Never Forgotten

[Quentin Boone]

Solo

Quentin limped down the steps from the Citadel in a good mood. The fight he had just finished was exactly to his liking: Unarmed and easy. The poor upstart who had just been given a lesson still had a lot to learn. The bearded brawler wasn’t going to complain though, and as he reached the bottom of the steps, he began to whistle. Though times were still hard, he was beginning to feel a change in the tide.

The money he’d earned from the war had yet to run out, so the group was living a little less on the edge of starving daily; Adal had managed to accommodate Quentin’s battered body with easier matches, so his regular income was starting to grow: one was more likely to receive sponsor bonuses for clear victories. And most importantly, despite the delay in his trip home from the war, he managed to travel through Salvar without once encountering The Family or their goons.

The people in the streets of Radasanth eyed Quentin sideways as he passed them. It was peculiar, even in the middle of a spectacularly sunny day, for someone as rough-looking as Quentin – with his eye patch, rag-tag clothes and awkward, lurching gait – to seem so content.

[Quentin Boone]

The cobbled streets soon started to take their toll on Quentin’s long-injured, never-properly-healed leg. The way they sometimes twisted the ankle put extra pressure on the leg, and as Quentin entered the commercial district, he took the opportunity to indulge the sweet smells of a bakery that were drifting on the gentle sea breeze; a mix of sea-salt and sweetbread that would tempt anyone.

The quiet in the shop was a stark change from the bustle and din of the busy streets and the heat from several ovens was enough to make Quentin sweat. He hid the action of wiping beads from his brow by adjusting the patch over his eye, all the while eyeing the myriad cakes and pastries that were protected from greedy, curious hands by a polished glass counter.

The young boy behind the counter was quick to serve and spoke with a hint of over-confidence, "What can I get ya, mister?"

"'ow long 'fore them swee'breads are done, lad?" Quentin had entered the baker’s shop already knowing what he wanted. While the pastries indeed looked delicious, there was still something of that orphaned Salvaran boy in the brawler and he remembered the kindness of a few goodwives in Knife’s Edge.

"They’ll be about half an hour, mister." Quentin could have sworn the neatly groomed kid was pleased they weren’t finished yet, "Do you want some cake instead?"

The boy pointed almost nonchalantly at a lone slice of what looked like carrot cake. Stale carrot cake. Quentin smiled and shook his head, both in disbelief and rejection of the offer. The lad was good, but hadn’t yet mastered the salesman's art. "I'll be back fer 'swee'breads, lad. Save one fer me."

[Quentin Boone]

Back on the streets, the bustle of a busy afternoon was accented by hawkers crying their wares. Quentin paid them no mind as he noticed in the crowd a single, solitary figure stood still as a statue. The man was a sore thumb in the throng of housewives and workers pushing along the street to be about their business. Quentin could have sworn the man’s blue eyes were fixed on him, but shook it off as his imagination and continued down the street with the flow of people.

Something itched at the back of the brawler’s mind as he headed toward the docks and as he looked back he couldn't see anything. He trusted his gut, however, and made his way for a side-street. He pushed gently against the crowd to reach the narrow, dirt path between a cobbler's and a keysmith and was greeted with the scent of stale urine and vomit; Quentin hadn’t seen a tavern nearby but assumed there must have been one.

The bearded brawler stood behind a fortuitously placed pile of crates a few yards from the alley's entrance and watched the crowd. There was someone moving against the flow of the sea of people and Quentin peered to see if it was the same man. He was of average height, but Boone caught occasional glimpses of black hair and the brown duster was distinct on such a pleasant afternoon.

He was being followed!

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin purposely knocked over the top crate as he turned to delve deeper into the warren of narrow pathways that criss-crossed Radasanth, in hopes that the black haired man would notice. "I ain't gonna find out unless I bait 'im."

The brawler was at home in a city, and while he could normally navigate such a network of paths without leaving signs of his route, Quentin let his feet scuff the unpaved ground every so often. The trail would lead the follower, if indeed there was one, straight to Boone. Quentin walked this way and that, to make sure the other man knew his cover had been blown, past piles of rubbish that harboured clouds of flies, empty boxes at the back of shops, and even the occasional daylight lover to reach his destination.

