Crouched in the dark alleys of the Limbo circle's, Quentin's joints ached in horrible places. He had lost count of the amount of time a beautiful event had gone south for him this past couple of days, and frankly, he was sick of it all.
His belly grumbled with uncomfortable noise. Somehow eating plates after plates of meat did not seat well with a 200-meter high-speed sprint.
He looked behind him for the umpeeth time searching for something to use as a makeshift chair, but in a tiny enclosed apce like this, stacked high with slabs of cardboard wood and a singular dumpster, which Quentin unconveniently hid behind.
Before Quentin decided to start moving again, dusk had rolled in. Grabbing an old, worn-out cloth off one of the boards, he moved from his hiding spot, his boots crunching against the cobblestones as he stalked through unsuspecting passerbys on the winding roads.
'Perdition Square, the sign at the end of the street said. The street Quentin walked had led him straight into the heart of the market, and now looking down into the bustling crowd and the vantage point being in his favour, he began his scanning, his fingers twitching toward the empty spot at his belt where his coin pouch had once hung.
Three kids. Quick hands, quicker feet. They had vanished before he even realised what had happened, and now he needed to find them if he was to get back his money and survive in this place.
'I can't dine and dash anytime I'm hungry, and where the hell am I even meant to sleep tonight?'
Quentin sighed, exasperation lacing his breath. In this brief moment of rest, he realised just how beautiful and magical what he was seeing was.
At the centre of the square was a grand fountain, carved with the night black of obsidian and inlaid with glowing blue runes that matched the colour of the sparkling water that shot out the mouth of the marble chimera that adorned the fountain.
Stalls and shops lined the perimeter, the various banners of their owners fluttering in the gentle night breeze. Merchants still hawk their wares to every living thing that moves. No one seemed dettered by the rising moon, the abundance of lanterns making the darj unnoticeable.
About ten feet away from the fountain, a Fawn tuned his lyre as he played a lively tune to his ever-growing audience of beautiful nymphs, sturdy dwarves, and curious humans.
"Woah, I actually downplay how mindblowing what I'm experiencing is," he said to himself.
Quentin decided to resume his search, and honestly, he was beginning to think it fruitless, but the thoughts of having to run from another group of ogres injected some beliefs into him.
His search took him deeper into the city's underbelly and away from the beautiful town square. He ventured into places where flickering lanterns did little to illuminate the shadows that stretched like hungry claws.
The once bustling array of traders, merchants, and beggars gave way to murmurs and muffled footsteps. The air smelt of damp stone, desperation, and bad decisions.
At this point, Quentin felt more like a sightseer than a searcher, but he kept on moving; ahead, raised voices caught his attention. Quentin slowed, stepping lightly to avoid the broken glass that littered the ground and also to keep his presence hidden from them.
"Hand it over, old man!" growled a voice, thick with menace. "Honestly, I want to hurt you, so I hope you give me a reason to," he finished.
Quentin turned the corner to see three figures surrounding an elderly man. The victim clutched a satchel to his chest, his gnarled fingers trembling as one of the thugs brandished a rusted blade.
"You do not want what's in my bag; how about I give you my coin purse?" the old man said, panicking in his voice.
Quentin's heart burnt with anger. He didn't have time for this—but then again, he couldn't just walk away. In a swift motion, one of the thugs punches the old man on the belly, sending him tumbling to the ground.
His voice rang out, calm but commanding.
"That's enough."
The thugs turned; it was clear they were not expecting anyone to be a witness, but they were even more surprised at the balls of Quentin, and he could tell from their expressions shifting from shock to amusement as they sized him up.
"You're new here," sneered one of the thugs; he was the biggest of the bunch. "But that's no excuse for you having the balls to stop the Hisashi brothers."
Quentin didn't answer. He strode forward, his military training kicking in as he assessed their stance and weapons.
The biggest of the thugs who had just spoken to Quentin had a massive club in his hand; the one that had punched the elderly man held a knife in his left hand, while the last stood bare hands, but his tongue hung out of his mouth like a bulldog dripping saliva that sizzled as they touched the ground.
"Walk away," Quentin said, his voice dropping. "Before this gets ugly."
The trio laughed in unison; it was clear they vastly underestimated Quentin.