His head ached, though his eyes were shut, and his mind half at rest. Opening his eyes, he could see above him, a man, but the morning light was harassing his vision, and his face was unclear - After a brief moment of awkwardness, he made out the man's face. A grim face, with gaunt features, and a single, wide, scar running from the man's right eye, all the way to the center of his chin. Whatever caused that must've hit him hard, he thought, but didn’t say; For some reason this face seemed familiar to him. Why?
"Get up.", the known, yet unknown, face said. The words hard, cruel, and ear-piercingly blunt. Never before had something so blunt felt so sharp. "Get up.", the voice came again - Perhaps this was all some strange dream, where ugly men roam, crying for the resting to awake.
"Wha-", he began, but wouldn’t finish. That damned face, and it's scar.
"What? Bah, who drugged you this time, hm? Yourself? I said. Get. Up.", the man with the scar said, and he followed as well he could, lifting his head so that he was sitting. Beneath him was a bed, he must've fell asleep in the inn. How exactly he forgot that, he couldn’t explain.
"Well. Aren't you handsome?", he said, mocking the scarred man. "Yes... A real beauty, you are!", he continued with his japes, before the man spoke a single word, which stopped him.
"Quintyn.", the scarred man said, in his equally-scarred voice. He knew his name. How? "Damn it, I'm here to bring you into the Chetwood. A group's been found. And you're needed there, aye? So why don’t you get up, and get that head of yours out of here, before it leaves your neck? Hm?", he said, threateningly. While he couldn’t claim to have been at all fearful, he complied and stood, walking through the door, half-expecting the other man to follow, half-expecting he would stay, and down the hallway. The inn was strangely empty, he thought. Ofcourse, the occasional patron lingered, but there were no fights, no short folk, no strange pointy-eared persons, and no thieves that he could spot. He took his leave, from the inn, stepping outside, below the sign that spoke, 'The Prancing Pony'.
Chetwood, the man told him. He told him, he was going to take him to the chetwood. A barren forest overrun with bandits. Perhaps that was why; Bandits. Quintyn did love a good bandit, he thought, fresh, unprotected, good... Finding himself to have reached the stable- Well, rather a small area 'dedicated' to the temporary accommodation of one's horse- he mounted his horse, a black courser, fast, yet not built, nor bred, for war of any sort - That was the work of a destrier, which he could not afford - And he began to trot down the paved road of Bree, towards the southern gate. The scarred man seemed to have rode up beside him, recognized by his rough, if fierce, voice.
"You're going to like these ones, aye. Happens I saw them myself. Bandits, scum... And a bounty for them. It's fine, though - Happens, I made sure no one else found out about the payment, it's fifty silver a head.", the scarred man said, in a rather casual tone.
"Just the head? Or do they want a bit more? I don’t mind, ofcourse. All I need is the skin. Funny, that. People always seem to forget about the skin. They cry over lost limbs, but never over the skin. It's fine, I'll make sure this group tear blood.", Quintyn began, in a strangely joyful voice, "Flaying. Now that's an art. None of your instant deaths. No, these are bandits, arent they? It would only be best if the mayor would take similar interests..."
"Interest? Boy, have you gone insane? Don’t talk about your actions 'ere. Gods know who's listening.", the scarred man scolded. His voice seemed rather, genuinely, afraid.
"Gods? Hmm. Perhaps, I should give this group a lesson on your religious beliefs, hmm? It can be intuitive! Cant it? Not only will they be unable to commit such offences again, but they'll also be able to meet their gods! If a bit... Messy. Hm. Yes, I think I will.", he said, before bursting in laughter. They had nearly reached the southern gate by now.
"Shut. It. I believe in what I see, aye. And I've seen things. Godly things --", the scarred man was cut short, by the shorter - Quintyn stood at 6'2'', while the scarred man was a truly towering figure, of 6'5''.
"When the day is done, you shall see many things. I hope you're not... Afraid? We shouldn’t redden that oh-so-beautiful face of yours, with embarassment!", he said.
"You. Shut that mouth of yours. I aint scared of no blood. Infact, I love the stuff. Just as every man does.", the scarred man said, calmly, and flatly.
"Just as every man does...", Quintyn agreed, in an equally expressionless tone.
They had reached the gate, and began to trot out, the scarred man being forced to bend forward due to his own great height, matched with his horses. Quintyn found that rather funny, mocking others had always created a great source of enjoyment for him, as he well knew. They broke into a full gallop, with the scarred man leading, clearly not wishing to speak to me then.