The alleyway Quentin aimed for was wider than most and the dirt path was grooved by cart wheels; one of the fences led into a tavern and carts delivered goods on a daily basis. This late in the day, however, the deliveries would be completed so Quentin knew he would be undisturbed.

[Quentin Boone]

Jonas had been following the burly murderer for a couple of days, watching his movements and looking for patterns. Until now, Quentin Boone had proven to be a creature of habit and gave little leeway for the hitman to carry out his job. This was the first time the killer had deviated from his usual pattern.

"A debt is never forgotten, Jonas." Brane DeFacul had been stern in his telling of how Prinak had been murdered by a brawler from the poor part of Knife's Edge. He described the man as burly with brown hair and beard, and a damaged left eye. "It's been more than five years. I want him dead."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Radasanth, in Corone. At least, that's where he was last. Find him. Kill him." Brane did not suffer fools or debtors lightly and it surprised Jonas that this Quentin bloke was still alive, especially considering his debt.

Jonas had negotiated a hefty pay packet for completing what was sure to be an easy job: A near-blind in one eye, limping ex-fighter was going to be easy to kill. Or so he had thought. That Quentin still fought was a concern: He'd heard stories in Knife's Edge that Boone was as tough as they came and fought in the warehouses every single night. It would seem the limp hadn't slowed him down too much.

[Quentin Boone]

Jonas was a talented tracker and it surprised him when Quentin looked straight at him outside the baker's shop. Only a moment after that, Jonas lost his mark and moved back and forth against the crowd trying to find him. It was only when the bang of a wooden crate falling over echoed in the din that Jonas was sure he'd been spotted.

Quentin was trying to get away, which was probably the wisest option for him. Jonas, however, dipped into the alleyway and started his hunt: It was better to kill a man in the confines of mostly empty alleyways anyway, instead of out in the open. Quentin's limp – Jonas guessed – was leaving a trail for the hitman to follow.

As he stalked dry, dusty-soiled alleyways and damp, piss-wet corners, Jonas noticed the scuffs getting closer together, "He's starting to tire," he said with a chuckle as he loaded a crossbow with a poison-coated bolt.

Jonas turned a corner into an alley chiselled by cartwheels and the scuffs from Quentin's never-properly-healed leg stopped. There were a couple of sheds to one side of the wide alley, and Jonas knew he had finally caught his man. "Come on out, Boone. There’s no escaping The Family, you should know that. Your debt hasn't been forgotten and it's time to pay up."

Jonas had his crossbow held up, ready to fire.

[Quentin Boone]

With a piece of broken mirror he’d picked up a few alleyways ago, the brawler looked around the corner. Sure enough, there was the black haired man, his duster flapping in the wind, armed with a crossbow that was pointed in the direction of the sheds. "Shi'ing 'hell!” Quentin muttered as he tried to think of a way out of his predicament.

Boone rubbed at his beard as the hitman called him out once more, "If you come out now, I'll make it quick, even if the boss does want you mangled. I'd rather not have to clean my hands 'til I next have a piss."

"Ya'll find I aint no easy pickin's, lad. Ya wanna do this, drop the bow." It was a desperate effort from Quentin to sound confident, but he was far too worried about the crossbow to be sure the effort paid off. He looked through the mirror at the hitman once more; the crossbow was still in his hands and the man's arrogant demeanour showed no signs of ever giving it up.

[Quentin Boone]

Jonas let out a laugh as the murderer cowered behind one of the sheds while trying to sound tough. "I'm not going to fall for that, Boone. I've seen the throwing knives you carry. Now, why don't you come on out so I can go home?"

Jonas waited for a few seconds and pointed the crossbow at the shed Quentin was stood behind. As much as he preferred a clean kill, orders were orders so he waited silently for Quentin to finally make an appearance from behind the shelter: When he did, there'd be a bolt through him and the poison would take its slow, steady effect.

He only had to wait a few minutes before Quentin's head and shoulder peeped out from behind the hiding place. Jonas loosed the bolt from its cradle with a thwong! of tight bowstring that was followed by a THUD as the bolt hit the shed next to Quentin's hiding place.

