A Hero's Welcome

Argon awoke from his slumber, stretching languidly in the soft comfort of what used to be Dolan's bed. It had been a surprisingly peaceful night; the fear in the villagers had kept any potential mischief at bay.

Descending the wooden staircase, he found himself stepping into the spacious, albeit simple, dining area. There, he saw two plates set on the weathered wooden table. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Ah, dinner is ready," he announced with clear satisfaction. Each plate was laden with the dried meats and hearty bread they had brought with them. Additionally, a third plate sat aside, carrying a humble heap of oats, likely salvaged from Dolan's personal stores.

The prospect of the meal quickened Argon's appetite. He pulled out a chair, the wood creaking under his weight as he took a seat. With the village under their control and a meal before him, things were looking up for Argon and Brolan. The light from the rising sun filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting a warm glow on the scene, and Argon couldn't help but think that, for once, things were going exactly as planned.

As Brolan entered the room, followed closely by Dolan, they greeted Argon with respect, to which he responded with a curt nod. They began to eat, the room filled with the sound of cutlery clinking against the plates. The food was plain, but after a long day, it tasted like the finest feast.

Sitting around the modest dining table, Argon and Brolan tucked into their personal supplies brought from Duskhaven, savouring the dried meats, fruits, and bread that filled their plates. Brolan seemed content with the meal, his appetite hearty after the long journey and the tense confrontation with the villagers.

Across the table, Dolan, the village chieftain, ate his own meal—a simple fare of oats—clearly showing signs of the strain that the current situation was putting on the village's resources. The stark contrast in their meals served as a clear reminder of the power dynamics at play.

As they ate, the room filled with a silence that was punctuated only by the occasional clinking of cutlery and the muted sounds of villagers outside. The meal was a brief respite from the looming challenges that they would soon have to face.

Between mouthfuls, Argon spoke. "We have much work to do," he began, his gaze drifting from his meal to meet Brolan's eyes. "Those fighting men who went out hunting could cause trouble. We'll have to deal with them as soon as they return."

His words hung in the air, the potential threat looming ominously. Argon then turned to Dolan, his gaze steely. "And your villagers... how long can they survive on these meagre rations?" he asked the question echoing ominously in the silent room.

Dolan seemed to shrink under Argon's gaze, his face paling. "Not long, Master Argon... a few weeks at most," he mumbled, eyes downcast.

Argon's mouth set in a grim line. "We may need to...cull the herd," he said with brutal frankness. He didn't relish the idea, but he was a realist. If it came to that, he'd do what had to be done. The fate of the village was now intertwined with his own, and he would ensure its survival, no matter what it took.

After the meal, Argon and Brolan put on their armoured attire, the polished metal plates gleaming in the daylight.

Argon instructed Dolan to take inventory of the resources available in the village. The chieftain nodded his understanding, albeit reluctantly, clearly aware of the dire situation the village was in. Once Dolan set about his task, Argon and Brolan proceeded to patrol the village.

The village was a humble collection of thatched-roofed houses, most of them single-story dwellings constructed with mud bricks and wood. The streets were mostly dirt pathways, bordered by small vegetable patches and poultry coops. Some homes had stables for livestock, but even these appeared to be in a pitiful state due to the drought.

Argon and Brolan walked through these quiet streets, their armoured forms casting long shadows on the ground. Their presence had a notable effect on the villagers who watched them from their doorways or windows. Fear was etched on the gaunt faces that peered at them. Mothers pulled their children closer, and elderly villagers muttered quiet prayers.

As they walked, Argon and Brolan kept a vigilant eye out, assessing the villagers, scrutinizing their living conditions, and mentally calculating their resources. They knew that the days ahead would be filled with difficult decisions and harsh measures. Their task was to restore order, but at that moment, the village felt like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

As the guard from the watchtower reached Argon and Brolan, he was breathless and flustered, "My lords! The hunting party... they've returned."

The guard's shouting interrupted Argon and Brolan's quiet patrol. Turning around, Argon signalled his location, and the guard swiftly jogged towards them. The guard, panting slightly, relayed the news. The hunting party had returned, though their numbers were diminished. Thirty men had set out, but only twenty had made their way back to the village.

Argon glanced at Brolan, a hint of curiosity crossing his face. "Show us," he commanded, and with that, they walked briskly towards the entrance of the village.

What caught Argon's attention, though, was the mention of a troll carcass. An unexpected source of food, perhaps. Not ideal, but in times of crisis, one had to make do.

With a nod, Argon and Brolan followed the guard towards the village entrance. As they walked, the buzz in the village heightened. People were curious and wary, gathering at their doorsteps or following them at a distance.

At the entrance, they saw the hunting party. The remaining men were grimy, worn out, their clothes torn and bloodied. They looked weary, their eyes hollow, but there was a fire in their gaze. They had managed to drag a large troll carcase back to the village, an accomplishment that displayed their resilience and determination.

"Let's see what we have here," Argon said as he approached the group, Brolan at his side.

Argon and Brolan advanced to the men who were standing guard around the troll carcass. One of them, a large burly man with a thick beard and scars on his face, seemed to be the leader of the group.

"Who leads you?" Argon asked, standing tall with an air of authority.

The bearded man stepped forward. His dark eyes met Argons without flinching. "I do," he said. "My name is Torin."

Both Argon and Brolan activate their attribute artefacts, their bodies humming with the amplified energy that courses through them. The atmosphere tenses at their display of power.

Argon strides forward, an ominous presence in the eerie quiet. His eyes focus on the troll carcass. "What a fine specimen," he says, a dark hint of amusement curling the corners of his lips. "I think we'll be confiscating this."

Torin, his shoulder still bleeding profusely from Argon's attack, grits his teeth and stands tall. "Over my dead body. We lost ten good men for this!"

Argon shrugs nonchalantly. "That can be arranged," he retorts, his words hanging in the air like a chilling premonition.

In one swift motion, Argon raises his sword, the sharp blade glinting in the pale sunlight. Without hesitation, he strikes - aiming for Torin's head. Torin attempts to block the blow with his own weapon, but Argon's augmented strength shatters the poor man's sword upon impact. His block is only half-successful, the force of Argon's blow redirecting the blade into Torin's shoulder.

The leader of the hunting party screams in agony as the blade bites deep. Before he could recover, Argon pulled out his sword and dealt the final blow. Torin's lifeless body collapses onto the ground, a silent testament to Argon's lethal power.

Argon straightens, flicking the blood from his sword with a swift, practised motion. He turns to the rest of the hunting party, his gaze icy and unforgiving. "Any other complaints?" he asks, his voice ringing clear in the stunned silence that followed. The air around them is thick with tension and fear. Argon has proven his point, and it is abundantly clear: dissent will not be tolerated.