To Rob The Family ((Solo))

[Quentin Boone]

Solo giving some back story on Quentin Boone. Set a little over five years in the past

The cold Salvaran wind blew in through the broken windows and gaps in the wooden frame of the abandoned warehouse, but wasn't felt by the sixty or more scruffily-dressed people within. They were huddled together around a dark, dank corner of the warehouse, jostling to get a better view, shouting for their favourite, as unaware of the wind as they were their intermingling sweat. Burly men huddled together would always generate heat, even in the harsh climate of Salvar. All their attention was firmly on the fight before them.

Quentin shook his head, trying to regain focus in his eyes. Slouched against the wall, he licked the blood that started pouring from his nose - broken for now the umpteenth time. His head floated for a moment and he realised shaking it wasn't the greatest idea. Pressing his hand against the wall, he pushed on the rough, half-rotted wood in an attempt to stand. He instead slid onto his backside and immediately felt the dampness of stale piss and blood. He looked up and the crowd seemed like blurred silhouettes against the dim lanterns, fists were raised in the air as some celebrated what they thought was a bet well placed. Others shouted at Quentin to stand, worried that they'd lose precious gold.

It was the young man stood barely two feet away that Quentin knew he had to worry about, though. The newcomer's demeanour was a confident one and throughout the fight he wore a sly grin that irked the older, veteran fighter. The younger fighter bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on Quentin. "Come on, old man. Get up and fight!"

Wincing from the pain of bruised ribs as he took a deep inhale, Quentin tried standing up once more. He was successful this time and despite being a good five inches taller than the young upstart, Quentin didn't look anywhere near as intimidating as he should have done. His muscle-bound, wide-shouldered frame swayed left and right as he still struggled to see straight. His left eye was swollen to near-closing and the slightly distorted sounds of the crowd disoriented him. He ran a hand through brown hair soaked with sweat and blood. The kid was a vicious son-of-a-devil, and Quentin's strength didn't help against the whelp's speed.

The bearded brawler barely had time to bring his arms up in front of his face to block the punch, and as it hit thick forearms, Quentin crashed back into the wall from the sheer force of the punch. The collision with the wall seemed to knock his senses back, and the bounce was used to gain some forward momentum. A swinging right hook just missed the cocky fighter's chin, but Quentin let his body spin and extended his left arm as he kept moving forward. A heavy forearm smashed into the side of the newcomer's head and was followed by a short uppercut into his gut. As the young fighter doubled over, the older man threw his knee up with a roar and watched as the other was thrown onto his back.

The crowd's shouts crescendoed again, even from those who had placed the long-shot bet of the new kid winning. This was the Quentin Boone a lot of the crowd had come to see. For the past fifteen or more years, Quentin had been fighting in dirty places like this, earning a cut of each fight's winnings. He didn't always feel like it, and at nearly twenty-nine years old, his body wasn't always up to it, but every night Quentin fought. The civil war had brought hardships to everyone - the Church and Government's feud destroyed whole lives, but hardest hit were those impoverished before the war even started. The urchins who struggled to survive the harsh streets of Knife's Edge by minor crimes like pickpocketing or theft, or trespassing to find a night's shelter in a barn, were forced to seek out more extreme means of survival. Sometimes that meant literally fighting for your life.

And Quentin Boone had gotten pretty bloody good at fighting in the last fifteen years. He was often the main event, and rarely lost more than a couple of fights a week. The real attraction was how Quentin fought every night. Without fail. Whether he was still strapped from the night before, or blind drunk after a good return. The crowd's jostling become more excited as they anticipated another great performance by the infamous veteran. They didn't realise the swelling was leaking blood into his left eye and his right still couldn't focus properly.

The younger man stood once more, taking only a moment to recover and Quentin knew he had to do something to quickly end this fight; if he took any more of a beating, he might not be here for tomorrow's money. He lurched forward, not letting the newcomer catch a breath, cupped a hand around the back of his neck and smashed a dirt-blood-and-sweat-stained forehead into the upstart's nose. Quentin heard something crunch, knew he had won, but couldn't keep his footing. The big man fell on top of the smaller in a heap. It took a minute to gather the strength to roll onto his back, but when he did, Quentin half-raised an arm in victory. The crowd went wild.

