Pissed Off Knight

Argon wakes with the first light of dawn, his body accustomed to the early starts from his days spent hunting in the forest. He quickly consumes a modest breakfast prepared by Brolan, the taste of fresh bread and seasoned meat a welcomed familiarity. He instructs Brolan to keep himself occupied with the day's chores, and with a nod, Argon steps out into the bustling streets.

The city of the Seric wakes around him, each individual beginning their day with purpose. Shopkeepers pull up their shutters, unveiling an array of goods from freshly baked loaves of bread to intricate pieces of jewellery. Blacksmiths are already at their forges, the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal filling the air, while street vendors haggle over prices with early bird customers. The chatter and the noise, the vibrant energy of the city, it's infectious, stirring within Argon an eager anticipation.

He walks through the city's labyrinth, manoeuvring around busy streets and lively market squares. As he approaches the centre, the shops and houses give way to more lavish dwellings and manicured gardens. Tall walls guard the palatial residences of the nobles, and the atmosphere changes, becoming more refined and more serene.

The guards at the centre's entrance regard him curiously as he approaches. He flashes his new ring, the bronze piece catching the morning light. Recognition flickers in the guards' eyes as they notice the Baron's insignia etched into the metal. A curt nod is all the confirmation Argon needs. He's allowed to pass through an acknowledged part of the nobility's world. As he walks past the guards, Argon feels a sense of validation. This is just the beginning, he tells himself, a small victory in the grand scheme of his plans.

Argon navigates the intricately designed streets of the centre, each grand mansion more impressive than the last. Soon enough, he arrives at Baron Eldrige's sprawling estate. The familiar figure of the gatekeeper greets him.

"Good morning," Argon says, offering a polite nod to the man.

"Master Argon," the gatekeeper replies, a hint of familiarity in his tone. He notices the bronze ring on Argon's finger, the Baron's insignia reflecting in the morning light. "Ah, I see. You've officially joined the ranks. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Argon says, tucking his hand back into his pocket.

Argon steps inside as the gatekeeper opens the grand entryway, his gaze lingering on the impressive architecture. The manor is grander inside, with soaring ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and artwork covering every inch of the wall.

Thorne, the Baron's butler, waits for him in the entrance hall. The butler gives a bow of his head as Argon approaches.

"Master Argon," Thorne greets him. "Sir Garrick awaits you in the training circle in the garden. He will be along shortly."

Argon nods and walks through the lavishly decorated hallways towards the gardens. The training circle, marked out by worn stones, sits at the garden's centre. He takes a moment to soak in the serene surroundings, the manicured gardens starkly contrasting with the wild forest he's been frequenting.

A few minutes pass before the heavy clink of armour sounds through the air. Turning, Argon watches as the imposing figure of Sir Garrick emerges from the manor house, his full black Dayless armour gleaming under the morning sun. His presence alone commands respect, and Argon can't help but feel a spark of anticipation for the training to come.

Garrick's voice carries across the garden, heavy and laced with contempt. "Look at you," he snarls, his eyes locked onto Argon. "Did you really think that just because you now serve Eldrige, you can request training from a knight? You fucking peasant."

His laughter is harsh and grating, echoing around the quiet gardens. "I don't know where you found the balls to ask for such a thing, but it amuses me. In fact, I am thrilled to have been chosen to discipline such a delusional, ignorant, motherless ingrate. You have no idea what it takes to be a knight."

A malicious smile twists, and he slowly unsheathes his sword. "But don't you worry," he continues, pointing the blade at Argon. "I'll make sure you get the training you so desperately desire, you dumb fuck. And by the time I'm through with you, you'll wish you never asked for it."

"Now that Eldrige isn't watching, we can really get started," Garrick states, his voice cold as he draws a small blade across his finger. The sight of blood on the shiny blade is all too familiar to Argon. As Garrick applies his blood to two dark circles on either side of his chest plate, a familiar yet faint glow emits.

Argon, watching carefully, finally recognizes the signs for what they are - the activation of an artefact. A shiver of anticipation runs down his spine. He'd sensed something different about Garrick since their first meeting, which confirmed it.

"You're not the only one with an artefact," Argon retorts, trying to maintain a casual demeanour though his heart is pounding in his chest.

Smirking at his comment, Garrick retorts, "Just because a peasant picks up a spatula doesn't make him a chef." His words drip with disdain, the smirk never leaving his face. He was fully aware of the gap in skills and experience between them and was not afraid to remind Argon of it.

The air practically hums with anticipation as both warriors stand, glaring at one another across the training ground. Garrick, his eyes shining with malicious pleasure, grips his longsword in his hand with a confidence that only years of battle-hardened experience can give. Argon, his face set in a determined grimace, clutches his own weapon, his heart pounding as he mentally prepares for the clash.

Argon makes his move as the breeze whips around them, lifting the dust from the ground and sending it dancing into the sunlight. He unsheathes his sword with a swift, fluid movement, and with a quick slice, he cuts his finger and smears the blood on the back of his helmet. The familiar white glow emanates from it, signalling the activation of his attribute artefact.

"Come at me, you ugly fuck," he spits out at Garrick, charging him with a renewed vigour. His muscles bulge and strain against his armour as the artefact's effects kick in, amplifying his already superior strength. His movements are almost too fast for the untrained eye to follow. But Garrick, with his years of combat experience, easily keeps up.

Their blades clash, ringing out in a symphony of metal on metal. Garrick parries Argon's strikes with precise, practised skill, his movements graceful and fluid despite the increased speed and strength Argon now possesses. His expression remains calm, almost bored, as he easily dodges, blocks, and counters Argon's blows.

Their battle is a spectacle, an obscene display of the power and effects of the artefacts. Their movements blur into a dance of deadly precision, echoing ancient battles fought in times long past. Argon's strength is formidable, his hits landing with a force that would have easily incapacitated any other opponent. But Garrick, despite being on the defensive, shows no signs of yielding.

He moves like a shadow, his body weaving and darting around Argon's, his longsword always finding its way past Argon's defences. His skill is a testament to his years of training and battles, a sobering reminder to Argon of the disparity in their combat abilities. Despite Argon's enhanced strength, Garrick remains unscathed, his face set in a smirk as he expertly dances around Argon's increasingly frustrated blows.

Argon's heart pounds in his chest, sweat trickling down his face under the helmet, his muscles straining with every movement. But he refuses to give in, his determination fueled by the burning desire to prove Garrick wrong. He knows he has to win. He's not just a peasant wielding a spatula, he's a warrior, and he'll prove it, no matter what.