A Clashing of Knives

[Quentin Boone]

Closed to Callan.

The sun was high over Radasanth, casting its heat into the crowded streets. Quentin jostled his way through the throng passing the Citadel, his right leg aching a bit as he was forced to take awkward paths across the flow of people about their daily business.

He took a slow walk up the Citadel steps and ignored the Ai'Brone monks at the door. Quentin did not like them. Religious folk usually meant trouble, and with the strange magic of this place, the bearded brawler would rather not be in the Citadel at all. But he had to scrape a living somehow - not just for himself, but the others at The Empty Hand - and fighting was all he really knew.

The corridors were familiar places now; their grey stone walls broken by occasional large, heavy, oak doors hid fights and offices that Quentin would never know about. He followed the corridors for nearly five minutes, turning left at one junction, straight on at the next, left again, then right. The third door on the left was his destination and before entering, Quentin adjusted the leather vest - it had become slightly sticky in the heat.

"How much today, Adal?" Quentin limped into the office of one of the city's many ringmasters. They arranged fights in the Citadel for entertainment and crowds would come to enjoy the spectacle. It was almost a familiar situation for the Salvaran brawler - he had worked for ringmasters in Knife's Edge - but for the fact these ringmasters were working within the confines of the law.

"Eighty-seven gold, Boone. Winner's bonus of fifty." Adal was a well-dressed, well-groomed elderly chap with snowy hair and moustache. His accent was foreign but Quentin had never been able to place it.

"Barely covers the rent if I win."

"Well, I could always book you in for another fight. The day after tomorrow has an open slot."

Quentin was already rubbing his leg. It had a tendency to seize up in extremes of weather, and the hot day meant Quentin's leg was sore just from the walk to the Citadel from the Inn. He hoped the other fighter wasn't all that good. "With my leg? You know full well I can't fight more than once a week now, Adal. And my bloody eye! The blasted thi..."

A hand rested on Quentin's left shoulder and an effeminate man's voice spoke, "You really shou..."

Quentin hadn't seen the Ai'Brone monk stood in the corner; his left eye really was getting worse. "I've already told ya! I don't want none of you monks touchin' me."

The tall, muscular fighter tried grabbing the monk's throat out of frustration, but the Ai'Brone were slippery and Quentin's hand caught nothing but air as the monk deftly moved out of the way. Quentin growled and turned his attention back to Adal; he walked to the ringmaster's desk, leant forward, placed his palms on the unvarnished wood and turned his head to the right so the old man could clearly see the milky white of a near-blind eye. "This bloody thing's getting worse, Adal! Can't you up the stakes, get me a bit more gold?"

"Hmph. I can find you a weapon fight. I know, I know... You don't like fighting weapons. But I can make money from that, give you an entry of a hundred."

Quentin grunted and took a moment to think. He had his dagger and throwing knives, but the risk of getting skewered was normally too high: He had people to look after. But he needed the money. They needed the money. "All right. But if I wind up dead, you tell those damned monks not to touch me, and you can tell everyone at The Hand it was your fault."

Adal smiled, almost let out a chuckle, as he listened to Quentin. "Good... Good, Boone. I've always wondered what you can do with those blades. You'd better get ready. Go on through."

Quentin shook his head and stood up straight. He twisted his back right and left to work out a small ache then walked through the second door of the office into the arena's preparation chambers.

It was a long, narrow room, windowless, with a stone bench in the middle of the floor; At the far end, an iron door with rusted edges held the portal into the arena itself. Quentin sat on the bench, close to the door and took the leather straps from his trousers. He wrapped his hands, then sat in silence waiting for the bell to signify it was time to enter the arena.

"Bloody weapons! Sometimes Adal's as bad as Jenlat!"

[Callan]

Callan reached up to loosen the black scarf wrapped around his neck. He had only been outside a quarter of an hour and it was already damp. Have I really been away that long? he thought. I'd welcome this as a cool day in Fallien, and yet here I am sweating like a lad on his first trip into a brothel... I guess I've taken on their weaknesses as well as their accent. A small measure of pride stirred in his chest at the thought of his accent, as it always did when he was mistaken for a Coronian.

