A Time To Boone, A Time To Q.

[Silence Sei]

He sat on the cement steps of the neighborhood, his eyes focused on the folder in his hands. The building behind the Mystic had warmth to it as though the sun radiated above for hours. There were steel trash cans that stood out in front of each building and the mute could have sword he saw one of the tops move up and down as though something lived inside. There was a homeless man that seemed to dress himself in a cape, a knight’s helmet, and some sort of blue jump suit.

Down the street there was a very dark mansion that Sei could hear the notes of an organ in the distance. The spooky house seemed very odd in the relatively nice and friendly environment, but it struck the mute as a very strong metaphor for the darkness that lived in all men’s hearts. No matter how sunny and bright the neighborhood, there would always be that one part that held in it dark secrets.

The file in the Mystic’s hands was a report about one of the mercenaries Kyla Orlouge hired to participate in the Eiskalt war. Quentin Boone was a rather tall fellow with an appearance that said ‘don’t mess with me’. Scars covered his body when he was given the mandatory physical, and his beard was wild and unkempt. The profile of the man made the Orlouge patriarch wonder exactly why his daughter asked for this man’s services, though his military record during the overseas encounters proved that Quentin was more than worth the coin it took to hire him.

He closed the folder and sighed as he reflected on this particular soldier. Not only did Quentin Boone sacrifice his time and resources to the Ixian cause, but he was reported to be severely injured at the end of the conflict. When Sei heard of everything that this man was put through, his stomach churned. The guilt that overwhelmed the Mystic was what brought him to the Citadel.

And so, Sei patiently waited with the status and report on Quentin Boone on his lap. With any luck, the Ixian leader could offer the older warrior further compensation for his efforts. Though the mute hoped to resolve this issue without much bloodshed, he knew that in the citadel, such hopes were as useful as a beard on an high elf.

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin growled curses under his breath as he stepped through the Citadel door and surveyed the arena from under furrowed brows. Adal had informed him at only the last minute this fight was a special request; some hotshot, apparently, who wanted to 'see what The Bearded Brawler was all about' or some bullshit. Quentin had stopped listening when he heard the arena was going to be different from the familiar Colosseum that Citadel prize fighters fought in. He hated surprises and was already in a bad mood before even entering the Citadel to earn his food. "Fuckin'..."

The Salvaran looked around the street with disgust - it was no place for a scrap - and as he turned his head, the scarred skin on his face pulled tight. The burn Quentin had suffered during the Eiskalt War had mostly healed but it made its presence known every time he moved his head, part of why the brawler was in such a bad mood. He rubbed at the rough, scarred flesh in agitation, lamenting the hair that once grew on the left side of his face, and growled once more. The street held a pungent aroma like stale piss and rotting food intertwined and a sudden breeze created a sickly-sweet maelstrom that assaulted Boone's nostrils with a nauseating kick that nearly made him throw up.

All around, he could see the white outlines of people hiding in the shadows; peculiar shapes and sizes abounded, while the familiar dotted the street with less effort towards hiding. Quentin did not know what these strange creatures were, but noted their every position in an attempt to be prepared should they attack. The Ai'Bron monks - damn them all - were tricky little bastards and the bearded brawler knew they could add danger to any and all arenas. He didn't trust them, and he hated that he had no choice but to support their lives to pay for his own. Boone moved his hands to feel for the throwing knives at his wrists without thinking; feeling they were there gave some sense of safety, but the big Salvaran slipped on the leather 'dusters anyway. The steel spikes would deal with any of the strange creatures.

As if to match his mood, the shadows hanging over the multi-spired castle, that loomed over the street like a dark guardian, spread as clouds thickened and unleashed their fury on the world below. The rain wasn't cold, but carried with it the same scent as the street. It was as though the place was tainted with a filth that ran to its core. Every raindrop that hit the brawler promised pain as dampness quickly began to soak into Quentin's leg. He cursed once more and started to limp up the street. He could feel eyes following him and a quiet chatter just reached his ears as his awkward gait raised questions in the observers.

He rubbed at his eyes to wipe the rain away, and felt the cold of glass in his left eye. The orb had given him vision again, thanks to the Ixian Knights' medics in Eiskalt, but had also cursed him with the strange outlines he now saw around every person he looked at. It was a distraction, an annoyance and as he hunched his shoulders against the putrid rain, he wished he could find that doctor once more: Quentin wanted nothing more than to punch the scrawny little shit until his face collapsed.

As thunder bellowed overhead, Quentin saw a person sat on steps that led to a tall, four-storey house made of dark red brick, topped with sloping slate tiles that let the rain run off the roof. The man sparked something in Quentin's memory. He'd never seen the bloke before but his red hair was something the brawler knew he should recognise. The white outline around the red-head was clear, despite the rain, and it looked like he might have been reading something; strange for someone about to engage in a fight, but Boone was sure this was his opponent.

"I's you I'm figh'in', righ'?" He shouted above the cracks of lighting and drumming of thunder to make sure the other man heard. All around, white-lined shapes shifted anxiously in anticipation of the fight sure to soon begin. Quentin crossed his hands at his waist, ready to unleash the throwing knives.

