paragon — dust.

THERE IS A HOLLOWED OUT HUNGER IN ME.

[ofparagon]

PARAGON  —  APP  /  THE RIDER  /  THE HORSE 

GOES BY THE NAME OF ISADORE SWEETS, AGED 33. USES HE/HIM PRONOUNS. WORKS UNDER THE JACK ODYSSEY GANG AS AN ADVISOR. FACECLAIM: JONATHAN MAJORS. CURRENT BOUNTY: ✹68,000

↳ played by ishmael. 22. they/them. est.

[ofparagon]

fromvex​:

Vex hates herself for being comforted by the sight of him. The deep hum of his voice. The sweeping gait with which he walks like he belongs in every room he enters. Paragon is larger than life; always has been, even back when they knew him by Sweets and he knew them by Naomi.

But he doesn’t go by Sweets anymore. Naomi is dead. The Lost Boys rejected them both, and they’re not so lost anymore, are they? Paragon belongs to the Jack Odyssey gang, and Vex — Vex wants nothing more than to see the Jack Odyssey gang burn.

Even so, there’s still a part of Vex that wants to lean into the camaraderie he offers so easily, like it costs him nothing. It costs her everything.

She resists. She doesn’t return the familiarity of his jest or the warmth in his eyes. Lowering the cue stick from his throat and narrowing their eyes at him, Vex accuses: “Could’ve made more if you stopped showing up where you’re not wanted.” Yet despite her resistance, Vex grabs another cue stick and holds it out toward Paragon. “You owe me a game. Don’t care if I win or lose — you’re paying me double what I just made.”

“Could’ve gotten us run right out of here, if you hustled much more of the clientele. Discretion, my friend,” he drawls as he holds up his hands. “Discretion is key.”

Paragon takes the pool cue, preparing to show her just what he means through this next round: but the stakes leave him balking. “—No game I’ve ever heard of has rules like that.” He plants the cue between his boots and rests his hands on its upper end, cocking a hip into the table. “Now why would I play something so loaded?”

Then he knocks the cue into the crook of an elbow—so he can turn out his pants pockets and lament, “Besides, I got nothin’,” But anyone who knows him, knows the last place he keeps his divinity are the pockets easiest to pick.

[ofparagon]

brntide​:

𝐖𝐇𝐎: BRONTIDE & OPEN 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: RAVEN’S REST, EEL 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: FEBRUARY 4, 2349 – APPROX. 2:00AM

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. It was difficult for them to determine exactly why they still felt so on edge – replaying the events of the heist over and over again, despite walking away from the train with enough divinity to last them weeks and a nod of approval from Jack. It was like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop – for something they’d missed to come back and bite them, jeopardising their success and tenuous utility within the gang. Though they’d always been caught up in the past, dwelling this thoroughly on a heist was new – coming with the newfound scrutiny they imagined themselves to be under following their sudden desertion and even more sudden return.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that sleep didn’t quickly befall her. She’d always been a light sleeper – mind never quite switching all the way off, after years of ensuring she was constantly vigilant and alert. Her sleep had always been plagued by dreams – distortions of the past that sent her tossing and turning and unable to clear them from her mind, even long after she’d awoken. Tonight, however, Brontide could not even reach this stage – their mind stubbornly refusing to clear even for the few minutes they required to fall into what would surely be a fitful slumber. Seconds stretch into minutes which stretch into hours, and when they next check their watch they find that late night has bled into early morning, and they decide to give up on the fruitless endeavour.

They stalk their way through the halls of RAVEN’S REST – ( the inn was quaint, but big enough for the needs of the gang, and the owners hadn’t asked many questions yet ), slipping through the entrance and out into the cool night air, breathing it in. EEL was quieter at night – though the odd person or two could still be spotted on the dimly lit streets. It would be almost peaceful were it not for the sounds of patrons stumbling out of the Atlantis down the road following last call – drunken revelry bouncing off the walls and echoing through the streets. The faintest hint of a smile graces Brontide’s face at the sound of the inebriated singing of a familiar tune – but it is gone as quickly as it had came, replaced once again with an impressive impassivity, giving nothing away, even in solitude. 

They are soon disturbed from their thoughts by the sounds of footsteps approaching, a hand instinctively reaching for the gun on their thigh before they recognise the familiar face, obscured by night, and slowly retract their hand. She eyes the newcomer up and down, letting a long few moments pass before finally speaking – “And here I was thinking I’d be all alone out here at this time of night.”