Quentin whispered to himself, with a half grin. "Now, that's a bit 'a luck!"

[Quentin Boone]

The crowd quickly dispersed once the fight was over. Those who lost their bets made their ways home with a curse and hunched shoulders; regretting the lost money that could have bought food or an ale, comforted somewhat by the fact that, had they won, they could have double or tripled the gold offered in wagers. The lucky spectators crowded the young lad who handed out winnings. He tried bellowing with his just-breaking voice to direct the near-ravenous brutes to form an orderly line and to inform them that everyone would receive their gold. Instead, the orders came out as a croak and everyone ignored him. None of them would overstep their bounds, however, thanks to the three heavies stood only a few feet away: Each of them were over six and a half feet tall with muscles threatening to burst the seams of their rough attire.

Life in Knife's Edge meant that even the better-paid peasants - usually under the employ of some illegal business or other - didn't fare much better than those who struggled for even a loaf of bread. The war had torn the country apart, and was always the case, the lowest classes suffered more than their social superiors. Even the business of fighting suffered: It wasn't uncommon for either the Church or the government to raid fights, throwing the participants, onlookers and anyone else within close proximity into the cells. Sixty people had turned up for the fight tonight; before the war it would have been at least four times that.

Which is why Jenlat was in such a foul mood. The scrawny, rat-nosed organiser of this particular 'fight club' was pacing back and forth, chewing at his fingernails intermittently between adjusting and readjusting his wireframed spectacles. It took all his will to look down at the two fighters. He sighed loudly, readjusted his glasses then ran a dirty hand through even dirtier hair. "What t'do, what t'do?"

He wandered over to the kid, who had managed to serve the last of the punters. Jenlat's hunched shoulders made him barely taller than the kid, and his eyes didn't really focus on anyone or anything. "What d'we tek?"

The boy answered quickly and nervously, and subconsciously rubbed the wrist Jenlat's heavies had nearly broken the last time the rat-faced ringmaster was in a bad mood. "Uh... Two firty seven, sir."

"Shit!" Jenlat nearly fell to the chair, its creaky frame groaning from the force of the fall. Jenlat's head fell into his hands and his booted foot started tapping faster and faster. He only sat for a minute or two before abruptly standing.

"It aint my fault. I'll just tell 'im Boone knows the rules but broke 'em. I aint never run a death club." He still paced back and forth, eyes gazing half to the ceiling. It certainly seemed a good tale, and might just be enough to save his life. Everyone knew where Quentin drank, but only Jenlat and a few others knew the shanty Boone called a home. That would be valuable information.

"Get 'im up, you two!"

Two of the heavies walked to the corner of the warehouse where the bearded brawler and his opponent laid on the floor and picked up the older fighter. They dragged his limp body by the armpits to a chair opposite Jenlat and threw him on it. A second later, the third poured a bucket of near-freezing water over Quentin's head. He gasped into consciousness and sat shivering as Jenlat leaned forward to speak quietly to the fighter.

"Do you have any idea who that is?" He didn't wait for Quentin to answer; it was clear he didn't. "That's Prinak DeFacul. Brane DeFacul's second son. He's dead."

Quentin's right eye widened. His right eye was still swollen shut and bleeding; somewhere in the shock it registered that this was the fifth eye injury in two weeks. Boone was almost concerned about it as he managed a shocked groan.

"You killed 'im. One of The Family's sons. An' I gotta save my own arse, you get that, right?"

"Bastard!" Quentin managed a single word as panic started to overcome him. Had this little weasel handed him over already? No. He'd already be dead. Were The Family on the way here? They could be, Quentin had no idea how long he'd been out. His brain struggled to think of some way out of the inevitable and impending death, but thoughts were slow and heavy. His chin fell to his chest, jerking him to sit bolt upright. Boone looked Jenlat in the eyes, defiant.

"Now, now, Boone." Jenlat's voice was half slick poison, half regret. "You're my best fighter, 'ave been for eight years. I aint about t'let ya die on me after ya made me rich."

Quentin's head tilted to the right so he could see Jenlat clearly. "Wha..."