[Silence Sei]

He heard the footsteps of the injured man as he approached, and quickly stood to greet him. He gave a slight bow to the man as he was questioned, and gave a confused nod. The Mystic asked the monks to let Quentin know that this was not to be a battle, but a meeting. He scowled at the idea of the Ai’Borne snickering behind the Mystic’s back. He was certain that they were having a good chuckle over the ‘high and mighty’ Sei Orlouge taken down a peg or two by a wounded man.

“I am,” Sei decided to play along as his eyes went over Quentin’s person first hand, “My name is Silas. Forgive the intrusion on your mind, but it’s my only way of communication.” He noticed half of his makeshift opponent’s face was severely burned so bad that a beard could not even grow upon the stripped flesh. He stood several inches higher than the Mystic, and about a hundred pounds heavier. Sei’s instincts told him that Quentin was more of a bruiser than a strategist, but he knew this man’s record spoke for itself.

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. There was a lump in the general’s throat as he thought about this impromptu fight. Can I really beat up someone with such injuries? With such an obvious disadvantage?

His stomach gurgled as if it tried to answer for him. He pursed his lips to the side and furrowed his brow as he starred at Quentin’s replacement eye. In that moment, the Mystic questioned the medical resources of his own people. His eyes shifted both ways down the street as the rain began to grow heavier. If this shower became a full-on storm, it would be difficult to try any negotiations with this man. Sei reached down towards his chakrams and his fingers twitched as though they opposed the very notion of bringing harm to this man.

“Before we begin, may I ask how you suffered your… unfortunate disabilities?”

[Quentin Boone]

Quentin twitched visibly upon the invasion of his mind and reflexes kicked in. He knew of psychics and the hold they could grasp around a person without lifting a finger, so without thinking his left arm moved in a fluid motion to and from his right wrist. His deft fingers plucked a throwing knife from its sheath and the Salvaran was just able to stop its release as the psychic made his enquiry. Quentin's knuckles whitened as he recalled being hunted through the snow-covered streets of Unum by the demon Iharkav and the fateful fire that near-fatally wounded the brawler while also saving him from a fate surely worse than death.

He sheathed the iron throwing knife against the falling rain as something again tickled at the back of his mind: A red-head who spoke through thoughts. The bearded brawler was sure he should know the man before him and it irked that his memory failed. "No, ya fuckin' can'," he had no intentions of divulging any information to this man who he'd be fighting in a matter of seconds, "so ge' this over wi' so I can ge' me gold and ou'a this fuckin' rain."

Quentin's arms crossed and experienced fingers rested lightly against throwing knives. He considered simply unleashing a pair at Silas' chest to end the fight there and then, but he was curious about the scrawny little shit, so waited instead. A snarl was unheard against the dissonant symphony of clapping thunder and rain hitting cobbles and tile roofs. The brawler's fingers twitched in the seconds after he spoke his challenge, and toes curled and uncurled in anticipation of movement and eyes locked on the white outline of Silas, now hidden behind the curtain of rain and cloud cover.

Around the pair, as Quentin's tension sliced through the storm, the strange creatures shifted and whispered, wondering when their entertainment would begin. The outlines of their unease flickered in Quentin's peripheral vision and his brow twitched as he yet again cursed that damned doctor. A shiver ran down the brawler's spine as a heavy drop of rain struck him in just the right spot. "Fuck i'."

He'd had enough of waiting, he'd had enough of fucking white outlines, he'd had enough of the bloody rain and he'd just about taken all the throbbing ache he could stomach. Hands flicked with purpose and two silver streaks sped through the air towards the scrawny red-head. A roaring Salvaran mammoth followed the streaks with an awkward, undulating, but surprisingly spry, gait with two more throwing knives in his grasp. A fire seemed to burn in Boone's remaining eye as he approached the other fella, speaking of malice and murder.

Even as he ran, Quentin saw the tell-tales signs of a counter attack from the 'special' opponent, and prepared a counter of his own as the knives spun in his hands to be held in a reverse grip.

[Silence Sei]

Quentin decided that the time for words was over rather abruptly as the one eyed man threw two daggers straight towards the Mystic. Sei sighed as he watched the two projectiles fly at him even through all the liquid needles that poured down upon him. The weapons were weighed down slightly by the torrential downpour but the blades still should have found a home in the telepath’s body.

However the tips of the daggers stopped just an inch from the skin of ‘Silas’. Quentin would not be able to hear the sound of shattered glass in lieu of the raging storm that encompassed them. Even the cracked atmosphere that surrounded the mute was hidden from sight thanks to the camouflage that the tears of the angels provided. The glass shot outwards in a dome formation, and Sei could not see the result of his crystalline blast, but he could see the shape of Quentin come charging towards his person.

“This is ridiculous,” Sei ‘spoke’ to his foe as though Quentin were not a mad bull in full charge at him, “what’s the point of this?”

The rain seemed to avoid Sei though in reality it was more like the rain itself evaporated upon Sei’s skin. Steam seemed to rise off of the flesh of the Mystic as he reached for his twin swords known as the Gemini Blades and pointed both of them straight. If Quentin continued the charge, he would find himself skewered upon the weapons, otherwise he would at least have to stop for a moment and think about what he was doing.