The tune bouncing down the streets of Eel, mirthfully belted from a group drunkards, was picked up by Paragon while he made his way by.

See them tumbling down, the patrons sing as they wander off.

“Pledging their love to the ground,” Paragon continues as he reaches the Raven’s Rest. “Lonely, but free, I’ll be found.” He reaches the steps and, at the top, tips his hat to Brontide. “Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.”

“Evenin—,” he drawls on the heels of the melody. “Seems the wind just blew me in.” That reply is as close to an apology that the likes of Brontide will get from him. “Though if I were lookin’ to be alone, right outside the ‘Rest is the last place I’d be lookin’ for it.” Just a friendly word of advice.

[ofparagon]

wtnssd​:

when: february 7th / 04:09 am where: raven’s rest / with the horses who: @ofparagon

Witness used to be a heavy sleeper. These days, she wonders if she even sleeps at all. Hours blend into one great big mass of fugue, light enough to fade with the slightest shift in the air, never deep enough to be deemed a restful slumber. It’s why she’d startled awake when Paragon had nudged one of the wooden legs supporting her too-thin mattress– not that she ought to complain: it’s usually a dusty night sack on a lumpy, hard floor. She’d pulled her pocket knife on him, until his familiar features had pulled properly into focus.

Now, the two are hunching their shoulders up against the night’s cool nip. Even the earth seems to shiver, eager for the sun. Not long now.

It’s by the third time that Witness’ eyes sneak shut that she finally gives into her frustration, and she yanks her gaze over from the main road slicing across Eel to where Paragon is.

“What’s the point of a fucking watch, anyways? Isn’t this supposed to be ‘someplace safe’?” she questions, hands jumping up to quote Jack’s vague reassurance when he’d informed the gang of their upcoming stay in the sleepy, rickety establishment.

There on the porch of the inn, the watch goes by nicer than any he’s had on the open road—it’s a step up from dust and dirt: only his boots coated with it, instead of every nook and cranny. There’s lamplight, too, shining from all the windows and washing down on their backs. There’s light enough to at least see his conversational partner by, and he trusts her trigger hand enough to let her sit at his blind side and cover the gaps. Paragon turns his head, so Witness can see the shapes his mouth pulls when he says, “sure—safer than most. But truly safe? That’s a luxury long gone for people like us. Consider this a precaution, for thieves on the run.” His lips twitch back, a vague grin that pulls at his teeth.

“Lets see that pocket knife.” He holds out a hand. “Come on, I know you got it.” With the other he produces a small hunk of wood, wonky shaped, from his pocket. “If your eyes are getting tired of the horizon, then spare a glance over once ‘n a while—tell me what needs tweakin’.” With that, he illuminates that the knobby piece of wood is, in fact, the novice’s latest whittling project. “It’s, uh, s’pposed to be Heironymus.” But, Martyr, right now it’s the farthest thing from a horse.

[ofparagon]

eastcfeden​:

closed to: @ofparagon​ raven’s inn, feb. 11th, late evening

He makes a lot of noise, boots heavily stomping up the stairs, the bottle and two glasses clinking loudly in his hand—all because he’s already had a few at the bar with…whatever his name was. He was buying and that’s all that mattered to Cain.

Once upstairs, he knocks on the first door on his right and doesn’t even wait the few customary seconds before entering. “You’re here, good,” he says to Paragon even though he wasn’t expecting him specifically to be here. He’d say the same thing regardless of the person inside. Well—maybe not with the same tone of voice or with the good thrown in there. There’s a handful of people he’d be displeased to see here, Brontide obviously comes to mind first. “Bought it off the innkeeper. No idea what fruit it’s made of but it’s good,” Cain says as he closes the door behind him with his free hand, the other extended towards Paragon, the bottle of wine like an offering, though for once there isn’t any agenda. Cain just wants company. He sits on one of the beds, wonders whose is it—there isn’t really a hint that would help him guess so he gives up. “Think I might go for a ride tomorrow morning. Losing my mind from doing nothing all the time. Lay low my ass.”

“Yeah, and I’m half decent,” Paragon protests over his shoulder to Cain’s unceremonious entry. He’s standing before a chest, provided by the inn, that holds his personals: everything on but a shirt, and everything in place but a glass eye (still sunk in a rocks glass on the windowsill). Paragon snags his shirt off the bedpost and seats an eyepatch.

