The Supply Drop (Paragon)

[Franky]

Glade 3, Sunrise

Franky was leaning up against a tree, smoking some Goblin Weed, looking at the small, moss covered stone structure that counted for the "off the books" facility. He could see why many would think that. When Franky had come here the first time ahead of the supplies, scoping it out, it had actually taken him a while to find it. Small, tucked away, hidden and forgotten. Or rather, mostly forgotten. He suspected it was an old scout's house, made obsolete by the pocket scopes, sentry towers, and high walls for Zaichaer's guards.

Careless on the part of whomever was in charge of their borders.

Weston came around the building, on high alert and more awake than Franky had ever seen him. This was certainly element, even in his retirement. He had one pistol on his hip, exposed, but Franky knew there were more on his person, hidden and loaded. Weston hadn't asked a single question about all this and Franky knew he wouldn't.

"Is there a chance for rain?"

Weston smirked, knowing to what Franky was referring, "Not sure, but if it does, it will be an absolute downpour."

They were tucked into the over hang of trees on the edge of a clearing in a copse of trees, on the southern edge of Zaichaer's territory. Precisely where Veronica had directed Franky to have the supplies sent. And he'd followed her directions to the letter, carefully, devising a way so that the purchases wouldn't be traced back to him unless someone already knew he was involved.

And only Veronica knew what he was up to.

Still, the Imperium had taught all of its soldiers the importance of being careful and having backup. Hence why Weston was here with his pistols and experience, but also why Private Hector, who owed Franky a favor for helping him out in Weissberg was here. He was hidden, having specifically taken a different route entirely from Franky and Weston. The man was absolute crack shot sniper, and was brought in as a backup plan. The peace keeper, as Weston called him. Neither Franky nor Weston knew his location, but there was enough faith there that Hector was watching over them.

And if he weren't it wouldn't matter. They'd have to act as if he weren't there until it was deemed necessary for him to fire the first shot. Franky and Weston both had agreed to provide the man with a signal. If he saw the signal from either, he would begin with a warning shot first. A second signal and he would begin shooting anyone not them.

The supplies were in barrels and crates, tucked inside the small stone structure, and Franky and Weston waited. And they would wait for this rendezvous as long as it would take, Franky in his hat, smoking the day away, and Weston pacing and watching and listening, wound up but absolutely ready.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Glade 3, Twilight..

The day passed and with it, no sign of trouble. Not a person came or went.

Until the twilight hours touched the skies and the sound of movement in the trees would draw both Franky and Weston’s attention. He was a lone traveler. Dressed in the clothes of a simple commoner with a pack over his back and a straw hat on his head to keep the sun out of his eyes. As he drew nearer, he looked to be a human man in his mid-thirties. A piece of sweetgrass stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He walked up both Franky and Weston until he was about five feet away from them. He pulled out a canteen of water and downed some of it with a few gulps before capping it and looking back at the two of them. His eyes drifted from Weston, his pistol and then to Franky.

“Got a smoke you can spare, friend?” He shifted his pack and adjusted his hat.

[Franky]

A rustle in the underbrush and Franky looked over, as Weston took the time to casually space himself off to a side angle away from Franky, leaning up against a tree as the newcomer revealed themselves. A tactical decision that was obvious to anyone with any amount of military training, but would likely be viewed as nothing special to those without the training. To the experts, it would be an expected part of professionalism in their field. Franky watched as the man clocked Weston and his obvious pistol, then himself.

If he were one of Veronica's, he would've already seen all of this without having to make an overt display of it. It was his professional response to their own. I saw you and am making sure you know it. A silent and mutual exchange among soldiers and mercenaries. Anyone who served long enough became familiar enough with these sort of things that they became second nature.

At the request, "I always keep a spare for just the case."

Franky walked closer to the man, Weston's eyes keeping a keen eye on any movement the man might make. Franky reached up, tossing the roach of his current cigarette to the ground, stamping it out. His hand slipped into his pocket, moving past his normal cigarette case, and grabbing the Galerian Hobgrass case that Veronica had given him. He took one smoke from it for himself, lighting it up with a swift match light, and offered the case to the newcomer, logo side up, a signal. Franky knew the weight of Veronica's gesture giving this case to him, and he felt that same weight would be shown to and from this man if he was, in fact, their contact.

"The name's Franky. This here's Weston." Franky didn't bother trying to lie. Lies never made things easier, proper utilization of the truth was better, he'd found. "Heading south?" A loaded question in Franky's mind. He'd found that native Karnorians considered everything to be south of them. Just as native Galerians considered themselves west of everything.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

His eyes fell upon the case of Gelerian Hobgrass. His expression was blank for a moment before he reached up and silently rest his hand over the case. It was only a second. But the man’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly as though the reality of everything passing through his mind sunk in with the sight of that pack. He took the pack and opened it, retrieving a single cigarette for himself.

