Scaring The Newbies

Argon's fiery gaze fell on Brom, and he shifted his orders to him. "Brom," he began, his tone now coldly authoritative, "you and Brolan are now my personal guards. You will stay by my side during the day. As for the night..."

He let his words hang in the air for a moment, his smirk widening as he continued. "Station two soldiers by my bedroom. I'm more partial to a familiar face, Eldrin, perhaps? He's used to working with Jory right?, so the two of them will be tasked with guarding my room at night."

As his smirk transformed into a mischievous grin, the implication of his words hung heavily in the air. His guards would be in for an...interesting shift. For Argon, it was another reason to smile. A small part of him thoroughly enjoyed the thought of the discomfort his nighttime activities would cause the young Eldrin.

Stepping away from the small gathering, Argon left, carrying out the lashings to Brolan. He did not doubt that Edrik, in his fierce loyalty, would probably have lashed himself out of shame. However, Argon knew it wasn't truly Edrik's fault. The lack of manpower was the real issue that needed addressing.

Despite the late hour, sleep was now an elusive notion for Argon. The adrenaline from the recent attack still coursed through his veins, his heart thumping in his chest. Argon decided to take matters into his own hands with no inclination to waste the night away lying restlessly in bed.

Turning on his heels, he set off towards the wall, intending to join the patrolling soldiers. He intended to find it himself if there was a lapse in their security. The night was far from over, and he had work to do.

Under the moon's ghostly light, Argon strode with purpose towards the village wall. His armoured silhouette was a menacing spectre, the metallic gleam of his armour blending with the ethereal lunar glow. Each footfall was deliberate, echoing ominously in the still night.

Reaching the wall, Argon found a sturdy wooden ladder propped against it. The guards used this route to reach the patrol path, a narrow walkway that crowned the structure. Without a moment's hesitation, he started the climb. The wooden rungs creaked under his weight, and the cold night air brushed against his face, but he continued his ascension undeterred.

Finally, atop the wall, Argon found himself on a narrow path wide enough for two men to walk abreast. It was lined with crude battlements, providing a certain level of cover and protection for the patrolling guards. The stone beneath his boots was rough and uneven, a testament to the quick and urgent construction of the wall.

The patrol path was buzzing with activity. Guards, illuminated by the flickering torchlight, hustled back and forth. Hardened by vigilance, their faces were set in stern expressions as they scanned the perimeter for signs of intruders. Their hushed whispers and the occasional clinking of their armour were the only sounds breaking the silence of the night.

From his vantage point, Argon had an unhindered view of the sprawling village below. Its peace was disrupted tonight. Determined, Argon joined the soldiers in their vigil, his eyes piercing the darkness, searching for any anomaly in the tranquil landscape.

Gazing out over the expansive expanse of Blackwood, Argon let out a drawn-out sigh. Perched on the battlement of the stone wall, the world was laid bare before him, a panorama of shadows and pale moonlight. It was a sight that could've inspired awe if not for the dread gnawing at his gut.

His thoughts were a whirling maelstrom, an echo of the tension slowly but surely building up within him. The deadly incident of tonight's ambush still hung in the air, the remnants of the assassins on his palms a grim reminder of the threat looming over his head.

If the silent predators were the machinations of Eldrige, he was indeed in deep trouble. Eldrige commanded the loyalty of twelve knights, and Argon had only two reliable artefact wielders in his corner. Provoking the ire of his Baron could spell the end of his precarious climb; his gambit with Isolde was reckless at best.

However, if the orchestrator of this nefarious act were Baron Waleran, that would be a bitter pill to swallow but not entirely unexpected. After all, his brazen sacking of Oakshade was a blatant challenge to Waleran's authority. His audacity had not gone unnoticed, and it would be only natural for the Baron to retaliate.

Argon sighed again, a sound swallowed by the cold, uncaring night. He was caught in a web of intrigue and power play, a pawn in the games of the mighty.

A fresh-faced soldier approached Argon on the wall's walkway with curiosity glinting. "My lord," he asked hesitantly, "What are you doing up here?"

"Your name, soldier?" Argon asked, eyes still in the distance.

"Obin, Ser," the man replied, standing straighter at the acknowledgement.

Obin was a slender, medium-height man, his physique wiry from years of labour. His skin was tanned and weathered, toughened by years under the sun, and his hair was a mousy brown, cut short for practicality. He had earnest brown eyes, reflecting his simple, honest nature. His face was adorned with patchy stubble, giving him a slightly rugged look.

Obin's armour was a mismatch of parts, clearly gathered from different sources and hastily pieced together to provide at least a semblance of protection. A worn chest plate that had probably belonged to an Oakshade soldier before bore the brunt of battle scars and dents. His shoulders were guarded by mismatched pauldrons - one slightly larger than the other - and his arms were encased in rusting vambraces.

A rudimentary chainmail skirt over worn, thick leather protected his lower body. His boots were scuffed and well-worn, showing signs of extensive use.

