Setting Out to Heal

Quentin hobbled out of the Citadel and started down the long, steep steps. Every other footfall produced a wince and grunt of pain as the bearded brawler's badly-healed left leg struggled to take his weight. This had been Quentin's fifteenth fight this week, and while he had a heavy bag of gold to show for it, his leg throbbed night and day. "I've abou' 'ad enough a this!" he grunted as he dropped to the final stair for a rest.

His breath was heavy and loud, and he received a fair few sideways glances as he wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his bandaged hand. As he flexed his fingers, each knuckle cracked and Quentin almost wished he could trust the Ai'Brone to give him a bit of healing. But despite the bruising creeping out from beneath the rough wrappings, there was no way he was gonna trust a monk. "I'm gerrin' too old fer this shit."

He struggled up and limped his way back to The Empty Hand. It wasn't much, but it was home and as he slumped down at a booth by the door, the fat bastard landlord appeared, a smug look on his face. "Ye know what day it's Boone, have ye got ma rent?"

"Fuck off an' gi' me some a tha' piss ya call ale, ya know I'm right fer yer bastardin' rent, le' me 'ave a rest first, yeah?"

The landlord murmured something under his breath and walked away as Quentin closed his eyes for a minute; just as much from fatigue as to hide the white outline from the dozen or so patrons of the inn who inconspicuously avoided looking in his general direction. Quentin's temper was well known in this part of the city and most ordinary folk had no desire to get in a brawl with heavily-scarred fighter.

There was a din of voices when Quentin reopened his eyes and his vision filled with the white lines of the inn's evening clientele; an orange glow filled the air and as he awkwardly turned, the windows were dark. "Shi', musta slept for five 'ours or more; the fat bastard'll be on me case any second."

He stood up and headed to bar, reaching into his pocket as he sat on a stool. He counted out a few gold and silver coins and dropped them onto the rough, unpolished wood of the bar. "'Ere's ya fuckin' rent," he growled at the landlord, who replied with little more than a nod.

The bearded brawler proceeded up the stairs in a battle against his own battered and bruised body, and headed to the small room he rented at the inn. The so-called bed was more of a cot, with no padding and slightly too small for the large-framed Salvaran. He'd thrown some old clothes atop the bed in a makeshift mattress, but it was lumpy and uncomfortable. As he threw himself atop it, though, he gave a sigh of relief for finally getting the weight off his leg.

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the outline of another tenant walking around the room above his, "Those fuckin' Ixians coulda gi'n me a fuckin' off switch fer this thing!" He cursed himself for getting involved in the war and almost wished he could go back to being blind in one eye again.

As he started to fall asleep again, thinking of the citadel fights he was booked in the next day, Quentin wondered if he'd survive to the end of the year.