Contest

As dawn broke, Argon roused himself from his bed, his body still thrumming with the residual echoes of the previous night's pleasures. He padded towards his table, picking up a hunk of dried meat and a piece of bread. The simple, rustic fare served as a stark contrast to the luxuries he had indulged in the night before.

Having satiated his hunger, Argon ventured outside, his eyes taking in the bustling activity in his burgeoning stronghold. He could see the villagers and soldiers working diligently under the rising sun, the village gradually transforming under their tireless efforts. He noticed the stands they were erecting along the walls of the village, providing strategic vantage points for their defenders.

The solid thuds of mallets against timber and the rhythmic scrapes of shovels punctuated the morning air. The barracks, too, were shaping up, steadily growing under the careful hands of the builders. The sight instilled a sense of satisfaction in Argon, witnessing the fruits of their collective labour materialising before his eyes. It reminded him that despite the dangers that loomed, they were making progress, strengthening their defences one day at a time.

Argon couldn't help but notice the marked change in the energy around the village. The lethargy that had plagued the workers previously seemed to have vanished overnight, replaced with a palpable urgency and intensity. His words had evidently struck a chord, spurring his people into a flurry of activity.

The soldiers moved with a renewed purpose; every swing of the hammer or scoop of the shovel was decisive and determined. The villagers, too, were caught in this wave of productivity, their hands moving deftly, their faces set with determination. Children scampered around, carrying tools or fetching water, their small contributions fuelling the greater cause.

There was a rhythm to their work, a synchronicity that seemed to mirror the urgency of Argon's command. Each task was undertaken swiftly, efficiently, and without the need for constant supervision. It was clear that his stern warning had had its intended effect - it had breathed new life into their efforts, instilling a sense of urgency that was now driving them forward.

Looking on, Argon couldn't help but feel a hint of pride. His forceful intervention had stirred them from their complacency, reminding them of the stark reality of their situation. It was a tough love but necessary, he thought, for the survival and prosperity of Blackwood.

As Argon walked around, his attention was suddenly drawn by an unfamiliar sound, like the soft whispers of nature. He looked up and saw small droplets of water beginning to speckle the dusty ground, growing steadily into a pattern of rainfall. A sense of bewilderment washed over him, followed by an overwhelming sense of relief. It was the sound of rain - a sound that had been absent from Blackwood for what felt like an eternity.

The first few droplets quickly turned into a downpour, drenching the dry earth and bringing a newfound vitality to the village. Argon stood still, letting the rain seep into his skin, feeling a refreshing coolness that he hadn't experienced in a long time.

As the realisation hit them, an electric wave of joy swept through the villagers. Laughter and cheers echoed across Blackwood as the rain poured down, bringing an end to the prolonged drought that had threatened their livelihoods. Children danced under the rain, their laughter resonating with the sweet relief that the downpour brought. The workers paused in their labour, faces turned upwards, basking in the much-needed rainfall.

For Argon, it was not only a moment of respite but also a beacon of hope. The rain would nourish the parched land, breathing life back into their crops. It was an opportunity to replenish their dwindling food supplies, a chance to fortify their defences and make much-needed progress in building their settlement.

Standing there, soaked to the skin and grinning ear to ear, Argon felt an intense rush of optimism. The end of the drought signalled a turn of tides for Blackwood, a ray of hope amidst their struggles. As the rain continued to pour, Argon couldn't help but feel hopeful for the future.

A thought flickered in the back of Argon's mind as the rain continued to pour, bringing much-needed relief to the parched lands of Blackwood. The curse that had befallen Horntide's territory, causing the prolonged drought, was no natural occurrence. It was the result of someone draining their life force to channel this curse. A dangerous gamble, as the one who performed it, would continually drain their own life force until the curse was either broken or until their demise.

Now, with the drought abruptly ending, Argon couldn't help but conjecture. Whoever had cast this curse must be nearing their end, their lifeforce almost entirely depleted. The severity of the drought lessening was a clear indication of the weakening of the curse - a testament to the draining lifeforce of its caster.