A nick at the swelling around Quentin's eye brought a twitch and a groan. The kid wiped his knife clean and put it back into the top of his trousers. "I gotsta give it a squeeze, sir. Many sorries."

As the kid tended Quentin's eye, Jenlat continued talking and Quentin did all he could to focus on his employer's words rather than the hamfisted urchin's crude needlework. "Like I said, I gotta save my own arse. Even you aint worth me own life. But because you've done me well o'er the years, I'm willin' to give ya a head start. When the whelp's done with ya eye, Bont 'ere'll strap ya ribs."

Quentin tried refusing that offer, but instead let out a gasp of pain as the kid poked a rib. "Bont be one a the best wrappers, don't ya be complainin'."

"I'll give ya three hours and half the takings from tonight. Get on a damn ship and outta 'ere, ya 'ear me, Boone?" Jenlat glanced at Prinak's body and the churning in his stomach started again. "They'll chase ya 'ard 'n fast, Boone. Ya might not even get three hours when they start missin' him."

The ringmaster stood up, donned his rough cotton cloak and walked away. It was a slow, hesitant walk; perhaps his last.

[Quentin Boone]

Bont was an absolute brute, but the kid was right. Quentin felt a little better in moving after the heavy was finished strapping his bruised ribs. The bearded brawler donned his shirt and coat and barely felt the damaged ribs as he stretched and twisted to put on the clothes. He wasted only enough time to begrudgingly thank Jenlat's lackies and pick up his gold before leaving the warehouse himself.

The night air was cold despite smoke rolling overhead from fires somewhere in the city. No doubt there had been more clashes outside of the poor district between the Church and the king's men. It was a stupid war that had made Quentin's life even more difficult than it already had been, and he resented both parties for this.

The smell of smoke stirred in Quentin's gut, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since morning. Jenlat had said three hours before he contacted The Family. The burly man figured that would give him enough time to get a meal before any pursuit started. He quickly walked towards The Wailing Willow, trying to keep within the shadows; Quentin crossed streets where lamplight or an uncovered window would illuminate him. He did not want either agents of The Family or soldiers to see him; the former for obvious reasons, the latter because they would undoubtedly look at his bruised face, stitched and still-swollen eye and all, and know him for what he was - an illegal fighter. They'd arrest him and he'd be dead by sunrise.

Twenty minutes later, Quentin stepped into the Willow and quickly took position next to the door and shrouded in darkness. He was a regular patron, so the tavern could be high on the list of places Janlat gave The Family. Quentin's left eye was still too swollen to open properly, but he surveyed the smoky common room with his right. The sullen men and women who sat around aged, unpolished tables on stools of even worse repair near all stared into flat mead and stale ale; their clothes were dirty as the tankards they drank from. Quentin noticed an old man sigh with relief as a trickle of piss ran out from the hole in his boot. That explained the all-too-familiar rancid smell of the place. Near the bar a skinny young whelp danced with sultry eyes to the off-rhythm notes of a hammered dulcimer played by a boy nowhere near old enough to be off his mother's apron strings.

The dancer had pretty green-blue eyes and her mid-riff was inviting, and while Quentin would have flirted with her for a while under normal circumstances, and perhaps taken her to the alley behind the tavern, he had little interest in the girl tonight. He didn't see anyone who posed a threat, so sat down at the closest table. The serving girl was plump and her bosom was pushed up and together. She leant forward on the table to ensure Quentin received a full view of the perhaps too-full cleavage. "What can I get you?"

"A half-tankard of mead, an' some'a ya stew wi' a little bread." The serving girl gave sly grin and a wink in response to Quentin's curt request and wandered off towards the kitchens, her backside swaying left and right.

The meal was quick to arrive, in a wooden bowl, barely steaming and a little greyer than should be healthy. At least the bread looked only a day or two stale. "An' me drink?"

The serving girl smiled, and Quentin realised that she actually had a pretty mouth, despite the flabbiness of the rest of her face. "Impatient, aren't you?"

Quentin had already torn off a piece of bread, dipped it into the stew and had a mouthful before the girl finished her question. He spoke hastily between chews, "Just ge'it."

She huffed and a few nearby patrons turned to look at the too-rude man sat alone. He returned every stare with a single-eyed glare that quickly drew curious eyes back to their drinks.