“West, actually. We’re headed west.” He whistled softly. The whistle was returned. More rustling in the trees and a horse drawn cart rolled into view, leaving the shadow of the underbrush. Two well built beasts of burden that were clearly bred for endurance over speed pulled the cart. Perfect for long-distance travel. The cart was occupied by a single large cube that was covered in a shaded tarp. At the rear of the cart sat two men that were very clearly armed as well as the driver.

“Mind if I snag a few for my friends?” He held up four total cigarettes then extended the case back to Franky.

Four cigarettes.

Four survivors of the team of twelve that had been sent in.

“We’re about to set up camp for the night.” He looked to the building behind them all. “This here looks like as good a place as any.”

He tipped his head back and looked up. The creep of nightfall was edging further and further into the skies.

“Y’all are welcome to join us for dinner, if you like.” The cart came to a stop beside the building. The two standing next to the tarped cube jumped down and began securing it with the smooth swiftness of people who were well practiced in their duties.

“We should be on our way after a short rest.”

[Franky]

Franky saw the brief and subtle change in the man's demeanor and knew him to be who he was waiting for. Franky relaxed a bit at this, knowing that this could have gone, and still could go, sideways. But at the very least, if it did now, then there was at least some more souls on his side. Still, caution could never be forgotten. Heading west they were indeed. That was good.

Franky and Weston both looked up as the carriage came into view, sizing up the load in the back. He knew far better than to question what they were carrying and it would be better for all involved if he didn't know. At the man's request for more cigarettes, Franky gave a solemn nod. Four survivors of twelve, quite a steep loss. Franky already had a strong suspicion of the cargo they were carrying, from the news of the Dark Wedding. The timing, Veronica's words, all of that, it seemed obvious enough. Dangerous cargo, dangerous information.

At the offer of making camp with them, Franky offered a warm smile. "As much as that is appreciated, I must decline." He glanced over at the cart in an obvious manner, "Some things are best left to go their separate ways."

Franky watched with how they built camp swiftly and professionally, just as he had done so many times in his youth. "If any of you ever need refuge within Zaichaer, my hearth is always open, regardless of circumstance. Give the spider my best wishes." A somber look, "And know that we will honor those that did not make it here, in the proper way."

Franky ran his hand back over his bald head, a habit from when he had his long, flowing red hair. The signal to Private Hector that they were wrapping it up and he was to cover their exit. "Safe travels friends. And please burn any supplies you do not take."

Franky knew the dangers of staying. There was too much risk, even if Veronica had been careful, even if he'd been careful, and they'd been careful, too many variables to add on more by letting down one's guard. Head back and resume daily life, a task completed, allegiance proven. Anything more was extra risk without the extra reward.

Still, Franky wished he could stay, share stories and ale and smokes around the fire. But that was a task for the younger folks, for people still in their prime, doing what they believed to be the right thing. Franky was older now, and he knew that there was no such thing as right and wrong. He would act in his own self interest, and that meant not exposing himself, or his subordinates, to excess risk.

He put his hat back on, tipping it toward the contact, and him and Weston started their way toward the edge of the clearing, fully intending to take their exact same route back.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

The man nodded his head, giving Franky and his companion a tip of his hat. No more words needed to be said. None of the others seemed at all interested in engaging with Franky and Weston at the moment and thus left them to their devices. Nevertheless, Franky would be able to feel eyes watching him closely as he and Weston made their way out of the area and were homeward bound. The call of an eagle sounded over head. As Franky walked through the trees, a single feather drifted down to the ground in a shaft of sunlight. Silver in color, it captured the light practically drawing it to it in a way that was captivating.

[Franky]

Franky's eye was caught by the silvery feather following the eagle's cry. He watched it float down, falling so gently, right into a ray of light. He held up a hand to Weston. Franky may not be a mystic, may not be able to interpret the strings of fates, but he knew a sign when he saw one. He did not know what it meant, but that was why he kept close to those who could read such things close and valued them so highly. He bent down, picking up the feather, tucking it into the lining of his hat, to keep it safe and protected. He would take it to Dalma later, see if she could interpret anything from it. Maybe it was nothing.

But Franky didn't think so.