Argon couldn't suppress a grim smile. While the rain brought much-needed relief and a sense of hope for the people of Blackwood, it also signified the impending end of their unknown adversary. Despite the harsh circumstances they had been forced to endure, this sudden change in the weather felt like the first real victory in their struggle to survive and flourish in these trying times.

A momentary spark ignited in Argon's mind, connecting the dots as he mulled over the change in weather. "It must have been Silverthorne," he thought, his mind going over the recent events. The fall of their strongest knight at his hands, the subsequent retreat, and now the sudden end of the drought. The timing was too precise, too coincidental.

A grim smile spread across Argon's face as he realised the implications. Had they pulled back from their curse, admitting defeat? Had the demise of their knight sparked the onset of this sudden retreat? Argon didn't know, but the timing was too spot-on to ignore. A surge of triumph coursed through him as he realised that, despite the uncertainty, this was, in fact, a victory for Blackwood.

Shaking off his musings, Argon refocused his attention on the tasks at hand. He had promised a trial by combat today to determine who among his warriors would be deserving of the Dayless armour and attribute artefact. He had a strong feeling that Brom would emerge as the victor, but in a duel, nothing was guaranteed.

Pulling his thoughts together, he called out, his voice echoing across the increasingly bustling village, "Brom, Dael, Edrik, Lark, gather around!" His men, accustomed to his sudden summons, quickly started to assemble, casting curious glances among each other, eager and apprehensive about the impending duel.

Argon raised his hand to catch the attention of the villagers who were going about their work, "All villagers are permitted to take a break. Come watch the proceedings," he called out.

At his announcement, the frenetic energy of the village momentarily stilled. The prospect of a pause from the day's work, coupled with the excitement of the duel, was too good to pass up. A ripple of murmurs passed through the villagers before they began congregating towards the impromptu arena. The hum of their conversation filled the air, providing a lively backdrop to the serious event that was about to unfold.

Mothers pulled their children close, the men wore expectant grins, while the elderly leaned on each other for support. The anticipation was thick and palpable; their eyes all focused on Argon and the four soldiers waiting to test their mettle in combat.

"Brom, Dael, you're up first," Argon called out, his voice cutting through the murmur of the gathered crowd. The two men nodded, a set determination in their eyes as they collected their wooden sticks, crude mockeries of swords. The villagers formed a wide circle around them, creating an improvised arena on the village square.

Brom was a behemoth of a man, muscular and seasoned, his bare chest showcasing a tapestry of old battle scars. He gripped his wooden stick tightly, eyeing his opponent with a calculating gaze. Dael was a stark contrast to Brom's imposing frame - lean, agile, and deceptively quick, his sharp eyes darting around the makeshift arena.

The duel commenced with Argon's nod.

The initial moments were a game of cat and mouse. Both men circled each other; their footwork was as important as the wooden sticks in their hands. They were looking for an opening, for that single unguarded moment when they could strike.

Suddenly, Brom lunged forward, the ground shaking under his weight. His stick swept towards Dael in a broad arc. But Dael was quick on his feet, sidestepping the strike and launching a quick jab of his own, his stick barely grazing Brom's arm.

The crowd gasped collectively, entranced by the exhilarating dance of the two warriors. Sweat glistened on their brows as they exchanged blows, wooden sticks meeting with thuds that resonated through the square.

Brom, however, eventually started to dominate the fight. His movements were precise and calculated, his experience coming to the fore. He feinted a strike to Dael's left, drawing the leaner man's defence away. In a swift follow-up, Brom brought his stick down hard on the right, catching Dael off balance. Dael stumbled, and before he could regain his footing, Brom moved in, his stick pressing against Dael's neck.

A hush fell over the crowd as the duel concluded, with Brom standing victorious. He was panting, the muscles in his arms taut with exertion, but there was a triumphant grin on his face. The villagers burst into cheers and applause, commending both the victor's skill and the challenger's spirited fight.