“Can’t go blamin’ me, though, these’re times for leisure, my friend!” He turns and takes the bottle, tipping it to his brow in thanks before popping the cork and filling their cups.

“Speaking of, why are you actin’ like you ain’t heard of it?” Leisure, he means—and then takes a bonus swig straight from the bottle first as if to illustrate. “Lay low, is right. You think Jack’s steerin’ us wrong on this one?”

[ofparagon]

ferriar​:

Paragon practically has to heave himself up from the bed. Farrier makes the active choice not to help him, legs kicked out in a sprawl and reassured. He’s never actually been in Paragon’s tent before; it breaks the silent rule of privacy that he’s done his best to hold to. He’ll make their meals, and get them all what they need, but Farrier is determined not to mother a group of grown fucking outlaws who know better.

Well — maybe not all of them. Jack hadn’t, had he? And now Paragon is here, missing an eye and looking the worst Farrier thinks he’s ever looked. It’s a strange sight: Paragon makes such an effort that it’s almost a comfort to see he can be brought low like the rest of them.

When his spine is mostly straight, Farrier hands Paragon the plate with a wry smirk. “You’re right, I didn’t. This special treatment ends as soon as you’re feeling better.” Better, of course, is objective. Might take days. Might take weeks. Might take months. He’s got no clue, and he hasn’t spoken to Gull about what any of this means for Paragon. He wonders if the man will ever get to shoot straight again. Depth perception’s a hell of a thing.

He takes a few minutes to finish his plate, in silence. “Seeing as you won’t be able to hit anything for a while, and that eye of yours is a dead giveaway, I want you to help me around camp these next few weeks.” Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to Farrier. It’s a slow, stodgy sort of thing, half-request, half-command. Martyr knows that Jack won’t be taking Paragon anywhere. Farrier can’t say whether it’s due to the injury or his blatant denial of Paragon’s request to end his life. “That somethin’ you’re willing to do?”

On a good week folks come and go from Paragon’s tent like it’s open season—so this quiet? It’s unbecoming of him. It gives him too much time to simmer there where that glaring sun can’t reach. Farrier’s rare company, sure, but he takes what he can get. Drinks from it like a man gone a hundred days in a dust storm. He manages a laugh; faint and hoarse (nothing like his usual jovial bellow).

“Then I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Paragon eats, and eats until his plate scrapes clean.

There’s only a passing groan of protest—muffled around the tines of his fork. A few moments of staring Farrier out beneath a knitted brow. Then he puffs a small sigh and says, “I don’t know how much lifting I got in me as of yet, but you point me in the right direction and I’ll make do.” Fed and ready as he’ll ever be to do what Farrier wilt, Paragon turns to snag his shirt from where it’s draped by his cot. Pulls it over his head with only some difficulty, his sore body aching in protest. 

“Day’s not getting any younger, right?”

[ofparagon]

twvlfth​:

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: February 4th, very early morning 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Behind Raven’s Nest, Eel 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @ofparagon

Twelfth spent the night tossing and turning. Not even the soft mattress ( at least softer compared to the ground they usually try and fail in falling asleep on ) was enough to pull them into a land of sleep. So, they kept their eyes opened looking at everything and nothing at the same time. Their mind raced through the whole night, tears falling down so easily and wetting their path either down their cheek or down their temple. After a long night, one of the longest Twelfth can remember, she simply takes in the sight of the sun with such relief, as if the night could finally be over.

Without hesitation and only with coffee in her belly, Twelfth leaves the inn and goes round its back, sighing at the sight of their horse. “G’morning, girl. How did you sleep?” she asks as she walks over to Sugar, a weak and tired smile on her lips, but genuine all the same. She pats Sugar over and over, altering her hand with the brush she’d taken from the horse’s saddle, trying to take out any dust from Sugar’s white coat. 

Then, they hear footsteps and Twelfth turns on their heel. “Hello?” It’s too early for this shit. Whatever the person wants, it will have to wait until she feels more awake. “Y’know, if you’re going to watch someone,” Twelfth continues after she hears no answer from the mysterious figure she heard but cannot see, “you might as well just come out when they call out.”

Paragon was on his way out to tinker with his horse’s tack—it was in dire need of a good conditioning, and he’d been honing his saddle stitch ever since his time laid up in camp and shadowing Farrier. Truthfully, he was eager to brush up.

