Outnumbered But Not Outmatched

Brolan's laughter rang out, brazen and unbroken. "Hahah, he's fucked," he jeered, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the fight. The warrior stood no chance, not against them, he insisted. "It's 2 v 1. Let's finish him quick; our artefacts are running out."

With a wave of Argon's hand, their ragtag army sprung into action, engaging the enemy soldiers in a chaotic ballet of steel and fury. A symphony of clash and clang rang out, and the air became heavy with the scent of battle. And in the midst of this mayhem, the stage was set for the impending duel.

Brolan, impulsive as ever, was the first to charge, his war cry slicing through the pandemonium, a challenge thrown to the opposing Knight. The rest of the world seemed to dim around the trio - Argon, Brolan, and the Silverthorne knight - their fates intertwined in a dance as old as war itself.

In the eye of the battlefield's storm, Argon and Brolan, two against one, faced off against the Silverthorne knight. His silhouette, foreboding and resolute, was a moving shadow in the darkened room, armour glistening in the scant light. His reputation as a formidable fighter wasn't just a rumour. It was clear.

As Brolan lunged with wild abandon, Argon chose his strikes with a lethal precision that contrasted his companion's brashness. Steel met steel in flashes of violent sparks as swords clashed and parried. The intensity of the skirmish grew with each breath, filling the air with a tangible tension.

Just when Argon saw an opening, he swung his sword in a deadly arc, aiming for the kill. But the Dayless warrior was quicker than he appeared, his shield artefact coming to life. A force field erupted, deflecting Argon's death blow and sending him staggering back. In turn, Argon's own artefact flared to life, a protective aura wrapping around him, preserving his life from a swift retaliation by the Dayless warrior.

Brolan was not as fortunate. His attack, fierce and unyielding, met with the Knight's blade. The resonating clang of the sword hitting his armour echoed through the room. He grunted in pain, recoiling from the impact, his side taking an injury from the sheer force of the blow. Yet, despite the pain, he held his ground, his spirit untamed.

They kept pressing on, Argon and Brolan working together, managing to land hits on the Knight. But each blow was met by the Knight's armour. The armour seemed to devour their blows, leaving the Knight unscathed; he clearly also possessed the healing artefact. Still, they pushed on, battered and weary but fueled by a determination that only the brink of defeat could ignite. Their weapons sang a deadly song against the relentless defence of the Silverthorne knight, a symphony of survival and desperation.

Caught in the flurry of the clash, Brolan, already wearied from his injury, was momentarily distracted. Seizing the opportunity, the Knight swung with brutal strength. The broadside of his sword met Brolan's face in a harsh collision, a sickening thud echoing through the room. Brolan blindsided and overwhelmed, was knocked off his feet, skidding to a halt in a crumpled heap. His eyes rolled back, the world spinning around him as darkness seeped into his vision, and he was out of commission.

Meanwhile, Argon's soldiers, having barely triumphed over the enemy forces and paid dearly for it, refocused their attention on the monstrous Knight. Among them were Garen and Ulf, two brave souls, their faces etched with grim determination. Alongside a villager who had taken up arms, they charged at the Knight with a mixture of courage and desperation.

However, the Dayless warrior proved to be a nightmare-made flesh. He moved with terrifying ease, an artist of Death painting his masterpiece in strokes of blood and gore.

Garen was the first to meet the Knight's deadly blade. A swift, brutal swing and Garen's battle cry were abruptly silenced, his body cut down with horrifying ease. Blood spurted from his wound, and his life was extinguished as quickly as a snuffed candle.

Ulf was next; his attack parried effortlessly. The warrior's retaliatory strike was a dance of Death, a slash so vicious that it cleaved through Ulf's armour and flesh alike. Ulf fell with a strangled cry, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud, life already fleeing from his eyes.

The villager, untrained and visibly terrified, was barely a challenge for the Knight. With a casual swipe of his sword, the warrior sliced through the villager's defence, his weapon tearing through flesh and bone with grotesque ease. The villager crumpled, his lifeblood gushing onto the floorboards, staining them a horrific red.

One by one, they fell, the Knight's blade reaping lives with an eerie grace. The battleground became a macabre spectacle, the remnants of the fallen soldiers and the villager a grim testament to the Knight's devastating might.

