Quentin Boone vs Kahne

I, Count Sorthus, of the Queen's Court, hereby require you to, so we can work together in the future for greatly improved rewards, sharpen your skills as a fighter. You are to apply for the Dajas Pagoa, where you will be tested against great fighters from all over Althanas.
Once you have earned sufficient renown, I will again contact you and provide details of your next job.
No payment from myself will be given for this task, though you will obviously receive the usual salary of a Pagoda fighter by default.

Quentin cursed and drank the rest of his warm, stale beer. That damned Count! The fat man across the table from him, who had refused to move, filling the air with his foul, wretched stench was grinning broadly. Yellow, crooked teeth emitted a smell almost as putrid as the rest of the fat man's body. It was, however, the chuckle after Quentin cursed that sealed his fate.

In an instant, Quentin drew his sword, sending the slightly curved blade in a horizontal arc at the fat man's neck. Using the parchment as protection to ensure no blood splattered on his face, he replaced the blade in its scabbard and grabbed the awful fellow's greasy, matted hair, smashing his head onto the table. It would give him a few minutes to get out of The Serpent's Casque without anyone noticing the creature had just been killed.

Wandering out into the streets, Quentin wondered what to do now - there'd be no communication from the Count for a while, he assumed. That letter had really irked the mercenary no end, and as a young merchant walked by, Quentin pushed the whelp into a tree, just to vent some of his frustration. The Count paid well, and swift, so the promise of better paid jobs certainly enticed the bad mannered mercenary. And the Pagoda, he had heard, also paid good money.

So, off he went towards the Pagoda, a quick walk that took him no more than five minutes or so. He ignored the guards at the gates, walking across the courtyard to be greeted by three monks. Stopping three feet from Quentin, the monks bowed deeply to the mercenary, who scoffed at them loudly.

"We're glad you came. Come with us, your application for Warrior rank has been accepted and you are to face your first challenger." It was the middle monk who had spoken, who then turned in unison with the other two and headed back towards the Pagoda. Quentin followed, mumbling curses under his breath at Count Sorthus who must have had dealings in this.

Entering the Pagoda, Quentin did not notice the luscious designs of the place, so very tempted to take his bad mood on the three monks. A fight this quick was not expected at all, and as he continued to mumble, clenching and unclenching his fists slowly, the anger continued to grow. Finally stopping, the same monk spoke again, "This is your arena. The challenger will arrive shortly." Signalling to the door in front of them, the monks walked away.

"Blood and ashes!" Quentin swore as he opened the door, and taking a step inside he swore again, only it was lost within massive winds as the door closed behind him.

The place was hot, sweltering, and almost immediately Quentin was sweating profusely. He raised a hand to cover his mouth, having already tasted more than enough sand in that instant that he had ever wanted to. He could barely see, the place was so dark, the air filled with sand being whipped about by the horrific winds. Keeping eyes half-closed, the mercenary stumbled through constantly shifting sands, landing flat on his backside at one point, sliding down a dune to the point of rolling.

Sand had managed to get inside all his clothes. Squeezing eyes shut, and clamping lips together once he stopped rolling, Quentin tore at his tunic. Taking the strip of material, he wrapped it around his forehead, pulling over his eyebrows. It impaired his uppermost peripheral vision, but managed to keep most of the sand from getting into his eyes. Another strip was torn, wider this time, and was wrapped over his nose and mouth.

"Wha' th'hell is this?! I'm expected t'fight in this?!!" He hoped the fight would be a quick one, and as he stood wearily, he leaped back as a great column of steam leaped into the air where he had just been sat. Shaking his head, the mercenary stepped away carefully, looking around in the dark sand-storm, trying to see signs of the challenger while trying to avoid any more steam columns.

Continuing to mutter to himself, Quentin slid onto his hands the steel dusters he was intending to use to break the opponent's head. Today was not the day to fight Quentin Boone.

My tongue flickered in and out of my mouth, tasting the air. Meat, somewhere nearby. Not rotten, but still human, edible. The "arena" was hot, but the heat was comforting. It made me faster, sharper, more aware of life. A gust of wind blew sand into my eyes, and my lids clamped tightly shut.

"All the things he left out, I couldn't have had two sets of eyelids?" I was talking to myself, but it was a habit. Sky and Sirius waited for me back at the door, and I usually talked to them as I walked. The wind died down for a moment, and I opened my eyes again, striding towards the scent that made my mouth water and my stomach ache.

I tasted the air again, and realized that my prey was coming towards me. We were converging with almost unseemly haste, and I screwed a head onto my staff, the smooth crystal held enough energy to pulverize flesh, and break bone.

"Welcome to my larder..." A hiss escaped my mouth, and a thick rope of stringy white saliva dropped to the ground as my teeth flashed, row after row of razor edged knives. My hands tightened around the shaft of my weapon, and I walked forward into the wind again, shutting my eyes against the blowing grit.

Every time the wind ceased I tasted the air again, and adjusted my direction, moving as best I could in the slippery sand, where my boots had little traction. The thought crossed my mind several times to remove my boots, but I decided the protection outweighed the ability to walk freely, and I couldn't even be sure that taking them off would help that much.

"I am going to eat his heart for choosing this blasted place..." I had heard that there was a place where I could fight and kill my enemies with no repercussions. Their lives would be renewed no matter how I butchered them, and eating was only mildly frowned upon. To top it all off, my prey would come to me if I attained the rank of warrior. Getting paid to eat would be a dream.

