Leaving

The sun was already dipping below the horizon when Argon finally returned to their modest apartment, every step punctuated by the aches and pains of the day's gruelling training. He walked straight to the corner where his armour lay, reaching out to draw his blade.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sliced his finger on the cold, sharp edge, wincing slightly at the sting. He smeared the fresh blood onto his helmet, the eerie glow of the artefact illuminating the room as he activated the healing function. His body felt a little better instantly as if a subtle wave of soothing energy had just washed over him, mending his wounds and restoring his strength.

Brolan looked up from where he was preparing their dinner, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Why do you need increased attributes right now?" he asked, his voice echoing through the room, heavy with the weight of unanswered questions.

Argon shot him a glare that could freeze lava, his words coming out as a growl. "Just shut the fuck up, Brolan," he snapped, the exhaustion and frustration seeping into his voice. He revealed the truth, "I have all three, healing, attribute, and shield."

Brolan's eyes widened in shock, his mouth falling open. He had only recently come to understand the value and power of the artefacts, but to hear that Argon held three was unbelievable.

As the evening descended into night, Argon finally shared Garrick's words about their upcoming departure, the anticipation and anxiety of the unknown journey hanging heavy in the air. The apartment was filled with silence.

Argon's frustration is still palpable. Brolan, unaccustomed to this level of irritation from Argon, throws a question his way, "Did you learn anything from Sir Garrick this week, master?"

Argon immediately fired back, "Shut the fuck up, you stupid slave! What the fuck have you been doing all day? Did you go back to the brothel?" His words sting, harsher than his usual banter.

Brolan recoils, unused to such aggression from Argon. But he's smart enough to keep his silence, not wanting to fan the flames any further. Argon, his anger subsiding slightly, grunts in response to Brolan's initial question, "I know ten moves now," he confesses as if it's some sort of defeat. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "Who the fuck knows if Garrick taught me shit moves just to make fun of me..."

Seeing Brolan's downtrodden expression, Argon softens a touch, "I'll teach you sometime, Brolan," he promises. Brolan perks up at this, some of his previous hurt fading away. They share a meal, a quiet tension hanging in the air. As they finish, they head off to sleep, both knowing tomorrow will bring new challenges.

The break of dawn is still a while away when Argon is roused from his sleep. Brolan, with a mischievous grin, gently shakes his shoulder, saying, "Wakey wakey, master." With a grunt of annoyance, Argon roughly shoves Brolan aside, pulling himself up from the comfort of his bed.

Despite the early hour, they hastily consume their breakfast, with the anticipation of the day ahead lingering in the air. Argon, always one for efficiency, instructs Brolan to fetch their horses from the stable boy and bring them out front.

Brolan follows the orders obediently and soon returns, leading two sturdy horses with him. The animals are saddled and ready to go, their new leather saddlebags secured firmly in place. The bags are stuffed with dried meat and waterskins, supplies prepared for their journey.

As Argon looks over the well-prepared horses and Brolan's efficient work, he grudgingly retracts his previous comment from the day before. "I take back what I said yesterday," he says, a note of appreciation creeping into his voice. Despite their constant banter, it's clear that Brolan's diligence does not go unnoticed by Argon.

With a sense of finality, Argon counts the remaining gold pieces and puts them carefully in a small pouch. He then places the pouch securely in his satchel, tucking it beneath his other items to ensure its safety. The weight of the gold, significant yet not overly burdensome, gives him a strange sense of reassurance. It's not much, but it would help them on their journey.

Turning his attention to the apartment, Argon takes one last look at the modest dwelling that had been their home for the past few months. It's not much, but it has served its purpose. There's a sense of familiarity and comfort to the place, but now, he realizes, it is time to move forward.

With a decisive move, Argon locks the door of the apartment. The click of the lock echoes in the still morning air, like a final farewell. With a flick of his wrist, he slides the key under the door. It disappears into the shadows of the apartment, out of sight and out of reach.

There's a certain heaviness in his heart as he turns away from the apartment. He knew they wouldn't be returning for some time, and he wasn't sure what they would find when they did. But he pushes these thoughts aside, focusing on the journey ahead. Mounting his horse, Argon gives a nod to Brolan, and they set off into the emerging dawn.

Under the still, dim morning sky, Argon and Brolan sit tall on their horses, their armour glinting subtly under the emerging daylight. Argon, with his spear strapped securely to his back and his trusty sword hanging at his waist, appears as a formidable figure. Brolan, for his part, holds a sword of his own, a relic from a defeated bandit, and has his five throwing spikes tucked away somewhere in his attire, their location known only to him.

As they start to move, Argon turns to Brolan, a contemplative look on his face. "Will you miss this place?" he asks, his voice resonating in the still air.

Brolan casts a sidelong glance at Argon, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Didn't peg you as the sentimental type, Master," he responds, a slight smirk playing on his lips. His tone carries a trace of amusement, lightening the sombre mood slightly.

Argon grunts in response, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a small, half-hearted smile. Without another word, they spur their horses into a quicker pace. Their hooves pound against the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic sound filling the quiet morning as they ride with haste towards the city centre, leaving behind the familiar streets and buildings of their previous lives.

The city centre, normally bustling with activity, lies tranquil in the early morning light. The guards stationed at the entrance recognize Argon and Brolan, their gazes falling on the familiar armoured figures. They nod in acknowledgement, parting to allow them through without question. The familiar sights of the city centre pass by in a blur as they make their way towards the Baron's residence, the horses' hooves echoing through the empty streets.

As they draw closer to the Baron's residence, they see a grand spectacle unfold before their eyes. An imposing carriage, festooned with the symbols of the barony, is parked by the main entrance. Its polished wooden body glints in the dawning light, the golden accents highlighting its splendour. A retinue of men, all outfitted in the livery of the Baron, move around it, preparing for the journey.

Among this flurry of activity, Sir Garrick stands tall and commanding, his figure unmistakable. As Argon and Brolan approach, Garrick spots them and raises a hand, signalling them to come over. His voice carries across the courtyard, loud and clear in the morning stillness. "Morning, fuck face," he grins, his greeting as coarse as ever, cutting through the anticipation of the day's journey with an uncouth yet oddly comforting familiarity.