It was a short ride before they came upon the woods, and dismounted. Tying both their mounts to a tree, an oak, of which was shedding it's leaves.
A small rustling sound could be heard, quite clearly. Not the rustling of wind, nor foot upon leaves, but the rustling of a fire. A crackling sound, that gave it all away. He approached the sound, and was followed by the scarred man, before coming upon two men, and one woman, sat beside a fire. It looked a hearty fire, that could last for even a day, if fed well. The patrons of the fire simply looked up at Quintyn and the scarred man, before one of them waved his hand dismissively, as though they didn’t truly care.
"Good day, friends! A fellow outlaw here, I would like t-", Quintyn began, before the woman by the fire stood up, hastily, with a rather stern look on her face.
"We're not outlaws. Right? Move along, or I'll make you.", she said, but Quintyn only smiled in return.
"Oh. Oh! Feisty one...", he looked over at the two men still sat beside the fire, "Shame you need a woman to protect you, eh? Believe me, friends! You do not need protection from us. We are simply here to help you in what way we can. We are both outlaws too, but not in law itself, however ironic that may be! But. We are outlaws.", he continued, his face smug - While the scarred man stood tall, beside him, with an expressionless face. Quintyn noticed this, so began, "Oh. Don’t mind him, my... Handsome friend, ever since they hammered his tongue to bits! He dreads speaking."
The woman looked rather speechless, she couldn’t truly decipher what was being said. Neither could the two men on the ground, one of which rose to ask the question that was on all their minds.
"You're not an outlaw, ye'r say? But ye'r are? Explain ye'rself. Don’t 'Outlaw' mean som'one who be out of t'er law?", he said, with a thick accent, and tone.
"We are outlaws. Only. Outlaws, of the outlaws! Now. Isnt that funny? Hahaha..", Quintyn began laughing, though no one else did. Suddenly he stopped. "What? You don’t find it funny? Ah, that must be because you're trying your oh-so-hardest to understand the joke! Why, I should tell you, eh? Right. So, there's three outlaws, right in the middle of... An outlaw-infested forest! Those outlaws happen to be idiots, lighting such a grand fire, grand enough for some distant king, I suppose. And then two men came upon them, two... Happy, men. Two men who want their payment. Their joy brought to them. Now, what do those two men have to do, to get that?"
No one answered, so Quintyn laughed, as he would - The patrons of the fire began to look yet-more fearful. Still, it seemed to him, that they couldn’t even comprehend what he was saying.
"Not speaking? Oh, come now. We cant play the game like that, can we? Oh. Didn’t I say? We're going to play a game. A very special game, one I've loved to play for a long time...", he grimaced, and his eyes turned cold. Suddenly, the scarred man approached one of the men sat by the fire, grabbed him with his right hand, dragging him up, before flinging his left into the man's belly. He fell to the ground squealing, while the other man stood, attempting to run, as the woman turned and bolted towards a tree, a few feet away, which had a spear beside it. Quintyn stopped the man who tried to run, rather simply, by grabbing his arm as he ran - He acted as the leverage, as the man acted as the driving force that would be his undoing. He ran in a circular shape, before being thrown to the ground, Quintyn raised his boot, rather high, and landed it hard on the man's back. There was a, rather random, scream, as Quintyn turned, his boot still on the man, now pressing harder, driving him into the dirt, he saw the scarred man strike the woman across the face, who had quite clearly failed at some attempt to drive the spear through him.
"Now! Let the game begin! Oh. Wait, no. It cant begin... Just yet.", he said as he lifted the man who he had his right foot atop, thrusting his back against a tree, as he held him there with his own chest, reaching into a small satchel on the ground, which he deemed had been dropped by the scarred man (Who was now kicking the other man rather frequently), from it, he drew a rope. The man on the tree tried to escape, with what little strength he had, trying to push past Quintyn as he was preoccupied. The attempt was, at best, pathetic, and Quintyn simply sent his right arm at the man's face, weakening him even more. He tied the man to the tree, by his neck first, then his hands, and then his feet. He hadn't looked to see what the scarred man was doing, but the fact that no one had touched him with any violent force so far, proved that the scarred man was doing well enough alone. But now, one the man was tied to the tree, he turned to face the scarred man. Whom had already tied the woman to a tree, and was doing the same for the other man.