Quentin moved swiftly for a man with a limp and before the bolt stopped vibrating, Jonas was face to face with the brawler and the whistle of knives flying through the air was all the warning the hitman was given. Luckily, he was just as speedy and as a dagger appeared in each of his hands, Jonas knocked the knives to either side.

[Quentin Boone]

Luckily for Quentin, the hitman wasn’t that fast as, just as the knives were knocked aside, the bearded brawler hit home with a spiked fist to tear open the black-haired goon's cheek. He followed the punch with another to the gut, making sure he twisted to make a greater wound.

One of the daggers caught Quentin on the shoulder in his blind spot, but it was little more than a graze that didn't faze the larger man. He grabbed the last of his throwing knives and with a frustrated roar, he swung his arm to let the knife slice across Jonas' throat. As he shifted awkwardly backwards, Quentin narrowly avoided the spray of warm claret from the other's neck.

The spray soon stopped and as the man fell to the ground, gargling blood and spluttering as he tried to make final words, Quentin picked up his thrown knives and placed them back in their scabbards at his wrist. "I'm gerrin' pre'y sick a you people. It wer' an accident an' five years ago!"

Quentin laid a final boot into Jonas' gut and spat on the would-be assassin before removing his hand wraps and heading back toward the main streets.

[Quentin Boone]

It didn't take long for Quentin to get back to the bakery; the crowd had dissipated as the sea wind had started to pick up and housewives finished their shopping. The smells of the bakery carried on the breeze and Quentin savoured them: Meat pies and a sweet pastry he guessed. As he walked into the shop, the young lad was still there with the same over-confident look on his face.

"You're late, mister. They've been out for five minutes, but I saved you one." He smiled with all his teeth as once more there was an almost nonchalant gesture toward the last stale slice of carrot cake, "Are you sure you don’t want anything else, mister?"

Quentin's mood had soured because of the attack and he didn't feel like humouring the boy so he replied with a curt, "No. And bag the sweetbread."

"That'll be five coppers, mister. And I'll tell you what… I'll throw in this last slice of carrot cake for half price, it's a favourite!"

Quentin doubted that very much, the cake looked at least a day old. "I said no."

The brawler handed over the correct money and took the bag with a slight snatch. He shook his head as he turned from the glass counter to leave the shop. He looked across the street and was glad to see the black-haired man seemed to be the only assassin sent this time. "I gorra do summa' 'bout The bloody Family," he growled as he started his way back to The Empty Hand.

[Mordelain]

Thread Title: Never Forgotten
Judgment Type: Condensed Rubric
Participants: Quentin Boone

Plot: 21/30

With brevity not on your side and a punchy, death fuelled vignette plot took a back seat by the nature of the task. The turn from ‘satisfied combatant of the citadel’ to backstreet brawling assassin came across as rushed, or turn without cause. This was only a minor penalty in terms of score, since it recovered well and written to avoid losing the reading in crossbow bolt shot or dagger thrust. To build on this, you may wish to try starting Quentin at the end scene and working back; he has a good internal narrative that you can use to your advantage.

Character: 24/30

Quentin comes across as callous and cold, yet this overplayed in his thoughts, actions, and style. Sometimes you do not need to bludgeon people with character development to get the same end. One or two minor deeds put people in the ‘reading frame of mind’ to interpret later actions in the wrong way – this opens up a world of possibilities in terms of plot and technique. That said, you know the character’s direction, voice, and style, and there is nothing ‘wrong’ with your approach. Sometimes every story needs a persona rock.

Prose: 20/30

Solid mechanical structure with a great foundation to work on. Whilst you are adventurous (within the literary confines you have set yourself), I would wager you might want to pepper those non-standard and lyrical descriptions with one or two more flowery metaphors. It is not that it paints a bad or tepid picture – there is just plenty of more room on the canvas.

Wildcard: 5/10

Concise writing is always a challenge because people’s expectations can be fickle. You delivered a short, punchy tale that set out what it set out to do – elude to the past, set up the future, and show transition between time, place, and chapters in Quentin’s life. Because of this methodology, it lacked panache and I hope to see this strong technical side come to life in more developed works.

Final Score: 70/100

Quentin Boone receives:

825 EXP!
115 GP!

Congratulations!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added.