To be certain, he was not proud to be a Coronian. Father's ancestry be damned; he had been born in Fallien and thought of himself as a native, no matter how bitter the terms of his departure had been. He had always had a knack for charades, and had found his gift loaned itself well to adopting the mannerisms and speech patterns of Corone. A bead of sweat rolling down his forehead from his short cropped brown hair, it seemed he could pass for one without trying to now.

He passed his hand from scarf to hair, wiping back the moisture from his brow and pushing the dampened hair into a part. I suppose I should shave if I can't take even this pittance of sunlight, he thought as his hand brushed against his beard on its way down from his head. His beard was well trimmed. All too often it seemed he used his telekinesis for combat alone, but this morning he had managed to shave the untidy bits on his neck and cheeks using thought alone to control his blade. Don't worry friend, he thought and gave his dagger a pat, we'll have you tasting blood soon enough.

The Citadel loomed before him. He shook his head and sighed when the thought of shade gave him an involuntary feeling of relief. Ascending the wide stairs, he looked up to marvel at the grand building as he did every time he came here. It was a little silly, he supposed, that just a large stone building could still inspire awe in him after seeing the even more extravagant (and sometimes terrifying) arenas made by Ai'brone magic. I sweat easily and I'm impressed by masonry... I need to get back to the desert before I forget what a true caress of the sun feels like.

He wound through the halls until he came to large but simple door. Opening it, he stepped through and briefly exchanged pleasantries with the men within. For almost the entire past year in Radasanth he had been visiting the Citadel a few times a week to train and thrill himself, but it was only a couple months ago that he'd discovered he could make a living off his trips as well as sate his lust for battle. He did not live in splendor, but having grown up living in tents in the desert he didn't really have a problem with austere conditions.

"You can hold my payment until afterwards, Adal," he said with a grin. "I'll have to come back for the winner's bonus anyways."

The old man raised his eyebrows. "Normally I'd expect nothing less, kid, but you're fighting a bear today." Seeing Callan's surprise, he added, "a bear of a man, that is."

"Too bad, you started to get my hopes up there. I've never fought a bear before. Never seen one either. Well, I think I saw one in a painting once. Big as a horse, but with claws and sharp teeth, right?"

Adal chuckled and said, "Not as tall, at least not on four legs, but far wider. I'm not so sure you'd be as enthusiastic if you saw one in person. Of course, I'm sure we could arrange a delightful meeting for you." He looked up for confirmation at the other man in the room, one of the Ai'brone. The monk nodded, but said nothing. He seemed on edge. "Another time though," the older man continued. "Your opponent's already waiting. I'll have your gold for you after the match, but as I said I wouldn't count too heavily on netting the extra pay today, son. Just be glad our robed friends are here to patch you up afterwards."

Callan sniffed. "Trust me, it will be the other guy who needs the attention," he said, reaching out a hand to give the monk a friendly pat on the shoulder. The Ai'brone flinched and stepped away. Callan quirked an eyebrow and shrugged. Strange folks... they make Coronians seem normal.

"If only he'd take it," Adal muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Take the door on the right. Decent crowd today, so make it good," the ringmaster said, gesturing one of the doors behind him.

"Always do," Callan replied, giving a wink to the monk as he passed him.

He entered the doorway and made his way for the bench, but the bell rang before he even reached it. He continued to the iron door before him instead, cracking the joints in his neck as he walked. Pausing before the door, he quickly adjusted his scarf to wind more tightly around his neck. Sweat was preferable to providing his opponent with an easy target to grab, and the jagged scar across his neck stopped all thought of removing the woolen garment.

Taking a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders once and stepped through into the arena.

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin lifted a hand to shield his good eye as he stepped through the door. He never knew whether he was in a room, or if the magic of the Citadel did something much more sinister. Either way, Adal's arena - it never changed - always reflected the outside. So today, it was hot, and bright after sitting in the dark preparation room. It took a moment or two for Quentin's eye to adjust.

The large, open circle of the arena's fighting ground was surrounded by rows upon rows of benches ten feet above the combatants. The seats were always full but Quentin always doubted that many people were really here to watch small-time fights; it was most likely part of the illusion. The heat certainly didn't seem like an illusion, though, and the crowd cheered as the bearded brawler removed his leather vest. It fell to the ground in a cloud of sand.

