Quinn sat in the vast dining hall by himself, the silence comforting
for the time being. He found it refreshing to sit alone, left with his
thoughts, the chaotic musings, the troublesome ponderings.
Ever since Van Zan had died, he had been a little disoriented. It was as though the American had grounded Quinn somehow. acted as a weight to keep him in the boundaries of sanity. That on top of witnessing the tragic demise of his old friend Creedy had crushed him.
He was losing his fragile grip on that sanity, and it worried him greatly that he could just. snap. He worried about lashing out at the ones he loved. Quinn despised the thought of hurting Alex or Jared in any way. And with his child on the way, he needed to get a grip on himself.
From the door, he heard a scraping, and his brow furrowed.
He stood from the wooden chair, and strode over to the closed door, opening it, hearing it creak eerily.
From on the other side of the door, he heard a pine, and as he opened the door fully, he saw the most unexpected of sights.
There sat a scruffy animal, a dog, with tattered grubby ears, liquid brown eyes staring up at him, black fur matted and thin, bushy tail brushing back and forth across the dusty floor.
It let out a single bark, and scampered away playfully, tail wagging frantically, tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Curiously, Quinn followed, keeping up with the animal by jogging, tracing his way blindly through the dark corridors in the castle.
Soon, he found himself in the courtyard of the large building, and there, sat atop a large dappled horse, -muscular and proud, with a flowing silky mane and tale, and its neck arched powerfully- was a young man. He looked to be about eighteen, if not younger. His black hair was blowing about in loose locks on his head, whipping about his eyes, ears and neck. He looked around with intrigue, brown eyes as if searching for someone, even as children milled around the horse he was mounted on. The animal did not even shift on its large striped hooves, strips of brown marring the grey bone.
The young man was dressed darkly, in grey sweatshirt, black trousers, and long black duster, leather in appearance, worn and weathered. Thick, heavy boots covered his feet, rested comfortably in steel stirrups hanging from a western style saddle.
The horse chomped casually on a polished metal cheek snaffle bit, connected firmly to a strap bridle, absent of both the brow and nosebands.
This person was American. Quinn could tell that much by simply looking the man up and down. well, young man.
He walked over, following the trotting dog, until he found himself standing stock still in front of the large male horse, seemingly a stallion.
It snorted heavily, and regarded Quinn with intelligent brown eyes.
The dog sat down next to the side of the horse, and panted up at his master.
Well, Quinn guessed that the scruffy animal belonged to this stranger.
"Who are you?" Quinn asked, shooing the children off to a safe distance. The youngsters stood by the far wall, giggling and whispering amongst themselves.
As the stranger replied, Quinn's suspicion of him being American was confirmed, "I'm called Deacon."
"What are you doing here?" Quinn inquired, looking between the stranger and his animals.
"I'm here for shelter. I've been travelling for weeks. Do you know how long it takes to get here from America?"
"No, and I don't much care," Quinn grumbled, wary. He eyes Deacon suspiciously.
Deacon laughed from atop his mount, shifting slightly in the saddle, resting his hands on the rounded pommel, setting the split reins over and around it, and tying them off loosely. "A long time. I take it you're the one in charge around here?"
Quinn nodded gruffly. The dog pined loudly, and Quinn turned his eyes to the animal.
Deacon smiled, patting his horse on the neck. "Don't mind him. He's jumpy. He can smell one of those beasts coming for miles."
Quinn's eyes darted back up immediately, staring into the brown eyes of the stranger. "What did you say?"
"The dog," Deacon repeated, gesturing casually, "he can smell a dragon coming for miles."
Deacon laughed again, something Quinn found quite irritating. "You have to admit, the things do stink."
Quinn cocked his head, and couldn't resist a half-smile. This stranger was interesting, new and different. He hadn't met anyone like him for years. He hadn't thought people like him still did exist. Creedy had been the last light-hearted joker Quinn had known.
"So, you know who I am." Deacon began, taking a deep breath in, and letting it out slowly, "who are you?"
