Confiscation

Looking at the rest of the hunting party, Argon points at the troll carcass. "Bring this to the chief's house. Skin it. Cut it into small strips and dry the meat over a smoky fire. We'll use it to supplement our food stores," he orders. His gaze then shifts to Torin's lifeless body, the blood still pooling around him. "And bury your friend Torin. Unless you want his body to be cannibalised."

He turns to a stocky man with a thick beard who is standing a little away from the group. "You," Argon calls, pointing at a random one. "Where are the other guards who used to serve Dolan?"

The man swallows nervously. "One was crushed by the troll, m'lord. It... it fell on him. As for Torin, well..." He trails off, glancing at the body. "That leaves us with three. Alden, Garret, and Haldor."

Alden is a tall man with a lean build and shaggy brown hair. He has deep-set eyes, and a long scar runs down one side of his face, a remnant from a previous skirmish. Garret, on the other hand, is of average height and stocky. He's bald, his head glistening under the sunlight and his bushy eyebrows furrow in constant worry. Haldor, the youngest among them, is a bit on the short side with a wiry frame. His hair is a fiery red, matching his freckles and the ever-present flush on his cheeks.

The man nods at each man as he names them, his gaze steady on Argon as he waits for his next orders.

"You three are our special guests," Argon states, glancing at Alden, Garret, and Haldor. "Come to the chief's house with us, all of you."

The group begins their march back to the village centre. Argon and Brolan, with their attribute artefacts activated, flank the group, their presence a constant reminder of the authority they command. The village is quiet as they pass. The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the distant sizzling of the troll carcass being prepared.

Upon reaching the chief's house, Argon notes that the majority of the hunting party has already gotten to work on the troll, their hands slick with gore as they slice into the beast.

The three former guards, however, stand aside, casting uncertain glances at Argon. "Why have you singled us out?" Alden asks, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance.

In response, Brolan steps forward, picking up the rope lying in the mud from the previous day's punishments. He lets it uncoil, the end of it thudding against the ground. "You're to be lashed for failing to keep the peace," he says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. The three men exchange shocked glances, but none dare to protest.

As each of the men position themselves for their punishment, Brolan begins his task. His grip tightens around the rope, its rough texture scratching his palm. The attribute artefact imbues him with enough strength to make each lash a memorable one. He draws back his arm, muscles tensing, and then swings it forward.

Brolan doesn't bother exposing their backs; his the artefact that'll probably kill them. The sound of the rope cutting through the air is followed by a sickening thwack as it connects with Alden's bare back. His cries ring out, echoing through the silent village. Brolan doesn't falter, delivering the remaining lashes with practised efficiency. With each lash, bits of cloth and skin peel away, revealing raw, red flesh beneath. The grim sight is accentuated by the occasional glimmer of white bone visible under brutal strokes.

Once Alden's punishment is over, he stumbles away, clutching at his mangled back. Next comes Garret, his face pale as he braces himself for the onslaught. His cries, however, are more restrained, as if he's trying to maintain some dignity in his suffering. His back bears a similar gruesome testament to the punishment as Alden's.

Last is Haldor. He barely makes a sound as the lashes tear into his skin. His teeth grit in pain, and he breathes heavily, but he doesn't cry out. When the punishment is done, he stands still for a moment, catching his breath before he nods at Brolan and stumbles off.

As the three men shuffle away, Argon addresses them. His voice is cold, emotionless. "Join the other guards and patrol the village. Maintain order," he instructs them. The threat is unspoken but clear. Fail, and the punishment will be worse. They scurry off.

The other men set about their work with grim determination, using their hunting knives to expertly skin the giant troll corpse. Once the skin is removed, they begin to carve the meat into strips, the muscle tissue separating with a wet, squelching sound. As they work, blood stains their hands and drips onto the dirt below.

A fire pit is dug, and the dirt is shovelled away to form a shallow hole. Stones are arranged in a circle to contain the fire. Within this circle, they construct a lattice of branches upon which the meat will be smoked. Dry branches and leaves are then placed into the pit, creating a bed for the fire.

One of the men strikes a flint, sending sparks onto the kindling. The dry leaves catch first, smouldering before bursting into flame. As the fire grows, more wood is added, causing the flames to crackle and dance. The strips of meat are then placed on the branch lattice, the heat from the fire causing them to sizzle and pop.

Clouds of smoke begin to billow upwards, carrying the smell of cooking meat throughout the village. The scent, rich and tantalising, permeates the air, causing the villagers to peer out of their houses. Their eyes are drawn to the chief's house, where the aroma originates. Faces, worn and gaunt from hunger, watch as the meat cooks, their eyes wide and mouths watering.