Despite the age of the stew, it was pleasantly spiced, and while there were more potatoes than meat, Quentin enjoyed it. The gravy staved off the staleness of the bread and he wiped every drop clean. He then downed his drink and wandered over to the bar. He gave the barkeep enough coins to cover the meal then turned his attention to the dancer.

Upon closer inspection, it was clear she was much younger than the brawler had first estimated. Her strawberry hair was matted and streaks down her face showed she'd recently been crying and there was a scent of spilled ale about her. Pretty eyes held a sadness that was deep felt; she was likely another orphan of this pointless war. Quentin leaned into her ear and poked her midriff, "Make sure ya don't fill that too early, ya hear?"

She looked ready to reply, a look of almost-disgust mixed with gratitude painting her oval visage, but Quentin leaned back and dropped three gold coins into the tin she stood behind. The other scant few coins were all bronze and didn't look very heavy. Her eyes widened, yet Quentin didn't see another tear fall from her eye; he had already turned away and towards the door.

Emerging once more into the dark street, the brawler looked around. To the south there was trouble brewing if the body language of a couple of Church acolytes was anything to go by, so he headed north. His plan was to head south and escape into the mountains, but that was no longer viable.

He moved north and east, passing through alleys and side-streets whenever possible, and doubled back on himself several times so as to ensure he wouldn't be followed. It made for slow moving, but he knew that, for now, he was safe. On a number of occasions, he had been forced to detour as patrols of soldiers from both sides of the war crossed his path, he cursed every single one. At least two hours had passed before he reached the city's north-eastern gates and his injuries were taking their toll - even his strapped ribs now pulsed with a not-so-dull ache.

In an hour, if he was lucky, Jenlat would be telling The Family that Quentin had murdered one of their sons and a frantic scramble would wreck the poorer parts of the city as the criminal lords of Knife's Edge searched for retribution. Yet Quentin paused in the shadows only fifty feet short of his escape from the city. The two guards each held long spears, their blades glinting in the lamplight, and had scabbarded swords at their hips. If he was caught in conflict, Quentin would certainly meet his demise.

He wished he had some sort of weapon.

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin sat on his heels for almost half an hour before he made his move. He'd been watching the guards, who stood perfectly still and silent, eyes straight ahead and unfaltering. Not even a word of camaraderie between the two soldiers was shared, and Quentin wondered what they were thinking about. He realised, though, that they were clearly duty-bound to ensure there were no problems or irregularities near the gates.

That was the inspiration for Quentin's plan. He realised that the street was empty but for the guards and himself. There were no footsteps, no slurrings of a drunkard talking to himself, there wasn't even the quiet song of night birds. Any noise would attract the attention of the guards. The brawler picked up a small stone from the dirt beneath him. He chanced his arm and slung it somewhere to the right, a little distance from the gates. The sound of shattering glass was deafening in the silence of night, and both guards' heads whipped towards it. Only the closest guard moved to investigate, but that was all Quentin had aimed for.

He counted fifteen seconds in his head then launched from his heels at a dead run. The remaining guard jolted in surprise as Quentin powered towards him, but the brawler didn't give time for a shout. He swung his fist at the guard's face despite the steel grille covering it. Thankfully the force was enough to knock the guard off-balance, and Quentin used that moment of weakness in the guard to snatch at a dagger strapped to the soldier's leg. He grabbed the weapon and wasted no time in stabbing the guard multiple times in the folds of his armour. The soldier was only a little younger than Quentin and as his mouth bubbled with blood from punctured lungs, the brawler felt a pang of guilt.

That didn't stop his escape, however. Quentin ran through the open gate and into the darkness without looking back. For all he knew, the other guard was in pursuit, and for a while the bearded brawler forgot that The Family was likely on the hunt now.

It was an hour later than Quentin came to a panting halt, breath shooting thick clouds from his mouth as it hit the cold Salvaran air. Outside the city there was little protection from the savage wind and it ripped into Quentin's bruised and torn body. He shivered from the sweat beading on his face and covering his body. With heavy, laboured breaths, Quentin tried to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees. Instead, he collapsed into the dirt and struggled to regulate his breathing.