He and Weston continued their way, hiking at a brisk pace, racing against the sun and to put distance between them and a business best left in the darkness that was falling. Franky knew that his role in this was important, but it was neither absolutely critical. If they hadn't received supplies, they'd have made due, somehow. Like through gathering in the wilds, hunting, stealing as they went. It increased the risk, slowed the journey, but they could've made it without him. Still, his role in this was now cemented in time, and he knew that this would put all of Karnor on a path toward rapid and massive change. It would be hard to gauge if that change would be for the best or not. It might be years until scholars might determine that.

But change would be good for Franky. Change presented many new opportunities, forced people to make choices, make mistakes, expose weaknesses, and for others to step up when they might not otherwise. And that was where Franky lived, worked, and breathed. The upheaval that would come would only be bad for those who wished things to stay the same. And Franky knew that was the greatest foolishness of them all.

He had once wished to stay in the season of romance with her, all those years ago. They'd been torn apart by the fates.

He had once wished to stay in the military that had been so good to him and his family. But that had been corrupted and ruined.

He had once wished that he would never forgive himself for killing her. But he had.

Nothing ever stayed the same, and nothing ever would.

Franky ruminated on this in silence as they made their way back to the tavern, slipping back into their roles as business man and tavern manager. They cleaned the flagons, they served the drinks, they laughed and they sang with the customers. And when last call rang out and the tavern was empty, Franky and Weston sat at the bar, alone together. Franky did not explain anything about the job, the details, Veronica, none of it. And Weston didn't require it. Franky grabbed a bottle of Imperial Black, a peaty whiskey that bore the Emperor's seal upon it. This was the official whiskey of the Emperor, each batch held to the absolute highest of standards by the master distillers of the Imperium. To sell an imperfect bottle was to invite death to one's self. To falsify the seal was to bring death to one's self and family.

Franky pulled the cork, flinging it into the darkest corner he could find, willing the good luck it would bring to the Goblin King. They never heard the cork thunk off the wood, and Franky assumed the King had accepted the offering. Franky lined up eight shot glasses in front of himself and another eight in front of Weston. With a single, gracious pour, he filled all sixteen up. He set the bottle, not yet empty, in front of them. Franky picked up the first shot and Weston did so as well. They raised it slightly, then down it, enjoying that earthy burn.

They repeated this with each shot, each one dedicated to the soul that was lost in this mission, honoring their memory, their sacrifice, and wishing them a safe journey back into the cycle of life. When all the shots were downed, Franky grabbed the bottle, to seal the wishes. A slight whisper, "May the Emperor guide them back home." Then he drained half the remaining bottle, passing it to Weston. Weston gave no prayer with it, but drank in solidarity.

The bottle now empty, and the pair quite drunk, Franky sat there, leaning against the bar, his eyes closed. He ran a hand back over his head, that same old habit always coming forth. Franky knew what he'd done. He knew that he could've stopped this. Refused this. Fought this. Anything other than aided those who had taken his love from him, by his own hand, had taken his health, and nearly his life from him, by their own. In proving his loyalty once more, he had gained favor, but at what cost? Was he forever a soldier, always following the orders of those who truly cared not if he lived or died, so long as they gained value from it? He knew many would die in the coming days from his role in this.

He looked over at Weston. "It's time to get ready."

Weston nodded, "Yes, sir."

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Franky, indeed, had much to get ready for. But that would come with the morning. The swell of a pleasant evening drowned in alcohol awaited him and with dutiful silence, Weston helped Franky to bed before finding his own resting place for the night. Sleep, when it came, came quickly for a change.

But it did not bring with it the blissful oblivion of a drunken blackout.

---

The sunlight shone down upon Franky. A field of golden grass stretched onward for some distance to the left and right of him. Ahead of him, the sound of seagulls and waves drifted to his ears and he would be able to smell the salt of the sea. A cobblestone path stretched out before Franky, the stones flanked by the blades of golden grass that swayed lightly in the seaside breeze. At the end of the path stood a temple that overlooked a cliff facing the ocean. Behind Franky however, stood a forest of dense trees the likes of which did not grow like any he had seen on the continent of Ailizane during his travels as a soldier.

But he had heard stories of the jungles of the southern continent. There was no mistaking what the trees should have been. The trees, however, looked…wrong. The bark was blackened and the roots and branches were twisted. The leaves that grew from them were black and ash in color. To look at them, it seemed as though they might crumble into dust at the slightest breeze, yet strangely, they swayed in the winds in defiance of that expectation. The golden grass stopped short of touching the edges of the tree line where a divide formed. It was dusty, a bone white color and the remnants of animals whose flesh had long since rotted, now lay in that divide, their bones bleached by the sun.

The cobblestones extended into the treeline, forming a path. Inspecting the stones, even at a glance, it was evident to the naked eye that each stone was absolutely littered with writings carved into the surface. The letters shone gold in the sunlight and if Franky squinted, that same golden light could be seen reflecting off the surface of the stones leading into the forest.

