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.
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