It wasn't his fault. It's exactly what he'd been trying to tell them and they wouldn't listen to him.
Of course not. They never did. Wherever he went, if something went horribly catastrophically wrong what happened? They blamed him. It never fucking failed.
Quinlan was exhausted from running. When they caught him the first time, they beat him nearly senseless. His veins were killing him, even breathing left him laboring for...well, breath. He kneed one of them in his tiny balls and took off running the first chance he got. Even then he could already feel the burn in his veins.
The bloody curse wasn't going to leave him alone. He had bigger problems than a bunch of bandits that thought he stole from them. They had planned to torture him, to tear him apart little by little until there was nothing left of him but his pinky toe. At least that was until he promised that he could lead them to a bigger prize. A cave in a far off hillside that had some buried treasure in it.
Folsom Mire was the name of the place, but it was unmarked on any map, and that was when they took off a fingernail. Of course they didn't believe him. Of course, they weren't convinced that he was more useful to him alive rather than dead. He'd been too disoriented by the pain to pay attention to the blood that could have ended them all quickly. He'd been starving too.
So there he was trudging through that thick, horrid Ravensway forest with a bandit gang hot on his trail, hungry, sore, tired, thirsty and bleeding. It wasn't the worst thing that happened to him in his life. Not even close, but even he could agree that his current state was pretty shitty.
Gods' balls he needed a drink. Or 10, and some hot soup and bread would be nice. He wasn't picky!
Quinlan's legs kept up at a continuously dragging pace. He could hear voices in the distance calling out to their comrades to "Find him!" "Alive!" and "Skin him!" Little did they know that he would make for a terrible leather coat.
Nevertheless he ran faster at the prompting of his pursuers and bounded over rounded tree roots that sprung up from the ground. The brush was exceedingly thick, as it were when one as trodding far from any beaten path. He kept running, looking back only long enough to see if any of the bandits were getting closer.
He didn't see the strange woman on the actual beaten path in front of him, moving into his trajectory. At the last second he collided hard with her body, and knocking them both full force to the ground. At least his face was cushioned in the fall by the generosity of her bountiful chest, leaving only his hands and knees scraped up on the dirt path.
"Excuse me," he murmured, voice muffled in her bosoms. "I think you're in my way."