The spear he held was simple, with a wooden shaft and a steel tip. It was a straightforward weapon, but it could be lethal in the hands of a determined man. Despite the clear wear and tear on the weapon, the spearhead was sharp and gleamed in the torchlight, indicating that Obin had been maintaining it meticulously.

"Ah, Obin," Argon let out a half-grunt, half-chuckle, "Well then, Obin, keep me company. I'm bored as all hell."

The soldier's eyes widened in surprise before quickly composing himself. "Uh...uh...Of course, my lord," he responded, nodding quickly in assent, his face a mixture of surprise and anxiety at this unexpected turn of events.

Argon turned to face the soldier, an unreadable expression on his face. "You seem quite nervous, Obin," he noted, his tone low and ominous. "Very suspicious indeed. Almost as if you had something to do with the attempt on my life."

"I should disembowel you and hang your gutless corpse from these walls," he continued, his voice laced with menace.

At Argon's words, Obin's face drained of all colour, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief. His lips parted, but no words came out, his mind too overwhelmed to respond.

The soldier's knees almost buckled under him, fear knotting his stomach into tight coils. Before he could plead his innocence, Argon burst out into hearty laughter. Argon's eyes gleamed with mischievous delight. "You should see the look on your face, you dumb fuck!" he bellowed, clutching his stomach as waves of laughter shook his frame.

Relief washed over Obin's face, although it was quickly replaced by embarrassment. He hung his head low, shame colouring his cheeks a deep red.

Slightly recovering from embarrassment, Obin cleared his throat and began his tale. "I was once a farmer, my lord, in the village of Mistwood," he started, a touch of nostalgia glinting in his eyes. "I lived a simple life, tilling the soil and reaping its bounty."

"But," he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "I developed a fondness for games of chance. I thought I could turn a quick profit, lift myself out of the ordinary. I was wrong."

As he spoke, his gaze dropped to the ground; his hands clenched tightly around his spear. "I lost everything," he admitted, his voice choked with regret. "And I didn't just lose my own wealth, I borrowed from others, promising them I could turn their investment into a fortune. Instead, I sunk further into debt."

His voice trembled as he confessed his past follies. "In the end, my debtors came calling. Unable to pay them back, they took me as collateral," he concluded, a bitter smile on his lips.

"From there, I was bought by Master Brolan in Horntide. And that, my lord, is how I came to serve under your command," he finished, his gaze meeting Argon's once more, a mixture of regret and resolve reflected in his eyes.

A smirk twisted Argon's lips as he listened to Obin's tale, an echo of derisive laughter rumbling in his chest. "What a fucking dull tale," he scoffed, prodding the point of his comment deeper into Obin's fragile pride. "Couldn't you have come up with something more interesting? Like, you heroically sacrificed your freedom to save your wife and kids or something."

Obin looked away, a hint of melancholy flashing in his eyes, causing Argon's smirk to widen. The cruel jest he'd spun seemed not so far from reality. The realization amused him further.

"Whatever. Forget your past," Argon continued, dismissing the soldier's discomfort with a nonchalant hand wave. "You're part of my fighting force now. That's something to be proud of."

"Yes, my lord," Obin responded, his voice laced with newfound resolve. "Training under Master Brom has given me purpose."

Argon's words were laced with acerbic mirth that cut through the tension like a hot knife. "Good, good," he said, clapping Orin on the shoulder in a rough camaraderie. "Here's hoping that in our next bloody skirmish, you won't be the first to get skewered or shit your pants in terror." His grin was all teeth, sharp and biting. "Remember, any cowardice will earn you a whipping you won't forget."

As Argon finished his sentence, the figure of Boyd lumbered into view along the walkway. He approached them with a stern expression and barked at Orin, "Oi, what the fuck are you doing yammering to Lord Argon? Get the fuck back to work!"

Orin started to protest, "B-b-b-but, I was..." but was cut short by Argon's hearty laugh.

"You heard the man, Orin. Back to work, you lazy fuck!" Argon bellowed, his grin still in place as he watched the flustered soldier scamper off, leaving him and Boyd alone atop the wall. The night was still young, and Argon was in high spirits despite the recent ordeal. It was going to be an interesting night.

Laughing heartily, Argon gave Boyd a friendly smack on the back. "Hehe, Boyd, my good fellow, how the fuck are you?" he asked, grinning broadly.

Boyd shrugged nonchalantly, "You know, not too bad. But I've got to confess, I was on watch when those fucking assassins made their move my Lord. I'm ready to take my lashes."

Argon waved him off, "Don't worry about it, Boyd. I'm sure the other five who were on watch wouldn't have the balls to admit their failure to me. Besides, I'm sure you did everything you could. And I never thanked you for the mess you cleaned up back in Oakshade."

Boyd shook his head, "No worries, my lord, just doing what I was told."

Argon chuckled, "That's what I like about you, Boyd. You're straightforward, and you don't kiss ass." He reached into his purse and pulled out three gold coins. He tossed them to Boyd, who caught them deftly. "Here, a small token of my appreciation. Don't spend it all at once, you fuck!"

Both men laughed.