Edrik and Lark picked up their wooden sticks and walked into the centre of the impromptu arena. The crowd buzzed with excitement, waiting for the next duel to commence.

Edrik was a muscular figure, his raw physical strength apparent in his broad shoulders and muscular arms. His features were hardened by years of battle and survival, etching a sense of rugged determination onto his face. Lark, on the other hand, was younger, leaner, his eyes bright with a youthful spark of competitive energy.

With a single nod from Argon, the second duel commenced.

Edrik started the duel with a heavy forward swing, his raw power behind the strike. The air whistled as the wooden stick cut through, aimed right at Lark. But Lark was fast, quicker than one might expect. With an agile leap, he evaded the attack, counterstriking with a swift jab towards Edrik.

But Edrik was no novice. He blocked the jab with the stick, deflecting Lark's strike and attempting to retaliate with a swift blow. It was a display of skill and strength, a delicate dance of offence and defence, attack and evade.

The villagers watched in awe as the two fighters traded blows, their eyes glued to the heart-stopping spectacle unfolding before them. Each clash of wooden sticks echoed through the village square, punctuating the electric silence of the crowd.

Despite Lark's agility and quick strikes, Edrik's powerful blows started taking a toll on him. His defensive manoeuvres became less swift, his strikes less precise. Seeing an opening, Edrik launched a fierce attack, a sweeping blow aimed at Lark's legs. Lark tried to dodge, but his movements were slower, and he ended up stumbling, falling onto the dirt ground.

With a final decisive blow, Edrik tapped his stick against Lark's chest, signifying the end of the duel. The villagers exploded into applause, cheering for the thrilling fight and acknowledging the strength of both the victors and the challengers.

Both fights showcased the martial prowess of Argon's men, filling the villagers with a sense of security and optimism and offering a respite from their daily toil.

Argon, surveying the eager crowd, called out, "And finally, to decide the victor, it's Brom versus Edrik!"

A roar of excitement echoed through the gathering. All eyes were now focused on the two formidable figures stepping into the centre of the ring. Brom was a mountain of a man; the battle-hardened veteran carried an air of seasoned confidence. In contrast, in Edrik, his raw strength and size are enough to pose a considerable challenge to any opponent.

The final duel was the main event, the culmination of the day's matches. Argon signalled for silence, the crowd quieting in anticipation, their excited chatter reducing to hushed whispers.

In the midst of the quiet, the clattering of wood against wood rang out, signalling the beginning of the final match. Brom and Edrik locked eyes, their faces set in grim determination, each holding his wooden stick in a firm grip.

Brom was a picture of calm composure. His movements were efficient and calculated, each strike aimed with deadly precision. Edrik, however, opted for a more aggressive approach. His attacks were fierce and full of raw power, his stick whistling through the air as he aimed to land a heavy blow on Brom.

The initial exchanges were evenly matched. Brom's defensive manoeuvres were flawless, as he skillfully dodged and blocked Edrik's aggressive onslaught. On the other hand, Edrik's strength was formidable. Even a blocked blow had enough force to push Brom back a step or two.

The crowd watched in anticipation, the air thick with tension. Each clash of the sticks, each grunt of exertion added to the drama unfolding before their eyes.

However, as the fight wore on, Brom's superior experience and technique began to show. He weaved around Edrik's attacks, countering with precise strikes that slowly wore down Edrik's defence.

In a final, desperate attack, Edrik swung his stick with all his might towards Brom. But Brom was ready. He sidestepped the attack and, with a swift flick of his stick, landed a counterstrike on Edrik's exposed flank.

Edrik staggered, off-balance from his own attack, and Brom took advantage. With a swift, powerful strike, Brom knocked Edrik's stick from his hands, effectively disarming him and ending the duel.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the villagers erupted into cheers. Brom was declared the victor. The final round had been close, both fighters showcasing remarkable skill and bravery, but Brom's superior experience and technique had edged him the victory.

Brom, weary but triumphant, nodded his acknowledgement to Argon and to the applauding crowd.