The sturdy wooden door creaks as Argon and Brolan re-enter the chief's house. A smoky smell of the still-roasting meat from outside wafts in with them. The once grand, now dishevelled, interior of Dolan's abode is bathed in the soft, warm light of the late afternoon sun filtering through the windows. The room is furnished with sturdy oak furniture, polished to a sheen but now covered in a layer of dust, revealing the neglect it has been subjected to.

Lying across the worn-out chaise longue in the middle of the room, they find Dolan. He's lazily swirling a wooden spoon in a bowl of what looks like gruel, his double chin wobbling slightly as he absentmindedly hums a tune.

The sight irritates Argon instantly. This is the man who was supposed to be in charge, who was supposed to guide the village through its hardships. Instead, he finds Dolan in a state of lackadaisical carelessness, oblivious to the strife and hardship faced by his villagers.

Argon's mood darkens; further, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His boots thud ominously on the wooden floor as he strides towards Dolan. His voice reverberates through the silent room, a stark contrast to the quiet peace of the afternoon, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he roars.

In an instant, the peaceful atmosphere of the room is shattered. Dolan jumps up, the bowl of gruel clattering to the floor, spattering its contents across the worn wooden boards. He looks at Argon with wide, fearful eyes, a stark reminder of the power and authority Argon holds over him.

Argon's nostrils flare as his gaze burns into Dolan's surprised eyes. His deep-set wrinkles etch deeper lines on his face as his anger simmers, and his mouth is taut in a vicious snarl. "What the fuck are you doing?" he growls, his voice thunderous within the confines of the room. His every word drips with venom, seething with barely contained rage.

His large, scarred hand, hardened from countless battles, swipes through the air. With an audible smack, his palm connects with the side of Dolan's face. The force of the blow sends Dolan sprawling sideways, his meek protest choked off by the swift punishment.

"Dolan, you worthless piece of shit!" Argon spits out; his disdain is evident in the harsh glare he shoots at the village chief. "No wonder this shithole's gone to the dogs under your so-called leadership."

Argon's steel-clad boots echo loudly as he paces, his frustration clear. He snorts derisively, his eyes following Dolan as the man winces and clutches his reddening cheek. "What a fucking joke."

After a tense pause, Argon breaks the silence. "Listen here, Dolan," he snarls, his deep voice resounding in the room. "You are going to ration out a strip of that dried troll meat for every single villager, got it?"

Dolan only nods, still nursing his cheek. His face is a study in pain and fear, caught in the wrathful storm that is Argon. "And then," Argon continues, his voice lowering dangerously, "you're going to properly store the rest with those pitiful oats you call food, and ration them out so these wretched souls can survive a little longer. Screw this up, Dolan, and you'll wish that troll outside had sat on you instead."

The implicit threat hangs heavily in the room as Argon punctuates his orders with another chilling glare.

"Yes, yes... I understand, Lord," he stammers, his hands shaking slightly. "I'll begin immediately. We should have enough to last... a while, if we're careful."

"Another thing," Argon growls, his gaze still hard on Dolan, who's now trembling under the weight of Argon's ire. "Any women around this godforsaken place? Unmarried ones?" His eyes narrow, an insinuation clear in his question.

Dolan stammers, taken aback by the sudden change of topic, "Y-yes, my lord, there are..."

Argon cuts him off with a grunt of acknowledgement. "Good. Send two over here. One for me, one for Brolan. Understand?"

Dolan's eyes widen, and then he swallows nervously, nodding as he scrambles to his feet. "Of course, my lord," he stammers, his face pallid. "I will see to it right away."

"And Dolan?" Argon adds a menacing edge to his voice. "Make sure they're pretty. I don't want to be stuck in this shithole without some form of good entertainment."

With that, Argon dismisses the petrified Dolan, who scurries off to carry out the lord's orders. Argon, for his part, looks expectantly towards Brolan, an unspoken understanding passing between them as they anticipate the night's entertainment.

With that, Dolan gets up and heads outside, moving quickly and efficiently to carry out Argon's orders.

Back inside, Argon and Brolan share a look. Argon's message seems to have gotten through, at least for now. As the day wears on, they can't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. They've managed to restore some semblance of order in the village, and, with any luck, this will continue.

For the first time since they've arrived, the village is quiet, with the only sounds being the occasional bark of a dog or the distant noise of the guards patrolling. As night falls, they can only hope that their efforts will prove to be enough.