Yarv and Quinton

Tales from Magefell

Someone else had gotten here before him.

That was unusual, but whoever it was had not the good sense to leave before him too. He grinned and prepared to throw a dagger. The left calf felt like a good first spot. Incapacitate, but leave alive. Long enough for him to question, anyways.

Creeping into the room and cocking his arm back, he noted the door had actually been picked, not broken down. That was even more unusual, for that door was no simple ordination. As the dagger began to leave his hands, he made out a familiar mottled green and brown cloak, and at the last second twisted the trajectory of the weapon.

The dagger struck the ground between the man’s feet. “Yarv?”

The man spun around, a dagger of his own in hand and threw. His own throw sailed to the left, however, and stuck out of the door frame. “Quinton? What in the spire’s highest are you doing here?”

Quinton stepped forward with a puzzled grin and offered his hand in greeting.

Yarv's face split into wide happiness and he clasped his forearm. Then he glanced at the spoils, and a rather far-off knife in a doorpost. “You wouldn’t be here to wish me a belated season’s greetings, would you?” Then he struck out with his leg.

Quinton dodged smoothly and came at him with his second dagger, which a shiny gauntlet stopped in a shriek. “My, how slow you’ve become. I suppose that fancy wristlet is compensation?”

Yarv snorted. “Compensation I hardly need when facing an old man like you. I heard your joints creak as you walked in here.”

Quinton gave him a hurt look, and flicked the dagger at him. A quick sway to the side and it joined his other blade, stuck in some wooden surface. “I heard nothing, and I’m me.”

Yarv smirked. “Well an old man’s hearing can hardly be relied upon now, can it?” He threw his own dagger at him, and it joined its companion in the door frame.

“At least this old man isn’t robbing a kindly noble’s home.”

Yarv shrugged, launching into a sequence of martial forms. “A man has to make a living, I’m sure you understand.”

Quinton snorted. “And a King might decide to beg for a living too.” He met Yarv’s attack with his own set of forms, blocking and swaying away from his hands and feet.

Yarv chuckled. “Oh yes, as if you didn’t come here to do just this.” He suddenly reached through Quinton’s defense and plucked a dagger from his cloak. It was an ornate piece, with gems and silver in the handle and etchings on the blade. “Buying these with kind words?”

“I will have you know I work--honest work, mind you. As it happens, I was hired to stop you.” And he darted into Yarv’s attack, halting it and trapping his wrist. Then he popped the gauntlet off. He grinned. “And this? Elven forged steel, just lying around the casual market for purchase?”

He stared his wrist indignantly, then tossed the dagger back at Quinton, who threw the gauntlet in return. “Insult my dignity no longer, I too am employed. Ignam Roy knows a great many places to buy a pretty piece.” He strapped the gauntlet back on and lunged forward with his fist.

Quinton froze.

Yarv stopped his fist about an inch from his face, and raised an eyebrow. “Dodge?”

“Ah.” He acquiesced and ducked. Yarv continued through with the blow and then came round with a kick, which this time Quinton obliged with a sidestep. He came round with his own swing and a question.

“But I work for Ignam Roy. Why would he have had you rob this place, and me stop the robber?”

Yarv’s jaw came open slightly and he lowered his hands.

Quinton halted his leg just before it hit the side of Yarv’s head. He rolled his hands and bowed theatrically. “Sir.” He gestured at his leg.

“Oh, yes.” Yarv brought his hands back up and blocked the kick as Quinton followed through. He threw another few blows, then stepped back. “Really though. You work for Ignam Roy?”

Quinton lowered his fists and reached into his cloak pocket with a flourish. But it was with a far more puzzled flourish that he produced a handful of ash.

“I…” He stared in astonishment at the black residue on his hands. “Perhaps not.”

Yarv chuckled. “I assume you meant to produce—” And he smugly thrust into the air his own set of ash. His eyes widened and a vein in his head throbbed.

Quinton let out a laugh. “Yours too, then?”

Yarv scratched his head and nodded. “Aye, mine too.” He thought a moment longer, and glanced at the nearly stolen goods. “Perhaps I should put these back and ask a few questions.”

“Absolutely, every item back. And, I’m sure you need some help making sure they all get right back where they belong.”

“Oh assuredly.” And then he flicked the dagger still embedded in the floor lazily back at Quinton.

He caught it deftly and re-holstered it within his cloak. Moving to the table, he began assisting the replacement of the valuables. “I love the sound of valuables. They make such a ‘not staying in the Brackle anymore’ noise.”

“Really? Fancy daggers and not even five copper? Though, can’t say I’m able to judge from a tent in the woods.” He paused. “Do you hear some ‘what if you stayed in prison’ sounds?”

“Oh the thirty or so bits of it running around outside shouting about a break-in?”

“Yes. I think I’m beginning to be rather upset with your employer.”

“What chance – I’m quite irate with yours too.”

“Shall we pay them a visit?”

“A visit we shall indeed, like old times.”

And they laughed and looted and lurked out of the top window, thirty soldiers running about below but unable to find them.

Really, it was very much like old times.