A Lesson He'll Never Forget

[Quentin Boone]

Truth be told, The Serpent's Casque was an awful place to be. The floor was dirty and the rough collage of cheap, thin mats were now all nearly black from the filth of sweating bodies, spilt ale, vomit and excrement. And it smelled just as bad, turning the stomach of all but the most stalwart and strong of stomach. The air was thick with the smoke of cheap tabac in even cheaper pipes, suffocating to any who did not enjoy a good, regular smoke.

This was the watering hole of some of the most vile creatures in Scara Brae; rapists, murderers, thieves, they all were attracted to this place like iron to a magnet. But, that was why Quentin Boone went there. He was a killer and to make it worse, he charged for his kills. And at a hefty price too, though business had been quiet as of late, the City Guard was being more strict than usual, and the Scourge seemed to take no part in the shadier endeavours these men and women found entertaining.

His glass, half full of warm, slightly stale beer was a dirty one, grime along the rim. Quentin didn't actually care about that - the drink was moist and got him inebriated. Nonchalantly, the bearded mercenary lifted his drink from the table as two men fell onto it, breaking the wooden, already dilapidated piece of furniture at the man's feet. With a grunt, he kicked the two wrestling men away from him, "Watch where ya fallin', cow-born idiots, or you'll find me sword in ya necks." As he stood up, several more got embroiled into the fight, and general chaos was sure to ensue. Walking to another table, where a skinny little whelp was sat, Quentin shoved the boy from his chair, not caring that the kid was left in quite a heap on the floor. As he placed the beer onto the table, he pulled out his short, straight-stemmed pipe from within the brown tunic. Striking a match, he lit the tabac inside the pipe's bowl and started to puff awat, adding to the smoke that was already making the dull room near blindingly dark; not that he cared, of course.

It was a few minutes later that, as the fight seemed to settle down, one of the men laid flat on his face not moving, that a stranger approached Quentin's table. "What in hell do you want?" The stranger was a dirty fat man that stood about five foot in height, his face covered in some filth or other that one wouldn't want to enquire about, for fear of the answer. And he stank! Stale ale, horses and stagnating urine, all intermixed to make a rather putrid aura about him. As the man sat down, Quentin repeated his question with more ferocity; even those who frequented this hell hole of a tavern were sickened by the wretched lump of lard.

"I un'erstand that there piece'a steel's," the fat man motioned to the sword at Quentin's hip, "available for hire?"

"Wha' of it?" Quentin was not too impressed with the stranger and was quite happily waiting for some excuse to send the blade into the gargantuan gut of the worm. Though, it would seem, no such like yet.

"Well, I need some steel, an' I hear you're good." The fat-man spoke in hushed tones now, and despite the stench, Quentin leaned forward - money was hard to come by with no work; right now he would take any job.

"Go on."

The fat-man sighed loudly, as though annoyed at Quentin's lacking desire to engage in conversation, "Some Count or other gor'in'a fayt wi' some other Count an' lost. Nah he wants t' give t'other Count a lesson..." His words trailed off at that, almost as though apprehensive to continue on.

Quentin gave it a moment or so, then urged fat-man on. "So, I'm to kill some Count?"

"Nah, you're t' kill his missus and two bastards. An' kill 'em good. Public-like - make it known. Gruesome, ah. Mek it gruesome. An' public." As he continued on, it was obvious the fat-man, in al his grotesque 'splendour' was getting quite excited, if not aroused, by the idea of this Count's wife and two sons being killed in an awful manner.

But then, that was what Quentin specialised in, so he too was pretty pleased at the particulars of the job. Well, apart from one aspect. "I'll kill 'er and the bastards, but if you think I'll bloody do it in pu..."

"Tha's sorted," the fat-man interrupted, "t'Count 'as all tha' sor'ed - they'll be no prison for ya serv'ces." The man grinned then, showing a full row of black spotted yellow teeth, crooked and looking like they were ready to fall out if he chewed too hard on water. And oh, the smell! His breath was as foul as the rest of him; a truly awful man.

"Alright. How much?" Direct to the point, Quentin leant back, wanting to no longer be near the man, the details were given, now the money could be spoken about in a little less discreet manner. Though, of course, the money was the important thing and all that really mattered.

"Two hundred f'each. You'll take t'job, so 'ere." The fat-man pulled out a sealed parchment, placed it on the table and rose to walk out. Quentin would have grabbed him if not for the filth on the lard-boy's clothes, near as disgusting as that on his face. Instead, he let the wretch leave, certain he'd catch up with him again.