Moving forward with faltering steps, Quentin slipped and slid through the perpetual storm, his foul mood only getting worse with time. The poor sap who had made the challenge was surely in for an awful time once the mercenary found them. Growling behind the torn cloth of his tunic, the bearded fellow wondered if this was all worth it - maybe he could get better paid work without having to fight in this forsaken so-called arena.

Either way, he knew that he was left without choice at the moment for no door was visible and would not be until the fight was over. This fact only served to irk him further as he finally, a short distance ahead, like a silhouette against the screen of whipped up sand, he saw what must have been the challenger. A great hulking figure, a little taller than Quentin but (OOC:I am guessing, let me know if otherwise please, Kahne) much, much broader. It became clear as Quentin got closer to the approaching opponent that it wasn't a human. "Wha' in th'hell is tha'?!"

Within a few steps, however, the opponent was visible as more than a shadow against the storm. The strange opponent looked reptilian, saliva dripping from its mouth as though hungrily finding its dinner. Quentin's eyes seemed to glow with fury beneath the cloth that was doing a barely adequate job of preventing his eyes being filled with sand. This was the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back: Not only was his skill brought into doubt, he was forced to fight in this inhospitable desert, but he was also to fight some giant gecko that was obviously hungry for flesh.

Fists opened and closed repeatedly in rage until Quentin decided he'd no real option other than to give it all he had. With a roar that was drowned out by the howling winds of this dark arena, Quentin leaped towards the creature, throwing his left fist for its face. At that moment, the mercenary had lost all care; he knew that he would either win, or, he judged, be beaten to a pulp by this massive creature.

Quentin was too focused on landing this initial punch that he didn't even notice, off to his left a little distance, yet another column of scalding steam and sand shot up from the ground, spraying hot sand in all directions.

I saw my opponent coming during a lull in the winds. He was smaller than me, but that wasn't unusual, almost anyone was smaller than me. I had to shut my eyes again as the wind kicked back up, and I got a very poor look at him, but he wasn't carrying a sword or anything large and visible. I could only assume he was either a mage or a brawler. The magic he could cast at me would be a problem if that was his specialty, but a brawler would be tasty game attempting to hit me.

I squeezed my eyes open just far enough to see without being blinded by the grit whipping through the air, and jabbed out with my spear towards the approaching man. His arm was drawn back to strike, proving he was the easier prey. The impact of my weapon would be unpleasant, powerful enough to pulp flesh and shatter bone with the concussive force contained in the warhead. Whether or not it hit, I was going to drop my weapon and draw my machetes as soon as he closed to hit me.

The blast of steam nearby threw hot sand all over my left side, but it was a mere inconvenience, not being hot enough to burn my thick skin. Being in the direct path of a steam burst would hurt, but the ejecta was relatively harmless.

Though not noticing the exploding column of steam and burning sand, Quentin certainly noticed the force of it a moment later. Leaping through the air to punch the beast that was his opponent, the mercenary was suddenly filled with a searing pain that encompassed his entire left side. Battering into his flesh, penetrating his attire, there was no plausible way, especially mid-leap, for Quentin to remove the burning grains of sand from wounds that reached into his nerves.

The blast of the steam stung the left side of Quentin and was forceful enough to knock him off course in his jump. Perhaps both a blessing and a curse, it meant that he evaded the thrusting strike of the overgrown gecko, but he had to force his body to spin in order to land the punch. Now, the steel knuckleduster would hit at the side of the reptile's head, maybe even in the eye.

Whether the punch hit or not, Quentin didn't know. The twisting of his body had pulled at least a couple of muscles in his back, and landing awkwardly on his left shoulder, the mercenary had to roll to quickly stand back up. Doing this caused more sand to enter the wounds from the shifting dunes underfoot. "Blood an' ashes!"

The heat of the desert didn't help the burns, and the sand-filled wind was like a constant beating upon Quentin's left side; a concerted effort was needed to not buckle under the pain. Watching the monster draw two machetes, Quentin knew he would have to give this fight his all - It had barely commenced yet he was already disadvantaged. This was not looking good. Damn that God-forsaken Count!

Drawing his sword in a swift motion, Quentin knew he could even the match up if he applied himself. Hell alone knew how he was able to use a sword so well, but his abilities had saved him from situations some would argue were worse than this. He held the hilt of the slightly curved broadsword strong in his right hand, and shouted at the opponent, "Ah am gunna chop ya up, freak!"

Blood starting to trickle down his left arm and leg as a result of the harsh winds penetrating already-weakened burned flesh, Quentin ran forwards as best he could towards Kahne. His green eyes were alight with rage and loathing. This was not a good day.

The blow hurt. I'd been hit before, but the heavy weight of the knuckleduster cut my skin from the impact, and probably left me with a fracture, or a bruise at the least. That was fine though, my right hand machete swung across my body, hacking at this madmans torso, while my left blade stayed motionless, ready to block his next attack.

My tongue flickered again and I scented blood, something had hurt him, either my own attack, or this tearing wind and sand had sliced his frail skin. "Aaah... Fresh meat."

My voice formed the sounds of the common tongue strangely, and the barbarous sound simply dripped with menace. I snapped my jaws, hating the sand that filled my mouth as I spoke, and spitting the fine grit in a froth of blood as it sliced my gums. I was going to eat this mans heart now, for making me deal with this. Eat it while he watched.

Out of Character:

I'm going to have a post up tomorrow, Kahne. I've been rather ill all day.