Argon's heart pounded in his chest, a furious rhythm that echoed the desperation etching his features. He watched as his soldiers fell one by one, a horrifying ballet of Death choreographed by the nightmarish dayless warrior. The man was a force of nature, his power seeming to surpass even that of Garrick, whose reputation alone had been a source of dread amongst their ranks.

With the bitter taste of impending defeat gnawing at his resolve, Argon knew he had to act and act now. The odds were pitted heavily against him, but surrender was a luxury he couldn't afford. Argon was no stranger to fighting dirty when the situation demanded, and this was far beyond desperate.

Mustering his courage, he lunged at the Knight, his attacks deliberately misleading, aiming to unbalance his opponent. He feinted left, only to strike right, attempted low blows, and used every underhand technique he'd ever learned in the grimy back-alleys of his youth.

However, the Knight seemed to dance around each trick, his movement fluid, like water flowing around obstacles. Each attack Argon launched was either deftly parried or outright ignored, the dayless warrior's supernatural armour absorbing the blows like a sponge soaking up water.

The frustration mounted within Argon as he saw his tricks rendered useless, the weight of his impotence settling heavily upon his shoulders. He had always had an edge in battle, the unpredictability that came with his unconventional fighting style, but facing the dayless warrior, he felt as though he were a child again, powerless and outmatched.

His dirty tricks were getting him nowhere, and the cold reality began to set in - the Knight was not an opponent he could simply outmanoeuvre or outwit. This was a battle that demanded more than sly tricks and guile; it was a true test of strength, a trial by combat where only the strongest could survive.

In the feverish dance of battle, the Silverthorne knight found his opening. His blade, swift as the wind and deadly as a viper's bite, lanced forward, finding its way under the vulnerable area beneath Argon's left armpit. The sharp sting of cold steel puncturing flesh shot through Argon's body like a lightning strike, eliciting a grunt of pain.

But rather than succumb to the agony, Argon laughed. It was a harsh, guttural sound, edged with the raw savagery of a man pushed to his limits. His face twisted into a savage grin, his eyes glinting with a wild determination that burned even brighter under the shadow of impending doom.

Ignoring the torment radiating from his wound, he reached up with his left hand, the one closest to the sword now impaling him. His fingers closed around the icy blade, blood oozing from his palm as he gripped it tightly. Every fibre of his being screamed in protest, but he paid it no heed. This was his moment, his one chance.

Summoning every last reserve of his strength, he roared and thrust his own sword upwards, targeting the one place on the Dayless warrior that his armour didn't protect well - his neck. With a savage yell that echoed through the grim battlefield, he stabbed upwards, aiming straight for the man's jaw.

The world seemed to hold its breath as Argon's blade found its mark, his last-ditch attack a desperate plea to the gods of battle. Would it be enough to turn the tide of this brutal duel?

The Dayless Warrior recoiled, releasing his sword buried deep in Argon's side as he instinctively tried to stem the sudden flood of warm blood from his mangled jaw. It was a rare sight, the seemingly invincible Knight reeling, disoriented from the unexpected blow and gasping for air.

Argon, seizing the fleeting moment of advantage, moved with all the grace and savagery of a wounded beast. He lunged forward, ignoring the sharp protest of pain from his own impaled side, and went for a head slash. His sword whistled through the air, connecting solidly with the Dayless Warrior's helmet. The impact was like a thunderclap, the resonating sound echoing through the grim battleground.

The Knight staggered backwards, clearly concussed, the usually seamless coordination of his movements faltering.

With a guttural groan, the Dayless Knight tumbled forward, his armoured body hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. His face was down, hidden beneath the shadow of his helm, but his slumped posture and the eerie silence following his fall spoke volumes.

Argon, the sword still lodged in his side, stood towering over the disoriented figure, a spectre of defiance and resilience.

With his free hand, Argon reached out, his bloodied fingers grasping the rim of the Knight's helmet. He pulled it back; with a tilt of his head and a cold determination glittering in his eyes, Argon gripped his sword tighter. He brought it up, then drew it across the Dayless Warrior's exposed throat. The world seemed to slow as the blade made its deadly cut, time itself holding its breath at the sight of the falling titan.

