed was the barmaid bringing him his drink. He reached a hand out blindly to accept the drink, and found a firm, metal hand gripping his as though preparing the shake hands and introduce themselves to him.
Franky looked up and saw Weston there, an unamused, impassive furrow upon his brow. "Come on, we have a meeting to get to." The metal armed human pulled Franky up to his feet with ease, which Franky allowed to happen. Franky could feel the eyes of all of his staff upon him as he followed after Weston, moving through the many new rooms of the Gobbler after the expansion. His number two led him back past the bar, through the kitchen. There were looks of concern and worry on all of the kitchen staff, as the pair marched over to the stairs and up to Franky's private quarters.
Once Franky was inside, Weston shut and locked the door, gesturing to the chairs in the seating area. Franky could feel the shame beginning to wash over him, a child being dragged before mother to receive a stern talking to and punishment. Franky sunk into the deep cushions of his chair, as Weston made his way over to Franky's private liquor cabinet, one that had been greatly depleted as of late. He grabbed two of the nice, crystal glasses and a bottle of Hobourbon, and walked back over to Franky, sitting down in a chair nearby. He set a glass in front of both of them, ripping the cork out of the bottle easily. He poured the deep amber whiskey into the glasses, corking the bottle and setting it back down. He then picked up his own and held it up, "To our business partnership."
Franky looked at the glass, a bit confused by this all. He was fully expecting to be reprimanded for his shameful behavior. He knew it was shameful. He knew what he had been doing, what he intended to keep doing, and he knew it was bad for both him and the business. And yet, he did it anyways. A nervous hand reached out and picked up the whiskey glass, "To our business partnership." He raised the glass up a bit, "Skol."
Weston nodded and found Franky's eyes, "Skol."
The pair raised the glasses to their lips and took a healthy sized drink. It was smooth and smoky, with a nice, sweet finish on the back end. Weston leaned back into his chair, getting comfortable. "Do you remember the last time we had a meeting up here?" Franky pumped his brows and chuckled, "Yes, it was when I was hiring you on. And I had you tell me your entire life's story to me over a few bottles. I wanted to know why you were both drinking yourself to an early grave, yet seemed to care enough for the staff to pay attention to them."
Weston smiled, "Oh yeah, I was in a bad way. A life time of service ended in the most unceremonious of fashions. I don't even care that my arms got blown off anymore, the indignity of that desk they chained me to was far too much. So when I left, I found myself with too much time, trapped with far too many thoughts. Hence.." He held up the whiskey glass, then took a sip from it.
He cast his gaze back over to Franky now, "You're running from something. I've been there. Any of us that survive war long enough will. It's the only way we stay alive." Franky's own eyes were locked on the golden liquid in his whiskey glass, which was clenched tight in his hands. "What are you running from? You weren't like this early on this season, so something is setting you off. It's obvious that you have too much time on your hands because things are going smoothly, but what brought it home?"
Franky smiled sadly but never lifted his gaze from his glass, though his grip on it softened. He swirled the liquid a bit, finding it calming. "It's the silliest of things, really. You know that Lysanrin with the horn fixed with gold? Florian?"
An eyebrow raised, "Yeah, that one that went on one helluva tear in the fight pits? Skinny little thing?"
Franky nodded, "Yeah, that's him. He's always been good for a safe bet, easy coin. But..." he stopped for a moment before taking a long, stiff drink of his whiskey, emptying the glass. "Something about him, something in the face, or maybe the eyes. I'm not really sure what it is, something about him reminds me of Beatrix. And she's what I've been running from." He set his glass on the table between them, "And she's what I'm running from. I'm constantly seeing her eyes looking back at me in reflections, hearing her laugh while working the bar, smelling the flowers she kept in her hair. Even when Chestnut is singing in her horrible offkey manner, it reminds me of Beatrix."
Weston finished his whiskey as well, then the pair took a small respite as he refilled both of their glasses. Once the tumblers were in hand, "Franky. Who is Beatrix?"
Again, Franky's eyes locked on the whiskey in hand, "She's no one anymore. She's dead, almost a year now." Another stiff drink, "And I'm the one who killed her."
Weston nodded, taking another drink. "Alright then. We're going to sit here. We're going to drink. And you're going to tell me all about Beatrix and yourself. Start from the very beginning. Take as long as it takes. We have to get you past this. You pulled me out of my past, so I'm giving you the same in kind." A dark glower grew on his face, "Because what you're doing now isn't acceptable. The staff is noticing and growing concerned. They love their jobs here and they worry that it will all go away because you can't climb out of the bottle. Millie came to me directly with these concerns. You should know that was not easy for her, because she was there for you before any of us came along, there for you when things were hard."
Weston leaned back once more taking a drink, "So we're going to get your shit back together. You have people relying on you, so you owe it to them to do this. Tell me about her and know that not a single word of this leaves these bottles we share. We're two men well past our primes now. We can share the solace of a drink and enjoying our retirements in peace."
Franky nodded, finally looking up at Weston, "Alright. I will tell you, but I do not want to hear her name ever mentioned again. It's just still so fresh. She's actually why I'm here in Zaichaer. I burned her bones and buried them beneath our favorite willow tree in my village." A sharp intake of breath, "I haven't been back to my village since I was injured in my final campaign. I was healed in a hospital in the capital, sent a letter to my family that I was coming here. I haven't seen them since I retired."
Weston made note of that and intended to send an invitation to Franky's family to come to Zaichaer. He'd mailed out some of Franky's correspondences for him, so he knew how to get word to them. Franky continued, "The story of Beatrix is entwined with my own, from my fifth birthday as the youngest hobgoblin of twelve children, and the only boy at that, all the way up to the final march of my career. Every bit of that is tied into her."
Franky leaned back, relaxing deep into the chair, looking directly at Weston. "It all started with a feast."