"This is a merry meeting, isnt it? Now, was it just the heads they wanted? That's ok. But. Oh. Wait, no, no, no. It's not. It's not ok at all!", he turned to face the man he had tied himself, "Tell me, friend... Is it ok? Hm?", there was no reply - So, suddenly, Quintyn's face had turned from a smug one, to a stern one, full of anger, as he flung his right hand, back-handing the man across the face. The sound of the blow was clearly audible. He began shouting out in fury, "I SAID! IS IT OK!?", the man did nothing but groan, this time.
The blow was harder, this time, louder, it was a back-hand slap of the victim's face again, this time in the opposite direction. The scarred man approached, "Calm down boy. You want half the others in this forest to hear!?", but Quintyn gave no verbal, nor physical, response of any kind.
"I will ask once more. Is. It. Ok...?", he asked the man he had slapped twice, and this time was given an answer. Only, not the one he wanted.
"I... Please... Why are...", the wounded man began, "Why are you doing... D-D-Doing this...?"
Quintyn pulled from the sheathe at his left waist, a small knife, clearly made for cookery. "Wrong answer.", he said, as he made a quick slash of the weapon across the man's right arm. The cut, which was rather deep, travelled from his wrist, all the way up to the inner-fleshy area of one's elbow.
He moved on to the next man. "What do you think, hmm? Answer your friend's question. Why am I doing this? You answer right, and all three of you go. You answer wrong, and I'll tell you! See, fair both ways."
The man made a long moaning sound, having being brutalized by the scarred man, "I. You. You're doing this. Because we're.. Outlaws."
"Hmm.. No. I'm doing, -this-, because you're outlaws.", he turned to the scarred man, and said a single word, "Sword.", before he passed Quintyn a shortsword. He began thrusting it at the man's neck, making a truly bloody mess, before finally taking one swing and hacking the man's head off.
"That. That's what I'm doing because you're outlaws. Heh.", he said, dropping the sword to the ground besides the head of the dead man.
He turned to face the woman.
"Ah! Now, you. Are. A beauty! If a bit rough for my liking, you've wasted your life, you know...", Quintyn said, for a brief moment sounding sympathetic. "I feel sorry for ones like you. Caught up in these affairs, perhaps... I've already stained two. And I must say 'sorry', to my gods. Infact! I'm a religious man, why don’t you beg for the gods to forgive you? If so, I shall too! Then you can leave, and say nothing of this, hm?"
The woman looked up, her nose bleeding from when she was struck by the scarred man, "Aye... Please m'lord. Please. Let.. Let me go. I wont be an outlaw. I wont do nothing wrong. I wont... Please. I swear to all the gods!", she began whimpering - Strangely satisfactory for Quintyn, who was originally confronted by her. He raised the knife, and cut her bonds free, smiling. She rose, looked at him for a brief moment, before spitting. Not flem, nor 'spit'. Blood. She began chocking, as it frothed out of her mouth.
Quintyn simply continued smiling, "I'm not a lord.", he said, driving the knife further through her gullet. "You also forgot to ask, if I was entirely truthful. I spit on your gods. Now, go, go meet them. And when you do...", he drove the knife even further, not caring about the blood that was boiling over the woman's mouth, "… Tell them that I sent you, right?", he tore the knife free, as the woman dropped to her knees, and fell, face-first, into the dirt.
He turned to face the scarred man, who looked rather distraught, "What? I wasn’t going to let her go, now - Was I? Why would I?"
"That was... Dark. Demented. Cruel.", the scarred man said, his face growing pale at the sight of so much blood.
"If as much unmans you, then leave. This. This, dog. This scum, she was nothing but a toy for me. A toy for you. For us to play with, and discard. But no, we didn’t discard her, nor the men. No. We're going to trade these toys in, for something better. Fifty silver, you said, per head. Well. Gather the heads.", Quintyn replied, half-smiling.
On the journey back, there was little talk, though Quintyn did bring up, what he thought funny, something. "They say, two heads think better than one. So we brought two. Now, five heads aught to be better, don’t you think? Too sad, we're giving three away..."
The rest was nothing but silent riding, before they reached the southern gates, where they parted - The scarred man taking the satchel -Rather, sack-, and the two horses, while Quintyn made his way on foot, heading towards the inn.
An uneventful journey, he found himself on the same bed he had awoken from - Not even knowing what time it was, though one could tell it was mid-day as the sun was high in the sky outside, he shut his eyes, and sleep took him, his arm, used to beat one man, still there, his dagger, used to mess the woman's throat, still in his sheathe, and the shortsword he used to chop the other man's head off, beside his bed, to the right. In his slumber, he smiled.
