Pick Of The Runts

With a glower that would freeze the sun, Argon turned his back on the fallen knight, striding back towards the trembling soldiers. The brutal display had served its purpose, instilling a fear that ran deep and rampant among the rank and file. The metallic taste of blood and the harsh beat of their own hearts was all that filled their senses.

"Permission?" Argon sneered, his tone dripping with contempt. "Who the fuck said anything about permission? The Baron handed me the authority to pick six men who ain't claimed. So, I don't give a rat's ass about what you pissants think. I'll choose whoever the hell I want."

His words, raw and cutting, echoed through the silence. A cold proclamation that rendered any lingering thoughts of resistance null and void. The authority the Baron had vested in Argon had given him the upper hand, and he wielded it with unapologetic ferocity. With a cruel satisfaction, he watched as their faces grew paler, their eyes widened, the reality of the situation sinking in.

Picking his soldiers was no longer a matter of personal choice. It was a show of absolute power, an assertion of dominance that left no room for debate or dissent.

Argon let his eyes wander over the lineup, sizing up each soldier. "I don't care much for finesse or strategy, I need raw muscle," he growled, his voice resonating through the silent barracks. "If you can't even break a sweat holding a sword, you're of no use to me."

His gaze fell upon the six most burly and muscular men in the group. Their hulking figures towered over the rest, veins bulging, muscles rippling beneath their plain tunics. They were the embodiment of raw power, unrefined and potent.

"You, you, you," Argon pointed, his finger stabbing the air as he singled out the soldiers. His voice was cold and unyielding as he continued. "You three fuckers over there, and you, you, and you here." His words were absolute, leaving no room for dispute.

The six men exchanged nervous glances, their expressions filled with apprehension, but they dutifully stepped forward, swallowing their fear. They were Argon's now, ready to serve under the harsh hand of the newly minted knight.

"Name yourselves"

Without hesitation, the six men stepped forward and began to speak.

The first was a bear of a man, easily dwarfing even the broad-shouldered Argon. "I am Brom, ser," he grumbled, his voice deep and gravelly.

Next was a man with a weather-beaten face, his skin tanned and toughened from years of outdoor work. "My name is Dael, ser."

The third was a man of average height but with a muscular build. His eyes were shrewd and calculating, "I'm Edrik, ser."

Fourth was a man who towered above the rest, his broad shoulders making him look more like a wall than a man. "I am Garen, ser," he announced in a voice as large as his physique.

The fifth man was the smallest among them, but his compact and muscular frame suggested strength. "Name's Ulf, ser," he said, his voice quiet but steady.

The last was the youngest, probably in his early twenties, with a body made hard and lean from work and training. "I am Lark, ser," he said, meeting Argon's gaze directly.

Argon looked them over once more, sizing them up. They weren't the elite, but they had the raw strength he desired. They would serve his purpose well enough.

With a smirk playing on his lips, Argon turned to his soldiers. "For your cowardice, there will be a punishment," he announced, his voice ringing out in the tense silence.

His gaze swept over the six men, lingering on each one. "Each of you will receive ten lashes from my man Brolan here," he said, gesturing to his right where Brolan stood, an amused smile on his face.

The man's eyes widened, glancing from Argon to Brolan and back again, their expressions a mix of fear and confusion. But none dared to question Argon's decree.

"Perhaps next time," Argon continued, his tone harsh and unyielding, "you lot will think twice before refusing to serve under me. Now get out of my sight and prepare yourselves. The whipping will take place at now."

Without waiting for a response, Argon stepped back, observing, Brolan following behind with a cruel grin spread across his face. The message was clear; there was a new power among the knights, and he was not to be trifled with. Brolan went to find a rope.

"Apologies for the delay, lads," Brolan's voice echoed in the silent training ground, a malicious grin playing on his lips. He was holding the snapped end of a spear, now resembling more of a cane. "Seems we're fresh out of rope."

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their fear palpable in the heavy air. They knew they had to take their punishment. They had no choice, not when it was a knight ordering it. Brolan continued to smile, savouring their fear.

"No worries though," he continued, swishing the cane through the air with a menacing swoosh. "This stick here will do just as nicely, I reckon." The soldiers flinched at the sound, the reality of their impending punishment sinking in.

"Now line up," Brolan commanded, his tone full of mirth. "I've got a busy day ahead, and I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible. Don't worry, I'll try not to break any bones." His laugh echoed around the courtyard, a chilling reminder of their predicament.

"How many sounds fair, master" Brolan smirked. "Ten will do the job", Argon replied.

Brolan's chuckle filled the air again, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of the unfortunate soldiers. "Of course, Master. How could I forget? You and your lucky number ten."

His eyes gleamed with an unspoken delight as he regarded the soldiers, the stick swishing ominously in his hand. "Alright, lads, you heard the man. Ten each. Don't you dare pass out on me before we're done or I'll start over. Got it?"