Opening the parchment, Quentin read it:


I, Count Sorthus, of the Queen's Court, hereby ask that the holder of this parchment take upon themselves the task of exacting my revenge upon the 'honourable' Count Burock.
The shame bought upon me by this upstart is unforgivable, and as such, he must learn a lesson he'll never forget.
Your task is to kill his wife and two sons in as awful and public a manner as possible. Do not worry, however, for I have made the necessary arrangements to ensure both our immunities from the legal system.
You shall be paid six hundred(600) golden pieces, standard weight - two hundred each for the wife and sons. Extra will be given if you can make the deaths as public as possible.

The script was neat and flowing, and to Quentin proved that the job was genuine; that stinking midget probably couldn't even read, let alone write with so immaculate a hand. Chuckling behind the pipe, Quentin felt that excitement which always filled him, sinister, menacing, just before a kill was made. This was going to be fun.

He quickly downed the beer, placed the parchment in a pocket for evidence when it came to being paid, and walked out the bar, ever so slightly light headed due to the beer he'd been drinking since just past dawn. Of course, he spared a stomp on the ribs of the man laid unconscious on the floor as he left.

[Miehm]

"I understand." I addressed my new employer, one Duke Burock. A simple enough job. Guard his family. The contract had been hashed out fairly rapidly, and I was surprised that he was so willing to provide me with what I wanted before the contract was complete. "I'll take the chain now, and you can have it put in my jacket later. I'll be on the job in...call it five minutes. Is that acceptable?"

"Certainly. My weapon master will provide you with a light chain shirt if you go see him. Arm up, and meet me at the gate. We have errands to run today, and a large guard caravan is out of the question. I expect you to stay inconspicuous, and intervene if anything should happen. I can defend myself, so your job is to watch over my wife and sons."

"We've been over this before. I want your sons to be armed. The youngest may only be 8, but even a dagger at the right moment may save his life. The older boy I want with sword in hand. He may not be able to beat whoever you think is going to attack you, but he should be able to defend himself long enough for me to kill his attacker." This was becoming tedious. I can't understand why he's worrying, but I'll walk through the crowds and put a knife between his enemies ribs if given the chance.

"I'm going to take off now, and get my armor. I'm going to leave immediately after getting that shirt, and I expect you to follow fairly quickly. I'll watch from a distance and keep an eye on the crowds to keep your family safe." I stood up and pushed away from the table, leaving behind a half full glass of fresh apple juice. I stopped for a moment, turned around, downed the glass, and left the room. "Waste not."

The trip to the weapon masters salle was a short one, and the shirt was as promised. Light but strong links of chain mail that would disappear perfectly underneath my jacket, and should be perfect once I got it sewn in to the lining. For now it should stop most blows that the tough leather wouldn't. Getting hit with a hammer would still hurt like a bitch, but at least the odds were better that I wouldn't get stabbed. "Let's do this."

I spun my jacket above me, slipped my arms into the sleeves and let it fall to my shoulders, giving it a small shake to settle it on my new chain armor. The streets were already becoming crowded with people, but I knew an attack would never come at the very gates of the Duke's home. The crossbowmen and spearmen at the gate would make that suicide. I disappeared into the crowd, and watched the family leave the house. The sons were both armed, and the Duke was carrying his own sword, just as I directed. At least the man could take direction. I turned and scanned the crowd as the family stepped off, keeping them in my peripheral vision, while scanning rooftops, aleys, and faces, looking for any hint of a threat.

[Quentin Boone]

Stalking down the street with a rather wicked grin on his face, Quentin watched as the people of Scara Brae went about their activities, so many smiling faces and friendliness that turned Quentin's face a little sour. All so happy-smiley and acting like they were all bosom buddies. It was nearly as sickening as the fat man who had given the swordsman this latest job; he was an awful beast, and the just the thought of him turned Quentin's stomach, making him nauseous.

So, the target was a Count, eh? A Burock. Interesting. It had been some time since the nobility of Scara Brae had fought amongst themselves, and Quentin could not help but feel that he was about to witness a fantastic season of money earning opportunity. That made him outwardly smile, though some scrawny little, well-dressed businessman trying to say hello instantly took the smile from his face. In response to the hello, Quentin paused for a moment, removed pipe from between his teeth and emptied the bowl onto the neatly arranged near-black hair of the businessman. "If I'd have wan'ed to speak to ya, it would'a been me sayin' 'ello."

Continuing on, Quentin took no mind to the fact that much of the tabac would still be lit when it was emptied into the man's hair. Growling with a deep, guttural hatred for idiots who made attempts at idle conversation, Quentin placed the pipe back inside his tunic. Various people who had seen the large man's rather heinous act, or heard the mutterings of those who had witnessed it, all avoided the swordsman as he continued on out of the city towards his house.

