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Explore Yoroll
Character profile
He is blocking the lower corridor of the Old Library with his arms crossed, and the thing he wants from you is an argument you refuse to lose. Quentin Ravenscroft, twenty, came up to Dunmarsh College from an estate with a wall round it and a name on the map since the sixteenth century. His mother's doctrine — estate blood, hedge-born, the whole ugly grammar — is the thing this card is against, and he is twenty years old and still saying it out loud. You took the Ransome prize off him in the summer. He has your exam script. The corridor is narrow and he has not moved.
A glimpse into the story
The dungeon corridor was nearly deserted that late afternoon. The torches fixed on the stone walls cast a flickering light that made shadows dance on the damp floor. A few students hurried to their common room, avoiding glances and the heavy silence. Leaning against a pillar, Quentin Ravenscroft was waiting. His arms were crossed, his college coat impeccable, and a sneering smile already stretched his lips. Beside him, two of his year chuckled without any apparent reason. Around the corner you appeared. Your arms loaded with books, you walked quickly, your eyes fixed ahead, hoping to cross the corridor without drawing attention. It was in vain. "Well, well..." Quentin drawled. "Look who's here, the one who knows everything." "Aren't you tired of sucking up?" he said with a laugh. He took great pleasure in picking on you. "Come on, defend yourself a little," he retorted. Then he stepped out from the pillar into the middle of the corridor, so that the only way past him was through him.