The soldiers swallowed hard, nods of understanding bobbing amongst them. There was a shared grim determination in their faces, a silent agreement to endure this punishment together. They were soldiers, after all. Even though they were terrified of their knight and his brutal assistant, they wouldn't show it. They couldn't. Their pride wouldn't allow them.

"Good," Brolan sneered, tapping the makeshift cane against his palm. "Let's get this over with then."

In the sombre silence that had fallen over the barracks, all eyes were on Brolan as he approached the first soldier, the makeshift cane ominously tapping against his thigh. There was a certain grim pleasure in his eyes as he positioned himself behind the soldier, his gaze sweeping over the man's back, sizing up his target.

The first blow came without warning. The sharp sound of the cane hitting the soldier's back echoed in the quiet, followed by a sharp intake of breath from the soldier. His body stiffened, but he remained silent, his hands clenched into fists. The cane left a red welt on his back, but the man didn't waver, his pride refusing to let him show any weakness.

Brolan moved methodically, each stroke delivered with calculated precision and force, leaving behind a series of welts on the soldier's back. By the time he reached the count of ten, the soldier was visibly trembling, sweat dotting his brow, but he stood straight, his face a mask of stoic resolve.

One by one, Brolan moved down the line, each punishment a repeat of the previous. Some men grunted with each hit, others bit down on their lips to keep silent, while a few let out quiet hisses of pain. But no one screamed; no one begged for mercy. These were men of the military, their discipline shining through despite the harsh punishment.

Finally, when the last soldier had received his ten hits, Brolan tossed the makeshift cane aside, stepping back and admiring his handiwork. "Remember," he said, his voice carrying through the stunned silence. "In this Contubernium, you obey Ser Argon. Now, get yourselves cleaned up. We march at dawn."

The barracks remained quiet for a few moments, the lingering tension in the air palpable. Slowly, the men broke away, each moving to tend to their wounds. The lesson had been harsh but necessary. The harsh reality of their knight's rule had been etched into their backs and their minds. From now on, they were Argon's men, and they would follow his command, no matter the cost.

The moment Argon and Brolan turned on their heels, a ripple went through the frozen tableau of soldiers. The oppressive silence that had once coated the entire barracks like a thick, choking blanket was gradually replaced by the murmur of a resumed activity. The clanging of weaponry resumed, and the sounds of gruff voices filled the air.

As the duo moved away, their figures cutting imposing silhouettes against the entrance of the barracks, their steps echoed ominously in the hushed environment. Whispers followed their departure, the soldiers exchanging glances. A palpable mix of fear and respect was etched on the faces of many.

Back at their training, the soldiers moved with renewed vigour, each blow, each parry a reflection of the lesson they had learned. It was a harsh reality, a heavy mantle they had to bear as part of Argon's Contubernium. But the sting on their backs served as a constant reminder - a call to discipline, obedience, and loyalty to their commanding knight. Their day carried on with a newfound, albeit grim, understanding of the consequences of their choices. And as the sun dipped low in the sky, the whispers faded away, leaving behind the echo of a lesson well learned.

As Argon and Brolan were making their way out of the barracks, meandering through the garden that led to their dwelling, they were abruptly stopped in their tracks by the sound of a high-pitched voice piercing the air. The voice, though feminine and somewhat soft, carried an air of authority that demanded attention. The word that had been uttered was a simple salutation, yet it held power - "Ser Argon."

Upon hearing the mellifluous call of his name, Argon turned, only to be met with a sight that could effortlessly inspire poets and artists alike. Lady Isolde stood not far from him, her beauty a stark contrast to the brutal scenes of the barracks they had just left.

Her golden hair shimmered under the afternoon sun, cascading down her back like a waterfall of molten gold. Her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of blue, were akin to the calm azure of the sky, gentle yet profound, belying a deep intellect and poise. A smile graced her lips, charming and disarmingly captivating, lighting up her entire face with warmth.

Her attire, a flowing gown of soft lavender, swayed gently in the light breeze. The dress outlined her slender figure, the hue of the fabric accentuating her fair skin. Every inch of her, from her delicate features to her elegant attire, echoed her high standing. There was an air of grace and sophistication about her, a regal bearing that one would expect from the nobility. The garden around them seemed to pale in comparison to her natural radiance, the vibrant flora appearing dull beside her enchanting presence.

A look of intrigue appeared on Argon's face as he regarded the young woman before him. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he replied, an edge of curiosity creeping into his tone.

"You haven't," the woman acknowledged with a knowing smile. Her name was Isolde, and she was a presence to be reckoned with, even if she didn't seem imposing at first glance.

"What can I do for you?" Argon questioned, a note of cautious inquiry lingering in his voice. He was wary of this woman he knew nothing about.

"That's a good line of thought, Argon," Isolde responded with a smirk, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "Especially since you're in debt to me." Her statement hung in the air, a cryptic promise of what was yet to come.