The place was small, just outside the city walls, and of less than standard quality, but it offered a place to sleep at night and was pretty cheap. Well, when you killed the person who used to own the small, one room building, rent will always be cheap. The house, as so loosely Quentin used the term, was a in a state of disrepair and a little damp on the walls, but there was space enough for a bed, a stove and a few other essentials. The mercenary picked up his knuckledusters, sliding his fingers into the weapons, and went outside to get his horse.

The small outhouse acted perfectly for a stable, and as Quentin opened the doors, the horse looked up at his master. In comparison to the house and its owner, the beast appeared as regality - a shiny red-brown coat, slick mane and tail, and strong muscles all round . Quickly saddling the creature, Quentin started out at a gallop to the Count's residence a few miles out of the city.

In his mind, the plan was perfect, and he hoped that it would work.

[Miehm]

When the attack came, assuming it ever did, I told myself I'd be ready. I was walking with my hands on the hilts of my knives, and watching everything around me. When the attack came I wouldn't have much time to react, so every minute I had to plan now as critical. I could probably stop, or at least deter a maximum of five swordsman if they didn't see me coming. I wasn't sure how big this attack was going to be, but I knew my capabilities almost to a cut, and most people on this island were nowhere near my level. The guards were almost a joke, but that wasn't their fault. When you fight nothing but Goblins for half a century, anybody'll get rusty.

The only thing I saw odd at the gates was a man riding, apparently hell for leather, away from the city. He might have been a courier or something similar. I saw the horse, and it was a fairly decent beast, large and deep chested, it was moving faster than I really would have thought necessary, but who was I to judge? I put the lone horseman out of my mind, and went back to watching the crowd, and planning.

"I'll have to keep the younger boy safe longer, unless he runs away. That means leaving the woman and the older boy exposed. Damn... I should have at least some backup on this. Three protectees is way more than I should have to put up with." I muttered quietly to myself for a moment, drawing some odd looks from passerby, but a glare and a quick snap of my neck was enough to turn heads sharply away. I popped my knuckles as I walked, thinking about how I would try and kill these three if I had the chance. Probably use bowmen from a distance, or maybe make some black powder and just blow them to bits... That's something I need to look into... I've got an extra five hundred years to a millennium of knowledge on these people, and I haven't even gotten around to making explosives yet. I might lose my redneck card if I'm not careful.

[Quentin Boone]

The horse was one of pretty good speed, and as it leaped with each step away from the city, Quentin spared a glance back into Scara Brae. As he turned his head, however, he instantly pulled back on the reigns of the animal. "Whoah, ya damned beast!" As the horse stopped, he turned it around, squinting his eyes for a better look back into the city.

Among the crowds of people near the City Gate, some small distance into the city itself, Quentin caught sight of a carriage being pulled by two horses. Slowly edging back towards the city, he managed to catch a glimpse of the adornment on the side of the carriage. It was the insignia of Count Burock, who was not supposed to be in the city. For a moment the mercenary grinned, but that quickly faded as, from a curtained window, a woman glanced out of the carriage. Blood and bloody damn ashes!

And there was his plan completely blown into the wind. If the wife was here, so too would be the two bastards, so now Quentin would need to make his kill in the city. This, of course, could lead to a further pay bonus, as it would be much more public now. He groaned, however, as this change of events would also mean a more difficult escape from the City Guard. Damn.

Sighing with resignation, he knew that the money was needed from this job, so made his way back towards the humble dwellings he liked to think of as home. It was a slower pace back, as the road leading into the city had filled with people. Wasting no time, he led the horse back into its makeshift stable, and wandered into the city.

With the streets being much busier now, Quentin was far from inconspicuous, not caring to move aside for people as the walked towards him. Expletives came from both Quentin and any he would shove out of his way; it was plainly evident the fellow was not in a good mood.

A decision was made that he would not waste any time with particulars or cunning now, he'd simply do what he was good at - Delivering pain and death.

[Miehm]

"Get out of my way." The fat slob was taking up a significantly greater portion of the road than he had been allotted, and I shoved hard into his shoulder, sending him stumbling into a wall.

The press of bodies was making it harder and harder to keep up with the coach, but a determined shove, or a glimpse of steel was all it took to clear anyone not smart enough to simply get out of my way.

I was starting to get nervous, watching for the attack that I was being paid to prevent, and the longer we went without it coming, the worse my nervousness got. My hands hovered at my sides, snapping and unsnapping the clasps on my knives. Scanning the crowds was all I had to do, shoving my way past the masses of merchants and peasants, keeping an eye out for suspicious characters.