Pothole

[Marlowe]

He watched as the flames flickered high and low, consuming all which was fed into the bonfire by Market Lane. Shades of orange danced on his face as he stood a few feet from the fiery bed. Quincy held a small book between his hands, battered from constant use. The green leather had all but lost its pigment and coffee stains riddled a good number of middle pages. Despite its condition, the song book has been the recipient of a good chunk of the minstrel's inspiration once he could get his hands on a mandolin. Partitions, lyricis and bits of rhyme for impromptu verses were added everywhere in a messy fashion. He sneered and shook his head, tossing the book into the fire. She was a great deal in there, so it had to go.

When Constantine invited him to his rural estate, it would have never crossed Quincy's mind how the evening would end, but in his gut he knew something wouldn't go right. His former employer probably meant to let him know of his past hardships and how he came to raise his establishment from the ground. However, the sight of that vase within the man's lush residence caught him off guard: it was a personal gift, carefully etched for a particular reason, and yet it adorned the abode of her consort. Or maybe it was already theirs, for all he knew.

From that point on, even though he could see Constantine earnestly reaching out to him, his mind was racing: the bard was too late. Again. The man across the table was one of the wealthiest within the Province, how is one to compete with that? Quincy felt yet again for the folly that someday, perhaps...no. Not today or tomorrow. Never. Resigning from his position at the Risk was only natural, for how could he go on after that embarrassing facade? Constantine even tried to dissuade him, but he was barely listening, anger coursing loudly as his heartbeats pounded on his ears. He wanted to hate the man, and made an effort to as he rose to his feet. But it wasn't the entrepreneur's fault, it was only his. He dared himself to dream. Poor fool.

The book stood valiantly at first, but soon the fire erupted amidst the creased pages, devouring everything without respite. It was gone. How long until he faced his true calling? The one the powerful foreigner from Prodai would ultimately draw him to? Quincy braced himself despite being close to the bonfire. Anger was a powerful agent: though regarded as less noble than other sentiments sang in ballads, it moved things onward nonetheless. Quincy stepped closer and muttered towards the hot maesltrom, bowing to no one.

"Best of luck to you both".