Quentin raised his left fist to acknowledge the crowd - the people really here wanted a show - and started towards the centre of the arena. The multitude of scars on Quentin's torso stretched and pulled, shifting their shapes, as he walked awkwardly. Despite his age, the big man was still a solid mass of muscle. He wheeled his shoulders, twisted his back left and right, and flexed his fingers in preparation for the fight.

He hated the idea of fighting an armed opponent, and was apprehensive as he caught sight of the other man: It looked like he had a sword. Quentin groaned, but took hold of a throwing knife. He didn't take it from the wrist holder, but it could be thrown at a moment's notice if needed.

The bearded brawler stopped just short of the middle of the arena. It was always better to let the other man make the final approach, it would give Quentin a chance to weigh up the new fighter Adal had arranged from him. Eyes glanced around the arena, looking for any hint of surprise elements. There didn't seem to be, but that was never a guarantee the aged ringmaster didn't have some extra 'entertainment' planned for the fight.

There was still an itch at Quentin's side where a lion had nearly ripped out his ribs six months earlier. Luckily for Quentin, he avoided the animal's full bite. It was still a mighty gash, and was only just beginning to finally heal enough to not need bandages. It didn't happen often, but there was never any prior warning. Or extra money for that matter. The old man had a nasty streak that would rival any Knife's Edge mobster.

"Boone! Boone! Boone!" The crowd chanted Quentin's name; he was well known and a favourite of many - or at least that was what the illusion implied. Normally, he'd offer a little show, but not today. His fingers were loose on the handle of the knife, but his arm was tensed ready to throw. He was not going to drop his guard for a second in this match. He just hoped the massive crowd support would affect the other fighter's focus.

[Callan]

Even with his leather boots on Callan could feel the heat of the sand beneath his feet. It was a welcome feeling. He would rather a sturdy pair of Fallien sandals than the boots for scuffles on the sand, but all the same he had exceptional footwork on the loose surface. The arena had a faint odor of sweat and blood. The smell was surely artificial - surely the monk's could have made the sand smell like fresh blooming roses if they chose - but it still loaned a sort of realism to the arena, as if hundreds of gladiators had fought, bled, and died here.

Callan breathed deeply. The scent kept him on edge; after having fought dozens of times in the Citadel and having not a single scar to show for it, not even the times he had died, it was easy to care less about a battle here than one outside. But apathy was the path to defeat. Plus, Adal didn't book fighters that left crowds dissatisfied, and Callan did not plan on leaving his new life of prizefighting any time soon.

Across the arena he could see his opponent approaching. They were of similar height, but the other man was far bulkier. Tight muscles covered every inch of his torso and arms. The widest part of his arm is probably thicker than my neck, Callan thought with a small measure of trepidation.

Though he would have preferred to keep his leather jerkin on for the fight, he realized immediately that the crowd would not approve. Already it seemed they were cheering for the bear in front of him, and he did not wish to give them any more reason. It was not that he truly cared about giving them a show - as far as he was concerned, if they were not entertained by his precise swordplay they were not worth his notice - but Adal did care, and Adal, not the crowd, paid his wages.

With an almost inaudible sigh he shrugged the jerkin off and cast it to the side. He reached up and undid another button on his gray shirt to let more air reach his chest, but did not remove the garment. He would look rather silly wearing a scarf while shirtless, and he did not intend to remove the black wool. Part of his blending into Coronian culture was concealing scars that made him look like a criminal that had somehow escaped his fate at the gallows. An added benefit was that the shirt concealed Callan's own muscle. He was of a build that could almost be called thin, and though he had the lean but powerful muscles of a practiced swordsman most fighters would underestimate his strength if they could see his slim frame and nothing else.

He rapidly rolled up his sleeves, and took stock of his foe's weaponry. A dagger hung at his waist, and the muscled warrior's hand was poised on one of the throwing knives on his wrist. Callan practically ignored the implied threat for now. The crowd seemed to be cheering the other man's name, and if he was a crowd favorite it was unlikely he would start the fight with a cheap attack before Callan was ready.

A frown emerged on the swordsman's lips. The other combatant sported no sword or weaponry larger than a dagger. Though he could probably get away with keeping his sword, the crowd could be fickle. Especially with any fighters they liked. Oh well, he thought as he drew his knife, I did promise you blood. Though the dagger could not compare to the sword in terms of precision and skill, the reduced range added an interesting level of intimacy to a fight. There was slightly less reaction time, and the fight could turn into a grappling match without notice.

