Post by Quinn O'Hara on Mar 20, 2015 23:46:45 GMT -5
Before the races had been over, just after the attack, Quinn had left preparing himself for the meeting that would take place just as the paper he had found specified. There was at least a week between then and now and still much to prepare for. Who knew what to expect, let alone who.
The bodies of the two that had died at the races that day were collected,dragged back to the Den and studied. By the time they had received them, they were already rotting, reeking with the stench of the dead. Shepherd, Quinn’s mentor, assisted a great deal in the plan, however, he didn't ask questions, he never did, nor did really have to. Only one of the bodies held the same physique as Quinn’s, a match close enough for him to attend the meeting as the deceased. “One problem,” Quinn said to Shepherd, “going to let the cat out of the bag as soon as I talk.”
“Always one for the obvious,” Shepherd shook his head and headed over to his alchemy table. It happened to be stocked with various herbs, liquids and an assortment of bodily parts from creatures scattered across Arith, but only a few items were needed. Herbs were gathered and placed into a mortar and crushed one by one until they made a smooth paste. “There are ways to get the same effect without the use of magic,” he moved to the corpse and began to apply the thick paste on the deceased neck, it began to solidify, lacing itself into the pores. When it turned a dense gray Shepherd pulled it from the man's neck and placed it against Quinn’s own, “this will sting.”
The burn that came with the ointment was enough to make Quinn want to scream, but he held his tongue. It latched to his neck, sinking into his pores and by the time the pain had come to an end Quinn cleared his throat, and then realized the tone was not his own. He looked to Shepherd and the man simply gave a nod, nothing more, a simple gesture that spoke more volumes than any word he could say. Finally Shepherd handed Quinn one last object. Quinn’s eyes fell to what was placed in his hands, realizing what it had been instantly he looked to Shepherd knowing what this meant, “I’m ready,” the voice replicated that of the deceased and Shepherd gave one final nod.
Days and nights went on, Quinn trained himself to move and act like the man he was going to pretend to be. It was a difficult task considering he was pretending to be a dead man, but Shepherd showed him the way, how to portray the criminal or any criminal in that manner. The rest of the time was spent gathering tools, preparing for much more than an interrogation, much, much more.
…
With the final hour being near Quinn made his way to the designated spot. It was in the middle of a small town near Sarkotos known for it's holdings for those who preferred life in the underground. He arrived early, knowing that there was still a piece of the puzzle that had to be dealt with, the third person who had assaulted them at the Races, the one that had escaped. In his time of preparation he learned as much as he could about third target, what he looked like, how he walked, how he talked, what made him tick, Quinn made him a Mark and knew that once he saw him, he would have to act quick.
The meeting place was a rundown shack, one that had looked abandoned for a long time. The walls looked nearly burnt and the roof looked as though it welcomed a flood rather than repel it. The door opened with a cry and the first impression of the places interior wasn't the best. It was old, covered in dust and cobwebs. No light carried inside aside from the night sky that leaked in from the ceiling and a reddish glow that existed under the floorboards. He began to look around, his eyes like a Hawk’s, every detail did not go unnoticed, even his reflection in the shattered mirror caught his attention. He looked at the unfamiliar face; changed, distorted, not his own, he had to admire Shepherds work. From the corner of his eye he saw a small drift in a wall panel to the east, a candle stood on a night stand just to the path’s left, that had to be it, he thought. The candle didn't move, it was locked in place, he relied on his instincts and from his belt he procured a match in which was lit and held to the candle.
The candle light would cause the room to shake for only a moment. The hidden panel in the wall opened, creaking and emitting a small breeze that blew out the candle. Figuring he only had a few seconds he made his way into the secret chamber, the wall closing behind him. It led down stairs, the steps spiraling into what felt like eternal darkness, it was hard to see until the steps reached the room below. The room was lit in a red light, it looked like the walls were bleeding and if he hadn't known better it was as if it were staged so no one could see the other bleed. He was not the only one who occupied the room, it was an underground meeting place for thugs, murderers and criminals, what only could appear to be a safe house filled with booze, food, rooms and hookers.