Didn’t mean he, or they, were in the market for company. Someone in his role, it’s a rarity you’re alone long enough, out of the light long enough, to hear yourself think (a favored past time of his).

So before it’s evident Twelfth has heard him, Paragon stops, and retraces his steps backwards, all but tiptoeing. It doesn’t help much. He’d come out without discretion—and where the horse is hitched next to Sugar, Heironymus perks his head. 

“I was going to mind my own damn business,” Paragon chuckles. “Guess I never was too good at it.” He slings the saddlebag he’s toting over his shoulder and approaches languidly. When he eyes what they’re up to, he puffs air out his cheeks. “Man, dusting a white coat’s like bailing the ocean with a bucket. So I imagine—” he’s got no more experience with the former than Heironymus’s partial spots, and no more with the latter than you’d expect.

Paragon looks over the horses, thumb hooked through his belt, and whistles low. “Sugar sure got her beauty sleep,” and since the mare can’t return the ask, he does it for her, “did you?”

[proustiansleep]

[werecat]

[image text:

(I am absent because I am the teller. Only the tale is real.)]

[ofparagon]

hellionsun​:

FEBRUARY 10th, 2349. SILVER LIVING GAMBLING HALL. OPEN TO ALL.

He likes fighting, and he likes divinity, so it stands to reason that he likes fighting for divinity. Eel has long been one of his favorite towns in Fool’s Prospect on account of Silver Living Gambling Hall, and over the years, this beloved haunt of his has lined his pockets aplenty, much to the consternation of the house. He reckons it’s a little unorthodox, if not a little illegal, to wager ✹100 on a fight and then step into the ring, but—well, he’s not exactly known for doing things the legal, orthodox way. Besides, he’d be hard-pressed to find a safer bet than an outlaw with a six-figure bounty.

Hellion’s fought twice tonight, and already he’s made out like a bandit proper, nearly tripling his wager. But it’s not enough for him—it never is—so he negotiates with the bookmaker and places another bet, and then he negotiates with the pit clerk and enrolls in another match. There’s three more fights until he takes the floor again, so he uses his sizable intermission to catch his breath and rally his aching bones for another round of play. Chest heaving, he situates himself at a secluded table in the corner, gulps down as much water as he can without choking, and uses his discarded shirt to wipe the blood from his face and knuckles. His injuries are minor—messy, but minor—and he can scarcely register the pain of them, for the divinity in his pocket is as fine a balm as any. 

He’s trying, mostly in vain, to remove his hand wraps with his teeth when a looming figure approaches. He doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s one of the gang; none else would have the gall to approach him.

“Have you come to turn a pretty profit on me?” he asks through clenched teeth, still gnawing at the too-tight knot of his hand wraps. Frustrated, he huffs a sigh through his nose and braces his elbows on top of the table, deserting his endeavor to change out his hand wraps for fresh ones. “Or are you here to throw your hat in the ring?” he asks, a catlike smile stretching slowly from one ear to the other as he jerks his chin at the fight unfolding before them.

“You’re askin’ the wrong questions, Hel,” Paragon tips his hat as he slides into the booth across from his favorite Robber (a title afforded to whichever one he’s across from in the moment, it’s true).  “How pretty a profit have you already turned?” He corrects in his best impression of Hellion. “Try that one on for size.” The instruction leaves his lips easily as his hands find the snarled knots of those stained wraps—deftly plucking and loosening and plucking and loosening. “I’ll throw my hat in the ring on a night it won’t take my head clean off my shoulders.”

So, turning a profit it is. Since spotting a familiar face in the ring on arrival, he’d slipped his wager in after each round of the robber’s, keeping to the crowd-cover so as to get his before ruffling any feathers. Now that he’s been clocked, the gig is up. Paragon unwinds Hellion’s wraps, careful-like, and drops them aside on the table. Then he holds his hands up, a peaceable gesture. “Now that’s off the table, and I’ve got a little more Div to my sorry name,” he thumps his stuffed breast pocket, “I figured I’d offer a hand ringside.” A grin of his own flickers to life, “—pay the patronage forward, ‘n all.”

Paragon picks up the fresh wraps and spools them out between his fingers, a flash of white like a flag of truce. One brow hitches. 

“That alright with you?”

