Out of Character:
The cold Salvaran wind blew in through the broken windows and gaps in the wooden frame of the abandoned warehouse, but wasn't felt by the sixty or more scruffily-dressed people within. They were huddled together around a dark, dank corner of the warehouse, jostling to get a better view, shouting for their favourite, as unaware of the wind as they were their intermingling sweat. Burly men huddled together would always generate heat, even in the harsh climate of Salvar. All their attention was firmly on the fight before them.
Quentin shook his head, trying to regain focus in his eyes. Slouched against the wall, he licked the blood that started pouring from his nose - broken for now the umpteenth time. His head floated for a moment and he realised shaking it wasn't the greatest idea. Pressing his hand against the wall, he pushed on the rough, half-rotted wood in an attempt to stand. He instead slid onto his backside and immediately felt the dampness of stale piss and blood. He looked up and the crowd seemed like blurred silhouettes against the dim lanterns, fists were raised in the air as some celebrated what they thought was a bet well placed. Others shouted at Quentin to stand, worried that they'd lose precious gold.
It was the young man stood barely two feet away that Quentin knew he had to worry about, though. The newcomer's demeanour was a confident one and throughout the fight he wore a sly grin that irked the older, veteran fighter. The younger fighter bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on Quentin. "Come on, old man. Get up and fight!"
Wincing from the pain of bruised ribs as he took a deep inhale, Quentin tried standing up once more. He was successful this time and despite being a good five inches taller than the young upstart, Quentin didn't look anywhere near as intimidating as he should have done. His muscle-bound, wide-shouldered frame swayed left and right as he still struggled to see straight. His left eye was swollen to near-closing and the slightly distorted sounds of the crowd disoriented him. He ran a hand through brown hair soaked with sweat and blood. The kid was a vicious son-of-a-devil, and Quentin's strength didn't help against the whelp's speed.
The bearded brawler barely had time to bring his arms up in front of his face to block the punch, and as it hit thick forearms, Quentin crashed back into the wall from the sheer force of the punch. The collision with the wall seemed to knock his senses back, and the bounce was used to gain some forward momentum. A swinging right hook just missed the cocky fighter's chin, but Quentin let his body spin and extended his left arm as he kept moving forward. A heavy forearm smashed into the side of the newcomer's head and was followed by a short uppercut into his gut. As the young fighter doubled over, the older man threw his knee up with a roar and watched as the other was thrown onto his back.
The crowd's shouts crescendoed again, even from those who had placed the long-shot bet of the new kid winning. This was the Quentin Boone a lot of the crowd had come to see. For the past fifteen or more years, Quentin had been fighting in dirty places like this, earning a cut of each fight's winnings. He didn't always feel like it, and at nearly twenty-nine years old, his body wasn't always up to it, but every night Quentin fought. The civil war had brought hardships to everyone - the Church and Government's feud destroyed whole lives, but hardest hit were those impoverished before the war even started. The urchins who struggled to survive the harsh streets of Knife's Edge by minor crimes like pickpocketing or theft, or trespassing to find a night's shelter in a barn, were forced to seek out more extreme means of survival. Sometimes that meant literally fighting for your life.
And Quentin Boone had gotten pretty bloody good at fighting in the last fifteen years. He was often the main event, and rarely lost more than a couple of fights a week. The real attraction was how Quentin fought every night. Without fail. Whether he was still strapped from the night before, or blind drunk after a good return. The crowd's jostling become more excited as they anticipated another great performance by the infamous veteran. They didn't realise the swelling was leaking blood into his left eye and his right still couldn't focus properly.
The younger man stood once more, taking only a moment to recover and Quentin knew he had to do something to quickly end this fight; if he took any more of a beating, he might not be here for tomorrow's money. He lurched forward, not letting the newcomer catch a breath, cupped a hand around the back of his neck and smashed a dirt-blood-and-sweat-stained forehead into the upstart's nose. Quentin heard something crunch, knew he had won, but couldn't keep his footing. The big man fell on top of the smaller in a heap. It took a minute to gather the strength to roll onto his back, but when he did, Quentin half-raised an arm in victory. The crowd went wild.
Quentin whispered to himself, with a half grin. "Now, that's a bit 'a luck!"
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