He began to mingle, acting the part and giving little to no information as possible so not to draw any unwanted attention. Everyone seemed less than friendly and no one wanted to answer any questions he had pertaining the attack at the Races, even when acting as though all he wanted was in on the action. His eyes continued to sweep the room until they befell the third attacker, standing off to the side with a whore. He was sure it had to be him, with what littler description he gathered from witnesses, he was the closest fit. He’d have the answers but he knew as soon as he started asking the man anything about the Races his cover would be blown and so… he had to clean up a little.
A keg was the key to making this clean, there had to been a dozen when the meeting began and by now, there was only a few left to be tapped. He moved over to where they had been stationed, taking notice of who did and didn't have a tankard in their hand, and thankfully his target did not. It seemed all to easy, but people in this sort of business were predictable. He acted as though here getting his own drink but instead he reached for his belt again and began to defile the keg’s contents with poison knowing that by midnight people would begin to drop like flies.
...
Waiting was the hard part, but he had learned to be patient. Minutes before midnight, Quinn began to make his way over towards his Mark, the red light making his appearance that more vicious, while his steps felt as though he were gliding. He hit a patch of darkness and it was in that moment where the light seemed to evade him that Quinn made a switch. Time seemed to slow down and he peeled from his face the makeup that passed him as the deceased, the clay hanging from his skin like loose, melted flesh. From his satchel he pulled free the object in which Shepherd had given him, a mask, it changed him as he brought it to his face. Pouring back into the red light brought life to the mask. The skull in which Quinn now wore, seemed almost as though it was laughing and as his Mark caught sight of it, he pushed the whore away and attempted to arm himself. Sadly, fear was all that he found as those within the room fell, foaming at the mouth. Quinn responded in kind and drew his own blade, pressing it against the man's throat and jacking him against the wall, "Who do you work for? Why the attack on the Races?" The words were said in a harsh tone, the blade pressed deeper allowing a small bead of blood to dribble down the man's neck.
"Bite me!"
Quinn drew from his belt a needle and sank it into the mans neck, "soon you'll feel a poison that will slowly kill you within the next five minutes. Now, tell me what I want and perhaps I'll be generous enough to give you the antidote." His words nearly oozing with venom.
With the realization that the man was about to die he began to sweat and panic, his hand touching the needle that still was buried into his neck. "Fine! Fine! Antidote first!"
"No," and to prove his point, Quinn snapped the mans hand above his head and against the wall. With a quick snatch Quinn then drove the man's own knife through it.
The Mark screamed and cursed, he could begin to feel the poison running through his veins, "Miller! His name was Miller! He paid us to put an end to that charity event in hopes to ruin the Vixen's business!"
"Why?"
"I don't know, give me the antidote!" He pleaded.
"You're lying," Quinn grabbed the knife and twisted it.
Another scream broke free from the Mark's lips, crying and dribbling, he continued, "she's expanding to deep! Miller said something about him and some others were planning on getting rid of her for good, that she's trifling in on their business. That's all I know! Now let me go and give me the antidote!"
Quinn eyed the man and handed him a vial, "free yourself," he remained there watching as the man began to down the vile in hopes to save himself. Only once every drop was consumed did Quinn turn his back on his Mark making his way back out, but of course, the rage that had been built up in the Mark by this point caused him to lash out. The Mark pulled free his dagger from his own hand and rushed towards Quinn, but by the time he was able to stick the blade into Quinn's back, he found himself in a surge of pain. Quinn had turned and was now facing him once more, his blade in hand and dripping in crimson blood. The Marks hand hit the floor, severed, and Quinn shook his head before turning again, making his leave. The Mark yelled in anger, sputtering nonsense, that he would get his revenge but as the rage died down he realized the poison was still in his veins, his mouth began to foam and as he fell, he looked to the bottle only for it to dawn on him that it hadn't been an antidote at all.
All that was left now was to clean up, and so, the shack was burned, the mask removed and Quinn would return to the Den a silhouette against the burning fire.