[ofparagon]

lapalcma​:

Heart pounding in her chest, skin slick against the revolver resting against her palm — Dove did not possess the same grace in matters of criminality that seemed to come so effortlessly to Paragon. 

But grace did not matter now, not to her. She had a part to play, same as him. Paragon speaks in that soothing, honey soaked drawl and she reacts, sending a round straight through the roof of the traincar. She wants to wince, shake the deafening ring out of her ears. She has a part to play, and so she remains. Unwavering and steady — don’t let them see your hand shake. 

A nauseating cocktail of adrenaline, confidence and anxiety courses through her veins, only encouraging each step forward. Her gaze shifts from one passenger to another, watching as the more easily persuaded passengers recoil from the walkway, finding some sense of safety pressed against the walls of the train. There was a part of her that wanted to feel guilty, and yet …

“Charitable?” Dove chuckles, a sardonic smile taking shape on her lips. “Far from it.” There’s hesitation, she can sense it in the uncomfortable shuffling of passengers as they ghost over their belongings. She inhales, exhaling a loud groan as she raises the revolver back into the sightline of the passengers. Her trigger finger remains ready, hovering just over the trigger. A reminder, a threat. 

One of the passengers closest to her shoves a dingy looking necklace, dated by the warm patina glossed over the metal surface, towards them. Dove takes it in her free hand, dangling it just in front of her face to inspect it. It’s plain on her face just how unimpressed she is. “How embarrassing.” She tosses it into the hat regardless before addressing the rest of the train car. “Y’all are gonna like me a whole lot less by the end of this if I have to make you give my partner your valuables.” 

The shuffling of divinity, amongst other, clunkier valuables, almost erupts down the train car.  It made her feel … Powerful. Leaning over to Paragon, Dove smiles and speaks real low, “I’m startin’ to think that old hat of yours may not be enough to carry all the gifts our new friends are gonna give us …”

Paragon, the bright-eye underneath the wide brimmed hat and machiavellian grin, makes a mental note to check with Dove later—make sure that what this day’s asked of them hasn’t shaken them down to the bone. The Paragon he plays for these people? He’s only emboldened by the shot that rocks the roof and his collaborator’s strong-arming. Only disappointed in the sorry necklace that lands in his hat.

“She speaks the truth,” he remarks to that dark little promise. The hat fills, and fills.

“It sure won’t! S’why I brought these,” he unfastens two rolled-up burlap sacks from his belt and empties the hat into one behavior reseating it atop his head. As she hurries the passengers along, he brings the sacks aisle to aisle—one in each hand to streamline the collections process on either side.

Towards the back, a Revenant resists them, returning only folded arms and a steely stare. “What d’you think, Dove?” Paragon plays it off over his shoulder. “This one need a little more convincing?”

[ofparagon]

inspo/source credits: here & here.

[ofparagon]

fromvex​:

— open to all

FEBRUARY 5, 2349. THE ATLANTIS. They’re not drinking tonight. Never liked the taste of liquor much, and never liked the way it made their limbs feel loose and their chest feel light. But Vex does like the games. The edge of the pool table jabbing into her stomach as she leans over and aims.

She’s never been the best shoot, or the best at pool, but when she closes one eye and then the other, imagines Shotgun then Cain then the rest of the Jack Odyssey gang spiraling across the green and falling with a clack! down the rabbit hole —

The 8 ball falls neatly into the corner. Vex straightens, and grins with all her teeth. Stretches the cue stick out until it taps at her opponent’s throat, pushes up against the fleshy part of the chin.

“Double or nothing?” Vex taunts, eyes flashing.

Vex might not be partaking in the swill the bar is serving tonight, but Paragon helps himself. Helps himself to this hustle, too, when he sees Vex with a patron cornered. The man seems likely enough to take her bait—especially with a little peer pressure, what with the way he sweats at the collar.

”You’d be a fool to quit so early, with a pot like that,” he calls to the table, pulling an expression like he’s just plain envious he isn’t the one who gets to go toe to toe for it; appealing to that sense of possession over the doubling pot. Then he drawls his false assurances (just in case there’s a shred of hesitance left): “come on, lightning don’t strike twice.”

Of course, he knows it’s more skill than lightning where Vex is concerned, but what this betting man doesn’t know won’t hurt him past his pockets.

