New House

"Thank you for your report, Argon," the baron declared, his eyes as hard as the iron of his crest and his voice equally unyielding. The great room, all cold stone and shadow, echoed with the solemnity of his words. Against the flickering backdrop of a monstrous hearth, the austere figure of the baron seemed even more imposing. He sat enthroned, his fingers laced on the wooden table carved with the sinuous patterns of forgotten tales.

"Now, please leave us," the baron continued, dismissing the man with a curt nod. "We have further matters to discuss." His gaze then lifted over Argon's shoulder, dismissing him and already focusing on the other figures lurking in the room.

"There are a couple of houses in the town that I hold for staff. Ask Thorne; he will guide you. Take your pick."

Argon gave a respectful bow, his heavy armour clinking softly against the stone floor. "Thank you, my lord," he responded, his voice gruff but loyal. With a final glance at the baron and the shadowy figures, Argon turned on his heel, his steps echoing in the room like a heart pulsing in the silence.

As he left, the heavy doors of the great hall groaned shut behind him, sealing the baron and his mysterious council within. In the echo of the closing doors, Argon could almost hear the murmur of conspiracies being spun and the future being carved in hushed whispers. He had played his part for the moment. Now, a new chapter awaited him in the town below.

As Argon stepped from the imposing entrance of Horntide Manor, the midday air swept over him, carrying with it the rustic scents of the surrounding wilderness and a touch of the briny sea from miles away. Ahead of him, Brolan awaited.

"Thorne," Argon called out, striding toward the figure looming beside a group of hitched horses. His voice cut through the chorus of chirping crickets that serenaded the quiet town.

In response to Argon's query about the house, Thorne reached into a pouch slung across his chest. With a knowing smirk playing on his lips, he withdrew a key, its bronze surface glinting beneath the sun. He tossed it to Argon.

"The best one's there," Thorne said, his gruff voice a contrast to the gentle rustling of the leaves around them. He pointed toward the town, past the cobblestone streets and the stone-and-wood buildings, to one edifice in particular. It was a sturdy two-story house, visible from their vantage point, with a gable roof silhouetted against the stars.

Argon caught the key, the cold metal warming in his grip. "Thank you, Thorne," he said, giving the house a long look. The sense of peace it promised was an unaccustomed luxury for a warrior like him.

As Argon prepared to descend the hill toward his new abode, Thorne nodded, his hand already patting the flank of Argon's horse, his fingers sliding along the familiar marks of battle and journey etched into its leather harness. "I'll deal with the horses, don't worry. You take a good rest," Thorne offered his words carrying the deep respect held amongst those who bear the weight of loyalty and duty.

Bathed in the golden light of midday, Argon and Brolan strode toward their new abode, their armoured footfalls rhythmic against the cobblestone path. Above, the sun blazed down from a sky so blue it could have been painted by a master, casting stark shadows around the buildings of the quiet town.

Brolan's brow furrowed under the weight of curiosity; the unease of what had transpired in the baron's hall nagged at him. "What happened back there?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Eldridge looked pleased, but I'm beginning to think the path to knighthood is much rockier than we had imagined."

Argon glanced at Brolan, his companion's concern reflected in his own dark eyes. He carried the weight of their shared ambition, the aspiration that had led them into service and, now, into the heart of mystery and intrigue. He let out a sigh, his breath stirring the dust on the cobblestones beneath them.

"There is much to recount, Brolan," Argon said, his voice thick with the gravity of what had been said within the baron's great hall. He began to relay the baron's words, each sentence carrying a note of the danger, politics, and secrets that lay beneath the veneer of their noble calling.

"Listen, Brolan," Argon said, his tone matter-of-fact, "We're dealing with something different here. Sorcery is real, and it seems curses are the sum of it. It might even be causing the drought."

He paused, looking at the dusty cobblestones beneath their feet. "Three of Eldridge's villages aren't taking it well. They've openly rebelled - the droughts hit them hard. There's talk that a Baron Waleran might be involved. Eldridge seems to think he could be using some sort of sorcery."

The information hung between them, straightforward and stark in the afternoon sunlight. Brolan took it all in, his expression hardening. The news wasn't easy to digest, but it was their reality now. Their path to knighthood had taken an unexpected turn, steering them into uncharted territory. The day was just as bright as before, but their world had undeniably changed.