The straps around his chest, helpful in mitigating the pain of bruised ribs, were now suffocating him. The struggle to rip the straps free brought with it agony, but Quentin was able to start breathing fully again. He took deep breaths, wincing with every one. It took several minutes before he was able to breath normally once more and he laid on the frozen mud, exhausted. His eyes slowly closed shut.

When he awoke, the moon was low in a sky just starting to lighten before dawn. The brawler stood up with a groan, and continued along the path before him. Groggy from fatigue and lingering sleep, he wasn't sure, but thought the road would take him to Tirel. The Family had influence there as well, but there was hope word of Prinak's death wouldn't reach the port town before Quentin got there.

As Quentin slowly regained his senses, he took stock of his situation. "I bloody killed one'a The Family's sons, they'll kill me if they find me... I 'ad t'murder that bloody guard, but shoulda been nobody saw me... If the other guard did, they'll kill me if they find me..."

He opened the small leather pouch that held the coins Jenlat had given him and started a rough count, "An' I got maybe an 'undred an' ten golds left... And this, ugh... IRON dagger!"

Quentin spat as he realised the dagger was low quality. "They don't even give their soldiers proper stuff. Damn this bloody war!"

He considered a variety of options but came to the conclusion that - as much as it pained the brawler to even admit - Jenlat had been right. With passage on a ship, Quentin could find himself outside The Family's arm of influence within only a day or two. Where he'd go, Quentin had no idea. "Best t'get first ship outta Salvar, I reckon. As far as I can."

Tirel it was, then.

[Quentin Boone]

The journey to the port town took four days and went by with little incident.

The first day was spent grumbling and moaning about the dirty rotten luck Quentin had discovered over the previous twenty four hours. He stayed on the road, ate a scant meal of berries and melted-ice water that tasted bitter and salty. At the river's crossing, Quentin had considered a detour along the riverbank but remembered a map he'd seen a few years earlier: The detour would add three days to his journey and give The Family chance to get ahead of him. It wouldn't take them long to realise the brawler was no longer in Knife's Edge. So, he decided to cross at the bridge, and continue on the path. At nightfall, he hid in a small copse of bare trees and slept only a few hours.

Quentin was born and raised in Salvar, had become accustomed to the cold, but when he woke on the second day, his bones ached from the chill of night. His injuries new and old ached and he made slow progress. He foraged some more berries for a meal near the middle of the morning, ate them on the move and carried on in a slow, pained pace. A little over an hour after the sun reached its zenith, a patrol of six witch hunters came up behind the brawler on horseback. He didn't have time to hide before they were on him.

The band came to a walk just behind Quentin, and the oldest, a man with long, pure white hair spoke with a powerful voice. "Lone travellers are rarely found in these troubled times, sir. Why then are you out here, and where are you headed?"

Quentin held back an agitated groan. If not for the Church, Salvar wouldn't be at war with itself. He despised them, but they were still agents of the Sway, and their most dangerous. "Travelling t'Tirel for work at the tannery."

"What happened to you eye?"

"Now there's a tale for ya!" Quentin feigned a jolly demeanour as he looked up at the man's cold, grey eyes. The hunter just stared, not sharing in the joviality, but simply waiting for a response. "I thought I'd bring me cow, to, ya know, gain a bit'a favour at tannery. But the bloody animal wouldn't have none of it an' kicked me in the face!" Quentin shook his head, "Damn thing must'a thought it wa' a donkey!"

The hunter harrumphed, clearly doubting Quentin's story. For near a minute, he seemed to be considering and Quentin feared he'd met his end. Or worse, would be taken for questioning.

"Well, take care on the road, sir. War makes even the simplest of journeys treacherous." And with that, the band of hunters sped on down the road, nearly knocking Quentin over in the process.

Quentin immediately shed the fake smile and waited until they were out of sight before heading off the road. If he met with another patrol of some sort again, he might not be so lucky. He considered it fortune that he'd made it so far, and didn't want to tempt fate by risking another encounter. He travelled the rest of the day almost half a mile from the road, but kept parallel to its path. There were some sparse growth away from the road, enough for the big man to hide if the need arose and he could see any traffic on the road easily enough, even with his left eye's swelling still not reduced.