He undid his belt with his right hand, and tossed it off to the side, his sword Sunaris still in its sheath. Wielding the dagger left-handed, he started to walk forward slowly.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, keeping his advance slowed for a moment in case the crowd's favorite wished a few more seconds of prepation. But then he quickly upped his speed to a run, wishing to close the gap between them before he was riddled with throwing knives. He kept his gaze focused on the man's arm, hoping he would be able to dodge out of the way of any projectiles in time.

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin raised an eyebrow as the other fighter discarded his sword. That was unusual: In his experience, swordfighters had an unhealthy relationship with their blades and refused to ever part with them. That this younger fighter threw his weapon away so willingly suggested to Boone that he was no ordinary fighter. He might even give Quentin the brawl he wanted.

That hope was quashed when Quentin saw the skinny-looking fella pull out a dagger. Quentin groaned a little as he watched the man make his approach, considering how he'd survive the fight. Sweat was trailing down his face and threatened to blind the bearded brawler's good eye as he saw the young man start to run towards him.

Quentin waited only a couple of seconds, until the other man was only six feet away, before unleashing his throwing knife. It flew through the air straight and true, aimed for the other's shoulder. Quentin had aimed for the nerve centre in the shoulder, hoping to disable the young un's knife arm. It would make for an equaliser in this fight, and Boone needed all the help he could get with his leg causing so much trouble today.

The crowd erupted in a bloodlust-driven roar of excitement. They had never seen Quentin wield weapons before, even though he always wore his dagger and throwing knives. They hoped for a bloody fight, with one of their favourite combatants displaying the same ferocity as he did when unarmed. The crowd was certain this was to be one of the greatest fights ever!

Quentin, on the other hand, was more concerned with his own life, to really notice when a hot breeze blew sand into the air between the two fighters, or the smell of sweat it carried from the crowd. The bearded brawler knew he had to end the fight quickly to really stand a chance of preventing a major injury. As such, he didn't wait for the knife to hit home before he moved to bring the fight into his own realm.

As the knife left his grasp, he lurched forward and swung his right hand back in a fist, readying a massive hook to the other's temple.

The crowd continued to chant Quentin's name and started to stand, ready to see the fight of their lives.

[Callan]

The man drew forth his throwing knife in a smooth motion and launched it so swiftly that Callan had no time to react. He had waited until the perfect moment when Callan was too close to jump out of the way, but too far away to attack. Callan had time only to tense his body in expectation of pain before it struck him square in the shoulder. His lips flared up and he let out a snarl of agony. Knows how a throw a knife, that's for damn sure, he thought as he felt most of his left arm go numb. Though less painful than other targets on the body, the attack was effectively crippling.

The spectators cried their approval. It was not a terrific start for the Fallien, but he could have fared worse. With speed and accuracy like that, the man may well have been able to get off two or even three knives faster than Callan could dodge. Using the little control he had left in his hand, he tossed his dagger up a hand's width instead of completely dropping it. His opponent had wasted no time in starting another attack, but this time Callan had enough time to put his nimble footwork to use.

He stopped dead in his run, skidding less than half a pace - no easy feat on sand - and spun to his left while ducking. Reaching out his right hand he grabbed his dagger as he dodged underneath the brawler's fist. Though he was certain he would have been able to grab the weapon with physical dexterity alone, he had used his odd form of telekinesis to help guide it into his waiting palm just in case. He doubted even this close up that he other man would notice the slight anomaly in the dagger's movement, hopefully preserving his tactic of mental assault for a surprise later in the battle.

As he spun a few drops of his blood fell to the ground, staining the golden sand red. Already sweat had once more emerged on his brow, but he refused to let the loss of either liquid affect his fervor just yet. The throwing knife was still embedded in the front of his left shoulder - he would not have a chance to yank it out as long as he was so close to his foe - but he bore the pain with gritted teeth. The best way to create a lull in the fight long enough to remove the knife would be to counterattack and repay his opponent for drawing first blood. Coming out of the spin, he rose and used the momentum to empower his blow, driving the dagger towards the other man's flank under his outstretched right arm.

Through clenched teeth he taunted as he attacked, saying, "it's a pity I'm not left handed."