Blood erupted from the cut, a gruesome fountain that painted the grim tableau with an even darker hue. It gushed out in violent spurts, soaking the floor and splattering Argon's armour, dyeing it a ghastly shade of crimson. The Dayless Warrior choked, hands clawing at his slit throat, his life force draining out as quickly as his lifeblood.

The scene was a macabre spectacle, the gore and carnage a stark testament to the brutality of their duel. A chilling silence descended, broken only by the soft gurgles of the death knight and the heavy breaths of the victorious Argon. The bloodied battlefield bore witness to the end of the dreaded Dayless Warrior, the man who was seemingly invincible, now defeated by the hand of the very enemy he'd sought to vanquish.

With the fall of the Dayless Warrior, a wave of exhaustion swept over Argon. His adrenaline-fueled strength started to ebb away, and his legs gave out beneath him. He fell onto the blood-soaked floorboards, the sword still embedded painfully in his armpit, a brutal reminder of the ferocious duel he'd just survived. His body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of raging horses, every nerve ending screaming in protest, likely from multiple broken bones along with his deep wound.

His healing artefact, a source of resilience, was already working overtime, mending the damage done to his body as best as it could. He could feel it throbbing within him, an undercurrent of warmth flowing against the tide of his injuries. But even the artefact had its limits; it couldn't instantly fix the severity of the damage he had sustained. The pain was a constant companion, an echo of the price he'd paid for his victory.

Fearful of the blood loss that could occur if he removed the sword, Argon opted to leave the weapon in place, a makeshift plug against the potential flood of his lifeblood. He needed to apply pressure to the wound to stem the blood flow as much as possible.

With a grimace, Argon reached out and grabbed a bit of tunic of a fallen soldier lying nearby. His fingers, slick with his own blood, struggled to grip the fabric, but he managed to gather a handful. With a grim determination etched on his face, he pressed the makeshift bandage against the wound, wincing as pain lanced through his body.

His breath came in shallow gasps, every inhale and exhale a battle of its own. The world blurred around him, the edges of his vision darkening, but he held on. He held on with the tenacity of a man who had faced Death and laughed in its face. He would not succumb, not here, not after defeating the Silverthorne Knight. He had too much to fight for, too much to live for.

Edrik rushed into the scene with Boyd and Nyle at his heels. The three soldiers froze for a moment, their eyes wide at the sight of their lord lying amidst the gore, a sword impaling his side.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Edrik stammered out, his voice strangled with shock and worry.

Argon merely scoffed in response, his words rasped out between gritted teeth. "Do I fucking look okay, you idiot? Get me the fuck out of here!"

Boyd, ever the sturdy presence, quickly stepped forward, his rugged features etched with concern. He looped Argon's good arm over his shoulder and heaved him up, wincing sympathetically as Argon groaned in pain. The pressure against his wound intensified, but Argon swallowed down the scream that threatened to break free.

"Wake, Brolan," Argon ordered, his voice a rough growl as he tried to suppress the pain. "Take the Dayless Armour. Loot everything you can."

With Boyd's help, Argon staggered towards the door, each step a test of endurance. Nyle, following his lord's orders, rushed over to the unconscious Brolan while Edrik started the grim task of looting the fallen soldiers.

The cool night air hit Argon's face as Boyd guided him outside, the stillness of the night a stark contrast to the chaos they'd left behind. Argon looked up at the night sky, the twinkling stars distant and cold. He drew in a ragged breath, the fight was over, and now, he had to survive.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Argon allowed himself to be hoisted onto the back of a sturdy horse by Boyd. The process was slow and excruciating, every movement sending waves of fresh agony through his impaled side. Once assured of his lord's relative stability, Boyd clambered up behind him, securing Argon with an arm around his waist.

With a gentle nudge, Boyd guided the horse into a canter, the beat of its hooves creating a rhythmic cadence that pounded in time with Argon's pain. Their destination was Goldenfeild, a safe haven that was mercifully not too far away. The gates of the stronghold stood open, a welcoming sight that made Argon breathe a sigh of relief.

As they entered, Ser Aldric, an ageing knight with years of experience etched into his face, came rushing forward. His eyes widened at the sight of Argon, injured and bloodied, slumped on a horse.