For the rest of the second day, and all of the second, Quentin travelled away from the road and without incident. He even managed to kill a rabbit for dinner early on the third day. He was happy for the dagger then, despite its low quality. At night, he made a cover of twigs and dead leaves and though it was uncomfortable, he was thankful for the slight warmth they provided. Indeed, on the fourth morning, Quentin felt only a slight ache throughout his body and managed to continue his walk with a slightly more determined pace. That was until late afternoon when the smell of tan and sea had already set itself in his nose.

Two horsemen sped along the road as Quentin started back towards it, dressed all in black, cloaks streaming behind them and heads resting on the steeds' necks. Quentin quickly dropped to the ground behind a bare bush and watched them pass. They were agents for The Family, for sure. They were the only ones able to have horses that strong after the army demanded every horse was 'donated' into military service.

He'd been too slow. Tirel no longer seemed the sound escape it had five minutes before, The Family there would be looking for Quentin, and there were only two ways into the town. The brawler knew he had another hour or more before he reached the port, and that he would likely be found before getting there. He'd come too far to turn back, though, and there was nowhere else to go. He got back onto the road and started to jog towards his doom.

For an hour, Quentin jogged along the road, then stopped as he topped a crest: He could see the port town a quarter mile down the hill and before him. It looked as though the hunters had some business in Tirel, for smoke rose from the town. From four or five points, great columns of black smoke rose and were blown south towards the sea by the brisk wind. The docks seemed a hive of activity as ships loosed sails and began their departures: Most likely to avoid the troubles a hunt often brought with them. People were flocking from the town in a flurry of fear that had them spread in all directions from the town's border.

A flash of light and a loud bang resulted in another plume of smoke starting to rise, lightning followed, smashing into a large building and sending its tiles into the air. Quentin smiled. The pandemonium in Tirel might just save his life.

He started down the hill and toward the port.

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin had to push against the panicked torrent of people trying to leave the port town as quickly as possible, and every collision jostled bruised ribs. Eyes wide with fear failed to see the bearded brawler as he, perhaps insanely, headed towards the chaos instead of away. An odour of urine occasionally mixed with the smoky sea air, and as one old man unceremoniously tried to shove Quentin completely out of the way, Boone could have sworn the man had soiled himself. Children cried and their mothers tried hushing them with assurances that everything would be fine. It sounded all too much like they were trying to convince themselves for any child to believe the hollow words.

If rumours were to be trusted, Tirel had avoided many of the troubles of civil war. Now that it had reached them, they were ill-equipped to cope with its horrors, exacerbated by a feeling of security. Quentin would almost feel sorry for them if he wasn't engrossed in his own problems. He held an arm to his ribs, hoping to shield them from further harm and trying to reduce the pain that was tearing through his torso. He wished he'd kept the straps on, but knew removing them was necessary.

He finally made it into the town and took a moment of respite by taking refuge in a small house whose door was left open. As expected, it was abandoned. Whoever lived here kept a clean and comfortable home, and Quentin was relieved to find a cushioned chair at the head of a small wooden table. He rested elbows on the wood and face into his hands. He winced with pain while he formulated a plan.

"The dock is me best shot, but I'll hafta get through the whole bloody city." He shook his head, "But The Family'll be waitin' for me there if they had sense. It's a damn predictable move."

The house seemed to shake as a near-deafening clap of thunder erupted. Hidden dust and plaster fell from the ceiling and Quentin was forced to sneeze before ruffling his hair to remove the debris. "I don't have another choice, though. And I'd better move 'fore I end up dead."

He rose and headed back out into the street. Fires had started even this close to the city gates and the bearded brawler covered his nose and mouth with a hand. He scanned the street in front of him and to the east towards the dock. He started at a leisurely walk along the now-empty street. Cries of despair could be heard from several buildings as he passed them - houses and shops where people had hoped for refuge. He knew all too well there was no real refuge when battles like this started. There was a sympathy for those poor people and a regret that nothing could really be done for them. Especially in his current state, Quentin was hardly in a position to help anyone.