Round two, and Vex wins again, her pool cue finding its old place beneath the stranger’s chin. By then, the patron’s either ruffled or drunk enough to go for a third round, but Paragon cuts in, guiding the end of the cue to his own neck instead. “Hell, I stand corrected, my friend—you’re not careful, and she’ll clean you out all over again. I’d leg it, while you’ve still got enough tip for your bartender.”

Once he’s gone, Paragon quirks a scarred brow at the pool cue. Swats it jovially aside.

“Train job’s not sitting nice enough in the pockets?” He teases knowingly. “You gotta turn the town’s out, too?”

[ofparagon]

oldhalo​:

Another robbery. Another success…sort of.

Long after they got off the train, Old Halo’s hands shook with the memory of the huddled masses on the train. Not so different from the ones she’d preached to, only these had not even enough to pay the tithes. They were off to lands unknown, and she had no words to comfort them. So she’d given them divinity instead, half of all that they’d collected dispersed evenly among them. Whether it was right thing to do, she didn’t know and didn’t care. What mattered was what Jack Odyssey would think of it, and she hadn’t yet managed to justify it to him.

She’d planned out exactly how she would do it. Spun a convincing tale in her head about his image and his legacy and the hearts of the passengers, how fear and love were stronger in tandem. Beyond that, a more numerical argument, that it would be more costly to Jack to have one of those passengers escape and go blabbing to the Faith than it would be to just pay them off and stop the issue in its tracks. And they had stopped it.

The only issue was that she couldn’t catch him on his own, away from the rest of the group. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was avoiding her. Maybe he was just trying to get under her skin. 

After a day of fruitless searching, she called it quits. Jack Odyssey would find her when he was ready to hear her out, and it was probably for the best that she didn’t speak to him sooner. She made her way out of the inn and into The Atlantis, hoping a drink (or several) would silence her nerves.

When she caught sight of Paragon, though, her search was reignited. And beyond that, curiosity about his take on how their robbery had gone. She approached from behind him, silent as anything until she spoke just near his ear, “Have you seen Jack?" 

She didn’t want for his answer or his permission as she took a seat beside him at the bar.

When Old Halo comes up behind Paragon’s back, he’s leaning on an elbow, spectating the nearby pool match and pitching in the occasional unsolicited two-cents of his own: “—n’you can have that one for free,” he gestures with the hand holding his glass after critiquing a player’s elbow position.

The coaching is interrupted by the welcome face of a fellow advisor. “Martyr—” his free hand thumps to his chest as if to beat back a fright. “—You’re light on your feet, and cold-blooded too, sneakin’ up on a man like that.” Paragon turns his face toward her, squinting in brief as he looks Old Halo up and down. “Not heads nor tails,” he cants his head and grins. “Though, I didn’t see you either, ‘till you near startled me from my skin—so I don’t know it’s worth much. You lookin’ for feedback on the last run’s execution? ‘Cause I’ve got plenty. How’d it go along in your and Brontide’s car?”

[catilinas]

Anne Carson, H of H Playbook

[ofparagon]

ferriar​:

WITH: @ofparagon​ WHERE: the jack odyssey gang camp, a few miles from a vitriol refinery WHEN: february 12th, 2347, 7:24am

There are no hills here. It’s all one flat expanse of nothing. Sand, sand, and more sand, with the occasional tree for some color. When the sun starts to make its ascent it comes right on up with no bluster. It’s all dark, and then suddenly you’re squinting under the brim of your hat for the rest of the day. Paragon’s lucky, Farrier thinks, that he hasn’t had to rise as early as the rest of them… well, maybe lucky is the wrong word. It’s more silver lining than luck.

Jack’s gathered up half the bunch and taken them back to the refinery to see what they could scavenge. Everyone else is stuck here, watching and waiting the skyline to see if they actually get to come back. It is the height of misery, and it’s in this misery that Farrier scrapes together two measly plates (he always feeds himself first before anyone else, can’t begrudge a man a meal) consisting of some miserable tomatoes, two hunks of stale bread, and some sad-sack looking eggs that had somehow looked worse out of the shell than in.

It’s been a few days now, since, well — since things went very badly for Paragon. Something hot to eat isn’t the worst thing in the world, is it? He barges into Paragon’s tent unannounced with the platters and some forks and kicks Paragon’s cot on the way to the chair that Gull’s been sitting in to keep him company.

