Punishment

In the fading light of the evening, Argon and Brolan finally emerge from the Chief's house. Brolan activates his artefact before stepping outside, Argon's Dayless Helmet creating an aura of menace that is almost palpable.

Argon strides forward, looking out at the crowd gathered in the square. His gaze sweeps over the men, women, and children standing in apprehensive silence, their expressions filled with a mix of fear, suspicion, and desperation. All eyes are on him, watching him warily, uncertain of what to expect.

Argon turns to Dolan, his voice carrying clearly in the stillness. "Is this everyone?" he asks, his gaze returning to the crowd.

Dolan nods, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. "This is all...bar some men who went hunting in the woods and those who fled...the rest are here," he stammers.

Argon surveys the crowd again, taking in the details. There are about ninety people in total - a stark contrast to the two hundred Brolan had originally estimated. They look gaunt, their skin stretched taut over their bones. Their clothes are worn and threadbare, their faces etched with exhaustion and hunger. It's a grim sight that speaks volumes about the hardship they've been enduring. Yet, there is a flicker of resilience in their eyes, a stubborn determination that hasn't yet been extinguished. These are people who have been pushed to their limits.

Raising his voice to carry across the assembled villagers, Argon begins to speak. His words are not comforting nor filled with empathy. They are raw, direct, and harsh - a true reflection of the brutal reality of their lives.

"I don't care that you're starving," he states bluntly, meeting their collective gaze unflinchingly. "Starve in silence. The baron will not tolerate crime in this village."

A murmur ripples through the crowd, but it quickly dies down under Argon's stern glare.

"Anyone in this village causing mischief will be killed," Argon continues, his tone allowing no room for argument. "Brolan and I will patrol the streets at night. We will keep order."

The stark declaration hangs heavy in the air. He turns to Dolan, focusing on the rattled village chief. "Where are your former guards?" he demands.

Dolan points out three men standing near the edge of the crowd. They are a little less gaunt than the others, their bodies hinting at the muscle and strength that once was. "They are there," he stammers. "Another five of them went with the hunting party..."

Argon's gaze locks on the three former guards, assessing them critically. Despite their current condition, he can tell they were once men of action - a fact that may prove useful in the days to come.

In a stern voice, Argon commands the former guards to come forward. They exchange fearful glances but comply, their bodies moving sluggishly towards him. "You, along with your Chief here," Argon says, indicating Dolan with a nod of his head, "will be lashed for failing to maintain order in this village and troubling the baron."

He turns to Brolan, ordering him to find some rope. Brolan complies, returning shortly with strips of fabric cut from the curtains in Dolan's house. The material is fine and would provide a stinging lash.

The men's faces turn even paler, but they make no move to run. It's as though fear has cemented them in place. They are going to be publicly humiliated, punished for their failures, and there isn't a thing they can do about it. Their gazes fix on Argon, resigned and apprehensive.

With a wicked grin, Argon declares, "An even ten sounds nice." Brolan commences the punishment, working through each man one by one, the makeshift whip made of fine curtain material hissing through the air and landing with a harsh crack against bare flesh.

Despite being strong men, the guards cry out, some more than others, as the stinging lashes kiss their backs. There's no mercy in Brolan's actions, no sympathy. The sheer force of each strike, amplified by the effects of the attribute artefact, leaves no room for stoic silence or resistance.

Their backs instantly redden, and by the time the tenth lash lands, their skin is raw, blistered, and bleeding. The fine material tears at their flesh, creating wounds that will take time to heal. It's a brutal sight, made all the more horrific by the silence of the villagers watching the spectacle. They watch their guards, their protectors being brought down to their knees, a vivid demonstration of what would befall anyone who dared step out of line.

Dolan, the last man, seems to realise, perhaps too late, that compliance with Argon's demands doesn't guarantee mercy. His pleas, however, fall on deaf ears. When the first lash lands on his back, Dolan shrieks. Unlike the stoic guards who had borne their punishment with gritted teeth, Dolan wails and cries like a wounded animal at every strike.

The sound of his cries echoes out into the silent crowd, a stark contrast to the limited cries of the former guards. His knees buckle under the pain, but he is held up, forced to stand and endure each lashing. His pleas grow more desperate with each lash, but they go ignored. The lashes continue until Dolan's back is a brutal tapestry of raw, bleeding wounds, and his cries become ragged gasps for breath.

Brolan, showing no sign of emotion, simply tosses the bloody whip to the side when he's finished, the silence that follows filled only by Dolan's whimpering cries.

With an air of dominance surrounding him, Argon points to the now subservient guards. "You work for me now," he announces, his tone brokering no room for argument. "Your payment is the precious breaths you're still allowed to take."

He then turns his gaze towards the whimpering Dolan, who's still trying to recover from the brutal lashing. "We'll be staying in your house while we sort this mess out," Argon declares, his words bearing the weight of a command rather than a request. Dolan just whimpers, too drained from pain and fear to protest.

As for the rest of the villagers, they're dismissed with a simple wave of his hand. "Go. We're done here." His stern words send the villagers scattering, leaving only Argon, Brolan, Dolan, and the newly appointed guards in the clearing. The aftermath of the village gathering is nothing but the lingering echo of Dolan's cries and the villagers' shocked whispers as they retreat to their homes, the weight of Argon's rule-heavy in the air.

Argon turned his attention back to Dolan, "Tell me about the food supplies," he demanded. His gaze was sharp, cutting through the feeble village chief like a blade. Dolan stuttered that he had a personal store of grain stashed away, a store meant to last him through the lean times.

"Ration it out," Argon commanded, "Divide it among the villagers. Only enough to keep them alive. No more, no less." Dolan simply nodded, too exhausted to argue.

He then turned to the newly appointed guards. He divided them into tasks - two of them were assigned to patrol the village through the night. "Make sure no trouble brews," he instructed. The remaining guard was assigned to man the watchtower. "Keep a lookout for the hunting party. Notify us the moment they return," Argon ordered. He wanted to keep an eye on every movement in and out of the village, especially those who might pose a potential threat.

As the guards scurried off to fulfil their assigned duties, Argon and Brolan found themselves alone with Dolan. Tiredness had started to creep into their bones, but they had a mission to accomplish, and fatigue wasn't going to stand in their way.

Turning to Brolan, Argon instructed, "Tie the horses somewhere safe and feed them well. They're worth more than this lot," he said, a crooked smile crossing his face as he remembered the trembling villagers.

Argon then turned to Dolan, "How many bedrooms does this dump have?" His voice echoed ominously throughout the quiet interior of the house. A strangled response came from Dolan, who murmured that the house had three rooms.

"Well then, it's settled. Brolan takes one, and I'll take yours. You can sleep in the storage room," Argon decided, his tone not leaving any room for arguments. Dolan swallowed down a protest, instead nodded his compliance.

Argon chuckled lightly, "Also, Dolan, fix that door. It will get drafty at night," he said, pointing towards the splintered and broken door that he had kicked open earlier. Dolan muttered his agreement, disappearing into the shadows of his own house to gather the tools necessary for repairing the door. Argon turned back to Brolan, a victorious smirk on his face. "This is turning out to be easier than we thought," he said, heading towards his claimed room.