"Name's Quinn," he replied, stroking the horse down the face slowly. The horse closed its eyes, as though it found the petting soothing. It let out a soft rumbling groan, similar to the purr of a cat, but louder.
Quinn smiled. He hadn't thought horses still existed either, besides the black animal he kept for transport.
Deacon nodded once.
"How old are you exactly? You can't be more than eighteen," Quinn stated, and saw Jared approach from the other side of the courtyard.
Deacon sighed. "Actually, I'm twenty-one." He laughed. "If America wasn't in ruins, I'd finally be a legal alcoholic."
Quinn found this amusing, and laughed. It felt good to laugh after so much hardship.
Deacon dismounted his horse, patting it on the shoulder, and taking a loose grip with a gloved hand on the side of the bridle. His gloves were missing the fingers. On Deacon's left hand he wore a ring, silver, on his middle finger, and one on his right thumb, also silver.
Typical Yank, he thought, glancing down at the golden band on his left ring finger. It had been a gift from Alex, and had apparently belonged to Van Zan. Now it served as a wedding band. She wore a more feminine version on her own finger, a ring that had belonged to Quinn's late mother.
He sucked in a deep breath as he recalled his mother's face. and let it out, blinking back the tears, denying himself the freedom to mourn his mother. That would have to wait.
It was then that he noticed the bulging saddlebags attached the back of the horse's seat. He allowed his brow to furrow, and gestured with a nod to them.
Deacon noticed, and smiled. He moved over to them, unfastened one, and tossed it to Quinn, who caught it, soon noticing the weight.
Confused, he opened it, and felt his eyes widen considerably.
Bullets. dozens of them. Tens of dozens in fact.
He looked back up through narrowed eyes at Deacon, who presented a large gun from his horse's other side. It resembled a shotgun, a rather large shotgun, and a considerably powerful one at that. It looked to be pump-action, something that Quinn hadn't seen in a while.
"You'll find all kinds of bullets in there," Deacon commented, replacing the gun into the saddle holster. "No doubt you're running low." Then he added, "If you haven't already run out, that is."
Quinn decided this Deacon was an asset.
At least for the time being.
Ever since Van Zan had died, he had been a little disoriented. It was as though the American had grounded Quinn somehow. acted as a weight to keep him in the boundaries of sanity. That on top of witnessing the tragic demise of his old friend Creedy had crushed him.
He was losing his fragile grip on that sanity, and it worried him greatly that he could just. snap. He worried about lashing out at the ones he loved. Quinn despised the thought of hurting Alex or Jared in any way. And with his child on the way, he needed to get a grip on himself.
From the door, he heard a scraping, and his brow furrowed.
He stood from the wooden chair, and strode over to the closed door, opening it, hearing it creak eerily.
From on the other side of the door, he heard a pine, and as he opened the door fully, he saw the most unexpected of sights.
There sat a scruffy animal, a dog, with tattered grubby ears, liquid brown eyes staring up at him, black fur matted and thin, bushy tail brushing back and forth across the dusty floor.
It let out a single bark, and scampered away playfully, tail wagging frantically, tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Curiously, Quinn followed, keeping up with the animal by jogging, tracing his way blindly through the dark corridors in the castle.
Soon, he found himself in the courtyard of the large building, and there, sat atop a large dappled horse, -muscular and proud, with a flowing silky mane and tale, and its neck arched powerfully- was a young man. He looked to be about eighteen, if not younger. His black hair was blowing about in loose locks on his head, whipping about his eyes, ears and neck. He looked around with intrigue, brown eyes as if searching for someone, even as children milled around the horse he was mounted on. The animal did not even shift on its large striped hooves, strips of brown marring the grey bone.
The young man was dressed darkly, in grey sweatshirt, black trousers, and long black duster, leather in appearance, worn and weathered. Thick, heavy boots covered his feet, rested comfortably in steel stirrups hanging from a western style saddle.
The horse chomped casually on a polished metal cheek snaffle bit, connected firmly to a strap bridle, absent of both the brow and nosebands.
