A Rusty Relic

In his shithole home, a decrepit room tucked away in the depths of Duskhaven, Argon clutched the rusty sword; he held it up to the dim light seeping in through the cracks in his hovel's walls. He rotated the blade, his eyes intensely scouring its dulled surface, searching for the source of the whispering sensation that seemed to emanate from it. His gaze swept over the spots of rust marring the once-glistening steel, trailing along the rough edge that had tasted countless battles.

He traced the grooves and notches on the blade with his fingertips, each a testament to the battles it had seen. His heart thumped in his chest, a rhythmic echo of the whispers that seemed to pulse from the sword. The sensation was strange, unexplainable, yet undeniably present. It was a mystery that Argon was determined to unravel.

Argon continued to examine the sword; the whispers grew more palpable, like a soft murmur growing louder within his mind. It was not a sound, not truly, but more like a sensation – a faint hum that resonated within him, a gentle tug that was both elusive and persistent.

His fingers ran cautiously along the hilt, feeling the rough texture of the worn grip. The sword seemed ordinary, aged and weathered, yet it held an indefinable quality that intrigued him. It was like a faint call in the back of his mind, a siren's song whispering to him from some unseen source within the blade.

The pommel, an unassuming metal mass, was where the whispers emanated from.

For the next day, he dedicated himself to prying the pommel loose, driven by the desperate desire to unveil its true potential. He tried every method he could think of, from applying heat to using various makeshift tools. But the pommel remained stubbornly bound, defying his efforts.

Frustration gnawed at Argon's insides. Sweat trickled down his brow as he strained against the unyielding grip of the pommel. In a moment of careless desperation, his hand slipped, and his palm scraped against the rusty blade of the sword.

A searing pain shot through his hand, and a thin trail of blood welled up from the wound. He cursed under his breath, realising the foolishness of his actions. The rusty blade carried the risk of infection in a world without mercy.

Undeterred by the pain, Argon persisted, his determination fueled by desperation and curiosity.

As evening settled over Duskhaven, a wave of dizziness washed over Argon. The wound on his hand throbbed, the pain intensifying with every passing moment. He stumbled to his makeshift bed, feeling exhaustion and illness enveloping him.

Lying in the dim light of his squalid room, Argon felt the world spin around him. His body grew weak, and his mind clouded with fevered visions. The pommel, still trapped within the sword, pulsed with eerie energy, seemingly mocking his futile attempts to release it.

The night felt endless as Argon tossed and turned, his dreams plagued by haunting images and distorted echoes of forgotten battles. He saw a fractured landscape ravaged by unseen forces and figures shrouded in darkness.

Morning arrived, but Argon's condition had worsened. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. Fever coursed through his veins, a sign of infection from the wound. He knew he couldn't ignore it any longer.

Summoning the last vestiges of strength, Argon forced himself to his feet. He stumbled towards a small basin of water in the corner of the room, using it to clean his wound as best he could. The pain intensified, but he knew he had to cleanse the infection before it consumed him.

Argon searched his meagre supplies with trembling hands for any remedy to stave off the infection's advance. He found a small vial of herbal salve he had purchased. Applying the salve to his wound, he prayed it would provide some relief.

The days blended into a haze of agony and uncertainty. Argon's condition fluctuated, his fever breaking only to return with renewed intensity. He knew he was running out of time. The infection had taken hold, spreading its tendrils through his weakened body. The pommel, still tantalisingly trapped on the sword, seemed to taunt him, a symbol of his struggle and his potential demise.

As the days wore on, Argon's strength waned. He could barely muster the energy to rise from his bed. Each laboured breath felt like a burden, a reminder of the fragility of his existence in this unforgiving city.

Yet, amid the darkness of his sickened state, a glimmer of determination flickered within Argon. He refused to succumb to the illness, to let his dreams and aspirations fade away like whispers in the wind. He clung to the hope that this feeling held the key to his survival, that its power could turn the tides of his fate.

With a newfound resolve, Argon turned his attention back to the pommel. He examined the hilt, studying its intricate design, searching for hidden mechanisms to release the trapped relic. His hands trembled, weakened by his illness, but his determination remained unyielding.

As Argon tirelessly probed and experimented with the sword, days turned into nights, and nights into days. He tried various techniques, from prying and twisting to tapping and even chanting ancient incantations he had learned in his quest for knowledge. Yet, no matter what he attempted, the pommel remained firmly locked within its prison.

Frustration gnawed at Argon's spirit, threatening to extinguish the flickering flame of hope within him. Doubts crept in, whispering that he was a fool, chasing after an elusive dream. But he refused to surrender to those voices of despair. He couldn't afford to give up now, not when his life hung in the balance.

And then, in a moment of sheer desperation, the unthinkable happened as Argon's strength waned to its lowest ebb. With one random, desperate twist of the hilt, the pommel yielded, coming loose from its confines with a sudden release of energy.

Time seemed to stand still as Argon held the circular metal in his trembling hands. It pulsed with an otherworldly glow, its power surging through his veins, igniting a spark of vitality within him. It was a moment of triumph and hope amid the darkness.

But as the surge of energy coursed through him, a realisation washed over Argon. The pommel's release came at a high cost. The wound on his hand, infected and neglected, had taken its toll. The infection had spread through his body, consuming him from within.

Weakness overcame Argon once more, his body collapsing onto the worn-out straw. The metal slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the cold floor. A sea of darkness engulfed him, his consciousness fading.

In his unconsciousness, Argon's dreams were plagued by vivid visions of a world beyond Duskhaven. He saw realms of light and shadow, towering citadels and forgotten ruins. Voices whispered secrets in his ear, promising both salvation and damnation.

When Argon awoke, he found himself in a state of delirium; his body racked with pain. The pommel lay forgotten, its purpose and power temporarily obscured by the more immediate battle for his survival.