"What the fuck happened?" Ser Aldric barked, shock and concern mingling in his voice.

Argon, however, was in no mood for a lengthy explanation. He gritted out his orders, his voice raw with pain and exhaustion. "I took a village. Send reinforcements immediately. The hard work's already done. All you've got to do is go take the glory."

His words were punctuated by a harsh cough, his body protesting the effort of speech. He winced and added in a strained voice, "Now get me a fucking doctor. Can you not see the sword in me?"

Ser Aldric jolted into action by Argon's words, immediately barked orders at the surrounding soldiers. The stronghold of Goldenfeild was thrown into chaos as they rushed to follow their lord's commands, seeking medical help for Argon while preparing to claim the newly won village.

Boyd, with the gentle caution of a man handling a fragile treasure, eased Argon off the horse. With an arm secured around his lord, Boyd guided Argon's stumbling steps into a nearby house. It was modest but clean and well-lit – a makeshift infirmary in this time of crisis.

Almost immediately, a doctor appeared, his face lined with the calm efficiency of years of experience. He carried a bag filled with an array of medical instruments, their cold, metallic surfaces glinting under the soft glow of the room's lantern light.

The doctor first performed a swift but detailed examination of Argon, his experienced eyes assessing the extent of the injuries. His hands, steady and sure, checked the impaled sword in Argon's side, eliciting a pained grunt from the wounded lord. The depth and angle of the impalement were considered critically, his face drawn in serious contemplation as he worked.

Next, he had Argon drink a thick, bitter potion. A pain reliever and sedative of sorts to numb the forthcoming agony. Argon grimaced at the foul taste but downed it in one go, already feeling a slight numbing effect clouding the edges of his pain.

Then, with Boyd and another strong soldier holding Argon steady, the doctor started the process of removing the sword. His movements were precise, his concentration absolute. The sword was pulled out slowly, every inch of steel leaving Argon's body, making the lord groan and clench his teeth against the onslaught of fresh pain.

Once the weapon was removed, blood immediately began to flow more freely. The doctor, ready for this, swiftly pressed the clean cloth against the wound, staunching the flow. He then prepared a needle and thread, the sharp tip glinting ominously. With the proficiency of a skilled surgeon, he began stitching the wound, his hands steady despite the gravity of the situation.

Finally, once the wound was sealed, the doctor bandaged it tightly, ensuring the dressing was secure. He ordered Boyd to keep Argon still and resting, stating sternly that the lord's recovery would not be swift or easy. There was a gruelling path ahead, but for now, Argon was stable, and that was what mattered.

Despite the numbing potion and the doctor's skilled hands, Argon felt every pull of the thread, every tight knot cinched into his flesh. The pain, though dulled, was a constant gnawing presence in his side. His patience snapped like a brittle twig.

"Get me some fucking alcohol!" he snarled, his command echoing through the small room.

The doctor shook his head, a stern frown on his face. "That's a bad idea, my lord. It could impede your healing—"

But Argon was in no mood for caution. He reached out, his hand closing around the hilt of his Dayless longsword, the threat clear in his pain-glazed eyes.

The doctor sighed, resigned. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands in surrender. He quickly retrieved a jar of rice wine, a strong spirit notorious for its potency.

Boyd, after ensuring Argon was somewhat comfortable, took the jar from the doctor and handed it to Argon. He grasped it like a lifeline, uncorking it and taking a large swig straight from the jar. The potent liquor burned down his throat, igniting a fire in his belly that momentarily stole the focus from his pain.

Jar after jar was consumed, the strong rice wine worked its intoxicating magic. Argon's world began to spin, the pain from his side morphing into a distant throbbing as the edges of his consciousness grew hazy. He laughed a wild, unhinged sound, his voice echoing in the small room before he eventually passed out, the empty jars of rice wine scattered around him.

Boyd, watching his lord finally find respite in unconsciousness, reached for a jar himself. He poured himself a generous measure, the liquid sloshing against the sides of his cup. He raised it in silent salute to his fallen comrades, to the day's victory, and to the fallen Dayless Warrior. The liquor burned his throat, a small price for the temporary escape it offered, and he welcomed the numbing comfort it brought.