Brutes

As Argon and Damion squared off, the house guard charged with a level of arrogance in his stride. He obviously thought this match would be straightforward. However, Argon had other plans. He easily parried the guard's initial strike, the familiar feel of a sword, even a wooden one, comforting in his grip.

The instant the match commenced, it was clear this wasn't a contest of skill but of raw, unadulterated strength. Damion, with all his training and technique, found himself outmatched by the sheer force Argon brought to bear.

Right from the first parry, Damion was knocked off balance. Argon, moving with calculated brutality, swung his wooden sword like it was a part of him, and each hit sent vibrations running up Damion's arms. The power behind each strike was a testament to the food Brolan had been cooking; Argon was in peak physical condition, muscles rippling under his clothes. Every swing he made was a testament to his strength, and the wooden sword in his hand may as well have been a sledgehammer for all the damage it could do.

One particular exchange saw Argon swipe with such force that Damion was lifted clean off his feet and sent sprawling in the grass. But Argon didn't let up. Advancing on his fallen adversary, he prepared to deliver what would have been a crushing blow.

He stood over Damion, ready to bring the wooden blade crashing down onto his opponent's helmet when Sir Garrick intervened. "Enough!" he barked. Despite the nature of the fight, it was clear that Argon had made his point.

In the end, it was Sir Garrick's intervention that stopped Argon, but not before everyone present had seen the raw, unchecked power he wielded. His performance left no room for doubt: Argon was in a league of his own. It was a fight, yes, but it was also a showcase of Argon's physical capabilities, of strength and stamina nourished by Brolan's cooking. The results were clear to see, and they were quite spectacular.

Argon, his blood still hot from his previous victories, fixed a fiery gaze on Damion. "That cocky prick," Argon muttered to himself, all his focus on Damion, who was now nursing his wounded pride by the sidelines. The audacity of the man, thinking that Argon would be an easy target, had stirred something fierce in him.

"I would've enjoyed smashing that fucking tool's helmet in," Argon growled under his breath. His eyes never left Damion, a deadly promise etched into his hardened features.

Baron Eldrige, upon witnessing the short skirmish, chuckled lightly under his breath as he watched Damion brush the dirt off his clothes, a flush of embarrassment painting his cheeks. "Damion," he started, his voice coated with mirth, "I never took you to be a dancer. You were swept off your feet quite beautifully there."

The comment seemed to deepen the red on Damion's face, but the Baron simply turned his attention to Argon, clapping his hands together in applause. "A splendid show, Argon," he praised, clearly impressed. "You're stronger than an ox. Quite formidable."

His eyes then slid over to Brolan, who'd been quietly observing the proceedings. "Brolan, was it?" The Baron asked, his gaze thoughtful. "Would you care to test your mettle against Damion as well?"

Argon, standing beside the Baron, gave a quick nod of approval. "Sure, go for it, Brolan," he encouraged, eager to see how his friend would fare.

Brolan, standing a touch shorter than Argon, moved forward, his eyes focused and steady. He picked up the wooden sword, testing its weight in his hands as he assessed Damion.

Damion, still catching his breath from his bout with Argon, clenched his fists. His pride had taken a beating, but he was far from defeated. He, too, gripped the wooden sword, his posture defensive as he prepared himself for a second round.

Without any preamble, Brolan initiated the exchange with a swift feint to the left, his movements nimble and quick. Damion, expecting a power play akin to Argon's, was caught off-guard. He stumbled backwards, barely blocking the incoming blows.

However, the fight was far from one-sided. Damion, a trained guard, soon began to counterattack, his strokes precise and purposeful. He expertly utilized the reach of his long limbs, attempting to keep Brolan at bay. He aimed for the smaller man's legs, trying to unbalance him, but Brolan's stocky frame proved to be an advantage. His centre of gravity was low, allowing him to stay grounded even under the force of Damion's strikes.

The match turned into a dance of blades, the clatter of wood on wood echoing around the garden. The two combatants weaved in and out, trading blow for blow. Brolan's compact power met Damion's controlled finesse head-on, creating a riveting spectacle.

However, Brolan's victory was not immediate. The two fought for several long minutes, their breaths growing laboured and their shirts sticking to their backs with sweat. Brolan's endurance eventually won out as he managed to sneak in a solid hit against Damion's side, knocking the wind out of him.

Seizing the opportunity, Brolan drove Damion back until the guard tripped over a protruding root. With a triumphant grunt, Brolan aimed his wooden blade at Damion's throat, effectively ending the fight.

The bout may have been evenly matched, but it was clear that the back-to-back fights had taken their toll on Damion. And though Brolan's victory might have been due to his opponent's disadvantage, the show of strength and skill he had put on was certainly impressive.

"Damion, that was a disgraceful display," Baron Eldrige said, his face reddening in indignation. His eyes flashed towards Sir Garrick, his most trusted knight, and he motioned him to step forward. "We cannot have our guests leaving with such a pitiful impression of our fighting men."

The clinking of armour accompanied Sir Garrick as he moved to the centre of the makeshift arena. His Dayless helmet shone under the sunlight, and his posture radiated confidence, a stark contrast to the now disgraced Damion.

"I hope you'll provide a more fitting challenge, Sir Garrick," Baron Eldrige said, his voice stern. His gaze then fell on Argon, "My knight is one of the best swordsmen in the whole region. I would enjoy seeing how you fare against him."

Sir Garrick lifted his visor to reveal a weathered face marked by years of battle. His eyes, hardened and stern, fixed on Argon. "I will not be as easy to defeat," he warned, his voice ringing with certainty. His confidence seemed unshaken by the previous bouts, only adding to the anticipation of the fight to come.