Suddenly, somewhere behind him, Quentin caught the pounding of hooves against cobble on the wind. He quickly turned into an alley and hid behind the rubble of a fallen smithy wall. Fifteen or more of the king's soldiers rushed by on horseback, all heavily armoured and carrying lances and swords. They were certainly here to try curbing the Witch Hunters who were at least partly responsible for the chaos across the town. The bearded brawler didn't bother wasting time, though, and as soon as he saw they weren't agents of The Family, he moved further down the alley.

On he went, up and down alleys and side-streets, backtracking when a path was blocked by debris or Witch Hunters were going about their work; either casting powerful spells at something or someone Quentin couldn't see, or fighting with soldiers who seemed to be on the losing end of every battle. As Quentin made his way through the town, occasionally doubling back on himself to take an alternate route in efforts to avoid detection by soldiers, Witch Hunters or agents of The Family, he began to really see the damage done.

Fires made the city too warm, even with the warmer sea breeze that made Tirel more hospitable than Knife's Edge's guarded climate, and smoke filled the air to the point where Quentin could no longer smell salt or the tanneries. It seemed every other building was at least partially destroyed: a collapsed roof here, a broken wall there; glass covered many of the streets where windows had smashed through the sheer force of spells being cast everywhere. The bearded brawler's arm and neck hairs seemed to stand permanently on end as lightning continued to rain down.

Quentin only narrowly avoided a bolt hitting the ground at his feet around the centre of the town, in a narrow alley that was stained with vomit and excrement. It was probably the back of an inn. Sheer misfortune made Quentin trip over a little bit of rubble he hadn't seen slightly to his left. As he fell forward, the ground erupted where had just been stood and he could feel the static of lightning. He stayed face-down in the alley for several minutes, his breathing rapid, heart racing and ribs sending pulsating agony throughout his body. He barely believed his luck, "P'haps this really wasn't a good idea!"

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin stumbled to his feet in the alley and leant against a wooden fence to catch his breath. His vision blurred for a moment, with white spots floating across the view of the street ahead. Quentin wondered if he was hallucinating as he saw a white-clad figure spinning a whip above his head that cracked with sparks of lightning. The brawler shook his head to try clearing his thoughts, "Gotta gerri' together."

He started towards the street one laboured step after the other and was half-way there before he realised blood was trickling down his cheek; he had fallen as cleanly as he expected and he felt a deep cut on his forehead when he swept a hand across his brow. As though the realisation triggered an instinct, Boone fell to his knees and only avoided smashing his head a second by landing forward on his hands. The booms of exploding magics faded into the distance as his vision started to darken from the corners inward.

Before he collapsed, a sudden, excruciating thud of pain cleared his mind as his body was lifted slightly and sent into the fence with a jolt that made him yelp with agony. The sensation of stabbing permeated his ribs and as watered eyes glanced upwards, Quentin saw a figure in a black cloak standing over him with a satisfied grin. "Didn't think you could escape, did you?"

It was one of The Family's agents Quentin had seen galloping towards the harbour town only a couple of hours before. Another boot to the ribs took Quentin's breath away and as he gasped for air, the cloaked man threw a heavy fist into Quentin's face, reopening the cut on his eye. And another sent the brawler's head loosely against the fence with a jolt that made Boone think his head might fall off. A flurry of boots and punches shook Quentin to the core. The brawler was a tough son of a bitch, but in his defenceless state, it wasn't long before he started thinking about the afterlife, sure his life was about to come to an abrupt end.

Something flicked a switch in Quentin's head. Perhaps it was adrenaline pumping through his veins or some Sway-given second chance, but the pain started to subside and vision began to return. Quentin noticed a sheathed knife at the goon's waist. He grabbed it in desperation and thrust at the cloaked man's gut, hoping to hit home. He did. Time after time the knife pierced the belly of the would-be murderer and Quentin's hand became covered in blood. The man fell on top of Quentin and though he was aware of pain ripping through him, the brawler didn't stop his frantic stabbing. By the time he had worn himself out and consciousness began to fade once more, Boone was drenched in blood, most of it his attacker's, and claret started to crawl its way through the snow beneath him.

Quentin didn't notice his eyes close or his breathing slow, nor did he have the chance to realise he'd won.

[Ranger]

Rewards for No Judgment

Exp Gained: 670
Gold Gained: 77

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added.