This person was American. Quinn could tell that much by simply looking the man up and down. well, young man.
He walked over, following the trotting dog, until he found himself standing stock still in front of the large male horse, seemingly a stallion.
It snorted heavily, and regarded Quinn with intelligent brown eyes.
The dog sat down next to the side of the horse, and panted up at his master.
Well, Quinn guessed that the scruffy animal belonged to this stranger.
"Who are you?" Quinn asked, shooing the children off to a safe distance. The youngsters stood by the far wall, giggling and whispering amongst themselves.
As the stranger replied, Quinn's suspicion of him being American was confirmed, "I'm called Deacon."
"What are you doing here?" Quinn inquired, looking between the stranger and his animals.
"I'm here for shelter. I've been travelling for weeks. Do you know how long it takes to get here from America?"
"No, and I don't much care," Quinn grumbled, wary. He eyes Deacon suspiciously.
Deacon laughed from atop his mount, shifting slightly in the saddle, resting his hands on the rounded pommel, setting the split reins over and around it, and tying them off loosely. "A long time. I take it you're the one in charge around here?"
Quinn nodded gruffly. The dog pined loudly, and Quinn turned his eyes to the animal.
Deacon smiled, patting his horse on the neck. "Don't mind him. He's jumpy. He can smell one of those beasts coming for miles."
Quinn's eyes darted back up immediately, staring into the brown eyes of the stranger. "What did you say?"
"The dog," Deacon repeated, gesturing casually, "he can smell a dragon coming for miles."
Deacon laughed again, something Quinn found quite irritating. "You have to admit, the things do stink."
Quinn cocked his head, and couldn't resist a half-smile. This stranger was interesting, new and different. He hadn't met anyone like him for years. He hadn't thought people like him still did exist. Creedy had been the last light-hearted joker Quinn had known.
"So, you know who I am." Deacon began, taking a deep breath in, and letting it out slowly, "who are you?"
"Name's Quinn," he replied, stroking the horse down the face slowly. The horse closed its eyes, as though it found the petting soothing. It let out a soft rumbling groan, similar to the purr of a cat, but louder.
Quinn smiled. He hadn't thought horses still existed either, besides the black animal he kept for transport.
Deacon nodded once.
"How old are you exactly? You can't be more than eighteen," Quinn stated, and saw Jared approach from the other side of the courtyard.
Deacon sighed. "Actually, I'm twenty-one." He laughed. "If America wasn't in ruins, I'd finally be a legal alcoholic."
Quinn found this amusing, and laughed. It felt good to laugh after so much hardship.
Deacon dismounted his horse, patting it on the shoulder, and taking a loose grip with a gloved hand on the side of the bridle. His gloves were missing the fingers. On Deacon's left hand he wore a ring, silver, on his middle finger, and one on his right thumb, also silver.
Typical Yank, he thought, glancing down at the golden band on his left ring finger. It had been a gift from Alex, and had apparently belonged to Van Zan. Now it served as a wedding band. She wore a more feminine version on her own finger, a ring that had belonged to Quinn's late mother.
He sucked in a deep breath as he recalled his mother's face. and let it out, blinking back the tears, denying himself the freedom to mourn his mother. That would have to wait.
It was then that he noticed the bulging saddlebags attached the back of the horse's seat. He allowed his brow to furrow, and gestured with a nod to them.
Deacon noticed, and smiled. He moved over to them, unfastened one, and tossed it to Quinn, who caught it, soon noticing the weight.
Confused, he opened it, and felt his eyes widen considerably.
Bullets. dozens of them. Tens of dozens in fact.
He looked back up through narrowed eyes at Deacon, who presented a large gun from his horse's other side. It resembled a shotgun, a rather large shotgun, and a considerably powerful one at that. It looked to be pump-action, something that Quinn hadn't seen in a while.
"You'll find all kinds of bullets in there," Deacon commented, replacing the gun into the saddle holster. "No doubt you're running low." Then he added, "If you haven't already run out, that is."
Quinn decided this Deacon was an asset.
At least for the time being.