Road Trip

"Alright, listen up," Garrick begins, hooking his thumbs into his belt as he addresses Argon and Brolan. "We're going to be riding behind the Baron's carriage." He gestures towards the imposing vehicle, its polish glinting in the growing daylight.

"I need you to be behind the carriage, Argon," he continues, his gaze locked on the burly warrior. "The Baron, he gets bored on these long rides. Says they tire him more than any battle." Garrick smirks at the remark, a brief moment of amusement flashing in his eyes.

"As his latest... addition," he drawls the last word out, sweeping his arm out towards Argon in an exaggerated manner, "you are currently the most interesting thing around. He'll want to chat. Be ready to entertain his whims."

There's a pointed note in Garrick's voice as he gives these instructions, and Argon knows he's not merely suggesting. It's an order cloaked in casual language but stern in its meaning. The day ahead promises to be long, and Argon finds himself bracing for whatever conversations the journey to Horntide might bring.

The retinue that gathered around the Baron's carriage was as varied as it was imposing. At the front of the carriage sat a sturdy, grim-faced man with a shock of silver hair that spoke volumes about his years of service. The coachman. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's and just as keen, surveyed the surroundings with practised caution.

The entourage assembled for the Baron's journey was a display of power and wealth. On the flank of the carriage behind Argon and Brolan, a select group of elite guards maintained a steady pace. Their armour was not just ornate but also practical, gleaming under the morning light. Each man rode a powerful warhorse, the rhythmic clattering of hooves underscoring the solemnity of their mission. Their longswords hung at their hips, and sturdy kite shields, emblazoned with the Baron's crest, were strapped to their backs. The unyielding discipline in their gaze spoke of countless battles and unwavering loyalty to their liege.

Leading the procession, slightly ahead of the rest, a solitary figure stood out. The standard-bearer, tall and imposing, bore the Baron's personal banner. The vibrant tapestry rippled with each gust of wind, showcasing the Baron's coiled serpent in all its grandeur. The standard-bearer's armour was polished to a mirror sheen, the Baron's crest prominently displayed on his chest plate. His gaze was focused forward, leading the retinue with silent authority. Next to him at the front is Garrick, clad in ominous Dayless, the only knight in the retinue.

Thus, they formed a sleek and streamlined assembly, projecting the Baron's might as they journeyed along the roads towards Horntide.

Argon gazes forward, doing his best to remain focused and alert, despite the monotonous ride. They are journeying northwest on a wide, well-trodden highway that stretches ahead of them for miles. The road, lined with tall, ancient trees on both sides, creates a picturesque, if not a little eerie, avenue. The autumn leaves a riot of reds and oranges, contrast sharply with the otherwise green landscape, fluttering down around them in a ceaseless, ethereal rain.

In the near distance, Argon spots small hamlets and farmsteads, the early morning smoke wafting gently from their chimneys, indicating the start of a new day. Every so often, a startled deer would break cover, bounding away into the woods, its white tail flashing a warning to its kin.

Beside him, Brolan rides in silence, sensing Argon's reluctance to engage in conversation. There's a strange tension in the air, the anticipation of the unknown and the anxiety of the journey ahead. Argon can't help but feel an undercurrent of excitement, his heart thrumming in his chest at the prospect of what lies ahead.

Every so often, he steals a glance at the Baron's carriage, a luxurious contraption of polished mahogany and brass with rich velvet curtains obscuring the interior. Riding alongside it is a peculiar honour, one that Argon never envisioned in his wildest dreams. He knows they must look quite the sight - a former slave and a commoner, riding alongside the nobility, heading into the unknown.

The guards flanked the Baron's carriage ride with practised ease, their uniforms immaculate, weapons gleaming in the dappled sunlight. A single guard rides ahead, carrying the Baron's standard - a coiled serpent fluttering proudly in the crisp morning air.

There's a sense of purpose to their procession, a rhythm that beats in time with the horses' hooves against the cobblestones. It's a steady, rhythmic lullaby that underscores their journey, a constant reminder of the path they've chosen and the road they have yet to travel.

The vibrancy of the lush landscape gives way abruptly to a bare, mud-streaked pathway, marking the boundary between the comfort of DuskHaven and the wilderness beyond. The tree canopy retreats, opening up to a wide expanse of pale sky, while the smooth cobblestone morphs into a rough, undulating path. Yet, their procession continues undeterred, the horses adeptly navigating the treacherous terrain.

As they venture deeper into this remote landscape, a window on the side of the carriage slides open with a creak. "Argon!" Eldrige's voice cuts through the relative silence of their journey. His tone carries a hint of enthusiasm, perhaps at the prospect of having some company on this long journey.

With a gentle nudge of his heels, Argon urges his horse forward, manoeuvring skillfully to the left side of the carriage. Through the open window, he catches a glimpse of Eldrige, ensconced in plush, velvet-upholstered seats. By his side, the ever-present butler sits rigidly, a tray with what seems to be a steaming cup of tea held in his gloved hands.

The interior of the carriage is dimly lit the flicker of an oil lamp casting dancing shadows on the rich tapestry that lines the walls. Eldrige's form is bathed in a warm, golden light, the lines on his face softened by the diffuse glow. Despite the jarring contrast with the outside world, there's a strange sense of intimacy in this confined space, a private world in the midst of their journey.

"Baron Eldrige," Argon greets, removing his helmet respectfully and tucking it under his arm. He finds the older man's jovial demeanour oddly comforting, considering their surroundings.

"My boy," the Baron begins, his tone warm and genial, "Garrick has spoken very highly of you. I'm pleased with your training."

Argon's eyes widen slightly at the praise, surprise etching lines on his rugged face. To hear Garrick, of all people, speak positively about him seemed unimaginable. The corners of his lips twitch upward into a barely perceptible smile.

"In fact," Eldrige continues, a hint of pride creeping into his voice, "Garrick even said you would rank among my top five knights." He pauses, seemingly to let the information sink in.

Argon's shock deepens. Among the top five? He had thought Garrick found his skills laughable at best. Could he have been wrong about the stern knight all this time?

"I have twelve knights in total," Eldrige adds, watching Argon's reaction closely.

Argon can't help but stare at Eldrige for a moment, his mind racing. If he was truly among the top five, that meant he was already standing above seven knights. And he had earned this position in an astonishingly short period of time.