Eiksalt War Round 2: Taste of Treason Vs Quentin Boone (Gisela) [Archive]

Quentin Boone

05-14-14, 10:51 AM

Quentin awoke groggily in his tent, ether still clouding his mind as he tried to remember where he was. Something scratched at the back of the brawler's fuzzy consciousness as he opened his eyes and saw the plain canvas ceiling of the tent, but he dismissed it. Much more important was how thirsty he felt, and as he tried to move, memories sparked; his body refused to listen so he remained completely still on the slightly raised cot that had been his bed for the last week or so. "Need a drink," he croaked, barely able to make out the words.

"He's awake? That was quick." The effeminate man's voice from the other side of the tent was familiar to Quentin, but he couldn't recall from where. Instead of trying to remember, the brawler let his eyes drift shut for a moment.

When he opened them what seemed only a few seconds later, a scrawny fellow was towering over him, one hand on Quentin's forehead, the other at his wrist. The brawler's eyes slowly closed once again to the distant sound of someone speaking, "He seems o..."

The next time Quentin opened his eyes, it dawned on him. "Wha'. The. Fuck?!" His voice still croaked but the words were clearer, and he lifted a hand in front of his face. It was blurry but Quentin could see it all perfectly: The blind spot he'd grown accustomed to compensating for had gone. He could see through both eyes. "Wha's goin' on?" he muttered.

A tall, narrow-faced fellow rushed to stand over Quentin, and his eye lank, dirty-blonde hair and beak-nose seemed abhorrent to the bearded brawler. He spoke with a voice far too like a woman's, "Are you finally awake? Good. How's your eye?"

"Wha'?" Quentin still struggled against the lingering ether in his veins to make sense of his situation.

"You were burned in the fire at the inn, and frankly lucky to escape your adversary."

"Iharkav." Quentin's mind was beginning to clear and his memories were returning. The demon had found Quentin during a patrol and the brawler had barely managed to escape. The inn he'd rode a horse into started burning almost as soon as Quentin entered. A flaming crossbeam fell and hit the brawler in the face. He couldn't remember getting out. "'ow?"

"You crawled back to camp with your left shoulder dislocated and the left side of your face burned almost to the bone." The wiry man was dressed in a long, white overcoat and he wore thin, almost see-through, leather gloves. "Your face is healing well, we Ixians have access to some of the best poultices."

Quentin suddenly felt light-headed and the tent started to spin. "Thirsty."

The man - the doctor? - provided a glass of water and put the straw to Quentin's mouth, "Only sips, mind."

Quentin ravenously partook of the tepid fluid, ignoring the doctor's advice. As he emptied the glass, he asked for more with a voice slightly more clear. He drank a total of three glasses before drifting back into sleep.

Three days later, Quentin walked the snowy dirt paths of the camp looking around wide-eyed at the people and tents. It was an amazing feeling to see perfectly once more: Depth and colour, no blindspot, no need to turn his head as far. It brought the world back to life. A few people looked at him with peculiar expressions, the burns to Quentin's face had been severe and though the doctor assured the brawler there would be no long-term scarring, the left side of his face was still a bright-red, slightly sticky mess.

The cold of Eiskalt felt good against even the burned flesh, and the brawler's mood was a good one. He'd lost hope of finding Callan and assumed the young man had decided to abandon the war, which actually helped to raise Quentin's mood - he was glad the kid didn't need to worry about burned faces or demons of legend coming to kill him.

The doctor's tent was marked with red flaps, and as the bearded brawler bowed his head to enter, he saw the doctor properly for the first time. He had no intentions of sizing up the lanky medic, however, and immediately expressed his concerns. "This bloody eye ya gave me is a dud! Sure, I can see right now, bu' every damn person has a ridiculous fuckin' whi'e ou'line round 'em. Wha' the fuck?!"

The doctor quirked an eyebrow and gestured for Quentin to sit down. "I was told you have a talent for reading the 'lay of the land' so to speak. You can tell in a glance if a riot or other trouble is about to erupt." It was true, Quentin had learned to read a street for trouble or pursuers during his youth, where survival on the streets of wartime Knife's Edge was treacherous and often impossible. "Imagine," the doctor continued, "what you can do now that every person is outlined for you."

"I just wanna be able t'see righ'."

"Unfortunately, I cannot undo the magic in your new eye. And we don't have the means to craft a replacement, so you will have to get used to it. It will take time, but I am sure you will find it a useful trait."

Quentin growled quietly, but had to admit to himself that the doctor was probably right. Falling into acceptance of his new eyesight and its unfortunate side effect, Quentin asked a question he was dreading, "Can I see?"

The doctor nodded and stood to rummage through piles of different medical equipment haphazardly dumped on tall wooden tables. After a few seconds, the doctor returned to his desk and handed Quentin a woman's mirror, "Here."

Quetin raised the mirror and in its glass he saw an unfamiliar beast. He winced at seeing the red, slightly oozing burn and cursed that he hadn't been shaved - he was left with only half a beard. The eye, however, really caught his attention. It seemed to be of clear glass but had a red dot glowing within. "Wha's 'red ligh'?"

"That is the enchantment we gave it to allow your sight."

"Couldn't ya 'ave just made i' look like a normal eye?"

"Unfortunately not. We are doctors and enchanters, not artisans. This was the best we could do in the time we had." The doctor's feminine voice was starting to irk the brawler. "Anyway, I asked you here to let you know I have cleared you for duty. Usually I would give more time for recuperation but we need troops on the front line."

Quentin cursed under his breath but wasn't surprised by the announcement. "Okay," he mumbled, "who do I need t'report t'?"

"A Lieutenant Lander, he is a telepath so I am sure he will find you." The doctor then tuned his attention to the stack of parchment on his desk, and Quentin took it as signal for his departure.

Quentin was unsure how the Ixians had to come to learn of his ability to read a street, but they certainly were going to take advantage of it. Quentin was glad that he wasn't in a position where he could have to fight, but he was less than happy being cooped up in a tower overlooking the city of Unum, stuck with Lander. The brawler's new role was to oversee and direct the patrols of the city; he'd tell Lander where to direct the troops, and Lander would use his telepathy to tell the troops.

The city was quiet and the team of ten light cavalrymen wandered the city's street making sure peace was upheld as best it could. Quentin watched from a tall stone tower on the outskirts of the city, its uppermost chamber was little more than eight feet across and had no furniture. The brawler's leg was throbbing with an ache from walking nearly a hundred steps and standing for two hours. He tried flexing the knee, but the joint was stiff and did nothing to alleviate the pain. A thought floated across Quentin's mind about whether he could get the leg replaced like his eye.

"I wouldnae think too hard on it right now, Boone." Lander had a snake-like quality to his voice, and Quentin turned his attention away from the watch for a moment to look at the short, stocky telepath whose shaved head was covered in goosebumps from the cold Eiskaltian winter wind.

"I told ya t'stay the 'ell outta me 'ead!" Quentin thought about hitting the man in the face, but decided against it; the Ixians wouldn't like a mercenary hitting one of their own, he was sure.

The half-bearded brawler resumed his watch and as white outlines moved in the busyness of an almost-normal early afternoon, he wondered if he'd ever get used to this new 'gift'. As a woman walked out of a dressmaker's not too far from the tower, Quentin did notice one advantage: He got a much better impression of her shapely figure than he otherwise would have.