Paragon’s plate is carefully balanced atop his knee before Farrier digs into his own meal, and it’s only when he sees Paragon’s eyes — well, eye now — open that he speaks. “Good morning, sunshine! Earth says hello. Hope you’re hungry.”

(tw: injury) 

Even now, seventy-two hours and change since the Vitriol incident, the sound of the explosion still rings in his ears. When it came to that day at the refinery, suddenly there was before, and there was after: the only metrics it felt like life would be measured by from here on out. For Paragon, the job had started like this—a bad feeling at the base of his skull, a worse one in the pit of his stomach. The facts were these: Vitriol’s exceeded in its volatility only by its value, and it took a brave man to make a run at some. Or a mad one.

It’s bad betting, Jack. Paragon had pressed. And when that did little to sway their leader, implored, Don't, Jack. Bargained, even. But never begged. That came later. Paragon had dragged himself back in a bad way—so he was told. He doesn’t remember as much. The begging? That he does. That he reckons everyone does.

Just put me out, Jack! Do it!

That day at the camp, Jack hadn’t been feeling so charitable. Or, maybe it was the opposite. After all, Vitriol drives a man to mad things.

On this day at the camp, Farrier strolls into Paragon’s tent too early for his liking. He’s awake— has been since first light anyway. But Farrier doesn’t need to know it. He makes him wait a minute nonetheless. Finally, he rolls over—half his face wrapped by a spotting bandage, and the half visible still stained with salt and the after-prints of sponged-off blood and vitriol.

Paragon’s chapped lips pull back in a little snarl. Unbecoming on a face so accustomed to smiling; painful on one still so raw. “Earth can shove that hello up—” his voice scrapes against his sore throat. Shears down to nothing when his eye flicks to the food. The growl in his empty gut sings a different tune. Laboriously, he eases himself up.

“Well hell, Farrier,” He croaks, singing a different tune now, too, “—you didn’t have to do all that.” It’d be sweet, if it didn’t have that tinge of smug satisfaction to it for being waited on at all. A sentiment that always came easier to him than the alternative: accepting that help’s needed in the first place.

[ofparagon]

𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 — FEB 4th, 2349. RAMBLER’S ROOM IN THE RAVEN’S REST, CITY OF EEL | @ramblcr

Way his imagination told it, Rambler was already six feet under. Serves me for asking Vex, he thinks. Knows they were paired on the job, but couldn’t get a read on what came of it. So the first morning in EEL, after the Grenville train job—and once his fellow advisor’s had time to rest his head—Paragon takes it upon himself to fill in the gaps firsthand.

Theres a rhythmic rapping on the door as he taps out a beat, to announce himself before bursting in.

“Little birdy told me you could’a been dead,” Paragon begins as he shoulders in. “Me? I came to verify,” he hums, laughs, and produces a hunk of biscuit from his pocket—pocketed at breakfast from a plate that wouldn’t miss it (alright, alright, maybe his own).

“How’re ya feelin’, sunshine?”

[ofparagon]

𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟗:𝟎𝟎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 — FEB 3RD, 2349. 6:10PM. THE GRENVILLE’S FIRST PASSENGER CAR. | @lapalcma​

They say a man can’t shape the world as he wills it, but when the doors of the Grenville’s first car clunk open and Paragon steps on through: oh, he feels like he can.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery!”

Dove fires off that starting shot that splits the thickened silence. Sends his ears ringing and a strangled hush rolling out across the passengers. Sends his placid smile ticking wider. He tilts his head, slips his hat off, and holds it gallant-like over the heart. “Now, we don’t want to do harm—” he addresses his captive audience. Second row, left: a lady draws her child closer. Fifth row, right: a gentleman goes reaching for something. Paragon’s stare bores in, singling the man out as his brows tick up. “Assumin’ we can avoid it. We can avoid it, right?” The man’s hands withdraw, his sweat-beaded brow knitting in shame.

“That’s what I like to hear!” He commends their agreeable silence.

Paragon flips his hat down from his heart, unfurling his arm in a sweeping offer. “Now, this part’s easy. We’re here to relieve you of your burdens,” he drawls. “All that Divinity, weighin’ you down.” He steps up between the first row. Gives a resolute not and curt instruction. “Valuables in the hat, all of you. Or answer to my friend here, who, well—” to liven up the warning, he asks Dove herself—glancing over his shoulder. “You feelin’ charitable, today?”