"Ah, fuck," Brolan growled, running a rough hand through his hair. His broad shoulders slumped under the weight of Argon's revelations. He swore again, louder this time, the harsh syllables echoing down the empty street. "What the hell is going on?"

He rounded on Argon, his usually stoic features twisted into a grimace of disbelief and frustration. "Since when did our lives get so damned complicated? Weren't we supposed to just guard? Now we're chasing bloody sorcerers and playing politics with bloody barons?"

He shook his head, his brow furrowed as he grappled with the sudden complexities thrust upon them. "We should've stayed in Norenway," he declared, his voice bitter. He huffed a rueful laugh, a momentary diversion from their grim reality. "With thewomen as beautiful as the sunsets. This..." he gestured around them, at the quiet town and their unassuming new home, "This isn't what I signed up for."

"Shut up," Argon snapped, his patience wearing thin. His words cut through the air like a blade, silencing Brolan's complaints. "You're not here to voice your opinions. You're here to do what you're told. Remember, you're a thrall."

He let the harsh reality of his words hang between them, a stark reminder of their place in this new, complex world they'd stumbled into.

"And forget about Elna," Argon added with a pointed look. "Our focus right now is to rise through the ranks, gain some actual power in this godforsaken place."

As the echoes of Argon's harsh admonishment faded, they arrived at their new abode. Standing before it, the house was a sturdy two-story structure built of stone and timber. Its gable roof was covered in dark, weathered shingles that had witnessed many a season pass. The windows, though small, were clean and bright, suggesting a cared-for interior.

A solid oak door, polished to a shine and studded with iron, stood welcomingly ajar. Ivy clung to the stone walls, framing the windows in a vibrant display of nature's resilience, while a small, well-tended garden bloomed under the watchful eyes of a couple of sturdy, carved stone gargoyles.

It was a house that spoke of simplicity and comfort, a stark contrast to the complexities of their new reality. Yet, as Argon and Brolan stared at their new home, they understood it would be a base, a stronghold in their fight to rise from the shadows of servitude and into the light of power.

"Let's hit the sack," Argon grumbled, fatigue lining his voice. He scrubbed a hand across his face, his gaze drawn to the solid front door of their new home. "This day's been a total shitshow. We need to sleep this off."

Brolan merely grunted in response, the stress of the day evident in his slumped shoulders and the hard set of his jaw. "Yeah," he muttered, his tone gruff. "Couldn't agree more. What a fucking day."

With no further words to exchange, they trudged toward the house, the sound of their armoured boots scraping against the cobblestones a harsh rhythm in the quiet town. The promise of rest, even if temporary, was a welcome prospect in the face of the chaotic reality that had unfolded.

The battles of tomorrow would wait. For now, they would seek solace in sleep, a brief escape from the convoluted nightmare their lives had become.

Mounting the wooden stairs, Argon entered his new quarters, the echo of his armoured boots whispering tales of a day gone awry. His room was modest yet inviting, with a robust wooden bed and a quilt-patched straw mattress inviting him to succumb to rest.

He began to rid himself of his armour piece by piece, each metallic echo in the room a testament to the day's burdens that were being shed. Last, of all, he removed his black dayless helmet, a piece as imposing as it was protective. Its surface was as dark as a moonless night, devoid of all colour, making it stand out against the rustic charm of his room.

He set the helmet on a nearby table, its presence casting long, dramatic shadows across the room. Its empty gaze seemed to mirror Argon's own weariness, the intensity of their shared ordeals etched onto its hard surface.

Unburdened of his armour, at last, Argon let himself fall onto the welcoming bed, the straw mattress creaking in protest. He barely registered the minor discomfort; his body was yearning for rest, his mind teetering on the edge of sleep's soothing oblivion.

In the dim serenity of his room, the events of the day seemed a world away. His thoughts ebbed and flowed like waves against the shore, gradually receding into the vast ocean of sleep. The day was finally over; the trials of tomorrow were still veiled in the comforting darkness of night. And with that thought, he let sleep claim him, ready to face the new day when dawn broke.