A path, in a dark wood. Perhaps to keep travelers from losing their way.

Franky could go any direction he chose. Backwards into the dark jungle. Forward to the temple. Or through the grass and toward the sound of waves and the sea.

[Franky]

Salty air. It reminded him of his time in the service having to deal with, unsuccessfully, the Zythuran pirates. That conflict was an unpleasant shitshow. There were no winners there, just piles of dead bodies and nothing else changed. That coastal air did not bring good memories with it. It was one of the reasons why Zaichaer was as good a place as any to settle down. Landlocked. At least it was sunny, even if interrupted by those annoying rats-with-wings cawing out. Franky ate more than enough of his fill of gulls while he was there. Disgusting meat from disgusting creatures.

He shielded his eyes from the bright sun. They were still a bit sensitive, never completely healed from the battle of Hautiv. He now saw the cobbled stones and the golden grasses. A beautiful temple upon the cliff stood before him, picturesque. The type of place he would've visited in the travels of his youth, if only for the view. Over his shoulder, impossibly large, dark trees. Not one tree he recognized. Strange looking things, many smooth trunks, less rigid and rough bark.

But these... these were wrong. Corrupted, wrought by disease maybe. Or twisted by magic. They looked dead, but just hadn't yet realized it. Fragile monstrosities. He could see a harsh border between the untouched and the touched, and knew something unnatural had occurred there. No, he would not be venturing into that darkness. His was a life leaving that which was twisted and corrupted.

Franky crouched down, viewing the runes of a language he did not know, seeing the golden light shining outward. More magic. Great. A path of darkness and damage and corruption behind him, a path of magic, a possible lure, a lie to those seeking refuge. Or a sea of grass leading to the coast, and a reminder of a time which Franky would've preferred to forget.

He sighed.

Life was always so full of difficult choices, and the past was always haunting the present. Franky pulled out his smoke box, grabbing one of the cigarettes inside and lighting it up. It was an easy choice for Franky. He never truly struggled in making decisions, it was the living with them after that kept him up at night. The lit cigarette hung loosely between his lips, the faint purple and pungent smoke wafting off as Franky began along the golden magic path. If it was a trap or a lie or a lure or any of the hundred things Franky could think up for it, it mattered not. It was a way forward. Franky had no interest in seeking the source of a corruption or revisiting his own past.

Forward it is, forward it always would be.

And he took it slow, enjoying the scenery, the sounds of this unknown world around him, and the flavor of his favorite tobacco.

[Paragon]

P A R A G O N

Walking up the path of etched cobblestones, Franky was led to the archway of the temple. Up close, the temple was, in truth, more of a garden enclosure. A low outer wall no taller than knee high, encircled the enclosure. A ring of columns held up a stone ring from which hung countless slips of paper upon which were written innumerable passages in language after language, some recognizable, some not. The same golden script was present upon each of the papers. The same etched cobblestones filled the interior of the garden enclosure. At the center of the garden enclosure stood a large tree whose branches formed a canopy of shade over most of the interior. The bark of the tree was a faded parchment color and was peeling in several places though this appeared to be more of a natural phenomenon than any sign of floral illness. The roots of the tree jutted up and delved into the ground, forming a webwork of large roots that stood within the center of a large pond.

Lounging on the roots and lazily napping in the branches of the massive tree were various dragons. Scales of deep crimson, scarlet and ruby glistened in the shafts of sunlight that shone through the leaves of the great tree. Some of the dragons were no bigger than a common house cat. Some were as big as lions or bears. Judging purely by their size, they were all young. Golden writing could be seen upon some of the scales of some of the dragons.

“Beautiful aren’t they?” Her voice came from Franky’s right. She was an Orkhan woman with a lean but sturdy frame. She wore the animal hides and leathers of a woman accustomed to a life much simpler than that of the far cities of the Northlands. Her shoulders, midsection, and arms were bare however, except for a pair of forearm wrappings that looked vaguely like parchment paper. A gnarled wooden staff was loosely grasped in her left hand. It was covered from top to bottom in column after column of writing. Some, Franky could recognize. Others were in languages that were likely lost to him. Her hair was long and allowed to flow freely about her form with only a single loose braid that wrapped around her brow and joined in the back. It was coal black with streaks of iron grey in it.

At a glance, she was easily discernible as an older Orkhan woman. The lines in her face and the calmness in her presence spoke as much. She stared in Franky’s direction but did not seem to be looking at him exactly so much as in his vicinity. The hallmark signs of a blind woman.

“Would you care to walk with me a while?”