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin let out a frustrated groan as he felt himself lose balance. This younger fighter was quick, much quicker than the bearded brawler. Quentin's fist hit nothing but air and as he started to fall forward, he stepped onto his right leg. The step was a little too heavy and the leg gave way, forcing Quentin to fall towards the sand. He was able to twist his body a little to land on his shoulder instead of getting a faceful of sand. He rolled forward and away from Callan.

The crowd rose to their feet with an excited cheer as they saw the blood dripping from the younger fighter's shoulder. Clearly, Boone was as proficient with weapons as with his fists and crowd revelled in the revelation. The chants of his name grew in volume and were joined with cries of murderous lust, the crowd was hoping for a bloody match that would see their favourite kill the younger fighter. Quentin, however, didn't pay any heed.

As he rose to face Callan, his body twisted a little too vigorously and he felt a sharp pain in his side. He glanced down with a wince to check the freshly-healed scar; it had split slightly and blood started to trickle down Quentin's side. He cursed and drew his dagger into a reverse-hand grip. His thoughts wandered to the Ai'Brone monks who would surely bother him about healing, and the inevitable argument when he refused their assistance. The bearded brawler shook off the pain and wandering thoughts and returned his attention back to the kid he was fighting.

If he was this quick, Quentin knew he'd have to try another approach and eliminate the speed advantage. He'd let speed pass him by in an opponent before and it made him essentially blind in one eye. He wasn't about to let that happen again. An opportunity would present itself, he was sure, but for now, he decided to wait for the younger fighter to show his hand.

"That's lucky for you, kid." Quentin raised a hand, despite the pain it caused him, and the crowd cheered for him. They hadn't yet seen the small trickle of blood leaking from Boone's wound; perhaps their allegiance would take a turn when they did.

[Callan]

"Don't need much luck when your opponent can't keep his feet under him," Callan shouted, raising his voice enough that the spectators would be able to hear. He wasn't one to take much pleasure in insults and mockery, but that was part of what the people in the stands had paid for. Keeping the crowd happy kept the ringmaster happy. That meant more fights, and more gold in Callan's pocket. He circled his foe as he spoke, confident that as long as the older man's hands were not already poised on a throwing knife there was no immediate danger.

"Looks to me like you're doing a better job of losing this battle than I am of winning it," he continued, raising his arm to gesture with his dagger at the blood trickling down the larger fighter's side. The man had lifted a fist in recognition of the crowd twice now; likely he was only playing them as Callan was, but if the Fallien could sway the spectators' favor it might unnerve his opponent. Of course, they might also side with their favorite and direct their disdain towards the boorish youth, but that was fine by Callan as well. He did not much care for their regard, and people would pay to see a scoundrel bested. Adal would be pleased. The old ringmaster certainly held no concern for whether Callan played the hero or the villain, only for whether or not the swordsman's blade brought in coin.

Reaching his right hand to his left shoulder, he wrapped a hand around the hilt of the earlier projectile - his hand was wide enough to hold both his dagger and the knife - and pulled. It came out cleanly. There was surprisingly little pain, and Callan kept his eyes on Boone (he assumed the crowd's earlier chant had been the warrior's name) and kept his face locked in a sneer. Without even a glance at it he threw the knife behind him. He tried to move his left arm but found it was still limp; only a slight tensing of his fingers accompanied his effort. Amusing, that the Citadel lets its enthusiasts care so little for so grievous a wound, he thought. Though nonplussed, he would have to be careful to keep his balance on the sand with only one arm for counterweight. He did not fancy following in his foe's footsteps moments after mocking his fall.

A dozen paces behind the older warrior, Callan saw the glint of sun on his broadsword - partially unsheathed after being thrown to the ground - but he forced himself not to eye it too long. Regrets were useless. He would not lower himself to resort to the blade now, no matter how easy it would be to take a few steps forward and whisk the blade to his hand with his mind alone. He had promised his dagger blood, and would not leave it unsatisfied.

"Adal told me I was to fight a bear. All I see before me is a battered corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet," he yelled, lending some venom to the final words. With that he ended the brief respite and launched himself forward. His speed was his advantage, and he intended fully to put it to good use. He drew his arm back as he neared, preparing to thrust his weapon as fast as an uncoiling snake.

[Tobias Stalt]

Quentin Boone receives: 352 Exp and 44 Gold

Callan receives: 330 Exp and 44 Gold

Congratulations!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!