Shitheap

In the pale glow of the afternoon sun, Argon, trailed by Brolan and their men, approached the gates of Blackwood village. His Armour clinked softly with each confident stride, his figure casting a long shadow over the path. The gate, a simple yet sturdy wooden construct, seemed oddly foreboding in its silent resistance.

Argon tilted his head back without missing a beat, his voice booming over the village. "Open the gates," he demanded, authority ringing in every syllable, "Your new lord has arrived."

His announcement echoed through the stillness, a powerful declaration of his newly acquired status. Argon's heart pounded in his chest as he awaited a response, his gaze steady on the entrance to his new dominion. The wind whistled quietly through the trees, the landscape held its breath, awaiting the villagers' response to their new Lord's arrival.

Argon's patience is tested when a young voice cries out from the watchtower. "Go away, or our army will come!" The boy's tone is a mixture of defiance and apprehension, his words echoing through the silent village.

Argon's laugh is a harsh, dissonant sound, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. "Is that the same army I just had the pleasure of meeting an hour ago?" He sneers, his voice filled with scorn.

Suddenly, the joviality disappears from his face, replaced by a hard, unyielding expression. "If you know what's good for you, you'll open these gates. I'm willing to understand that you were misled," Argon's voice takes on a dangerous edge. "But take this as a warning - any further disrespect, and I'll regard it as an open act of rebellion. You won't enjoy the consequences."

His threat hangs heavy in the air, like a storm cloud threatening to burst. The boy is silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the eerie whispering of the wind through the trees and the distant murmuring of the villagers huddled behind the safety of their walls.

The creaking sound of the heavy wooden gates fills the air as they slowly open. A young woman, her face pale and her hands trembling, emerges. The fear in her eyes is palpable as she approaches the formidable knights.

On the one hand, her countenance speaks volumes about her struggles; there's a certain hardiness in her deep-set eyes, a weary determination in the set of her jaw. On the other hand, her figure, a voluptuous embodiment of fertility, belies an undercurrent of sensuality. Her ample bosom strains against the confines of her simple, worn-out dress, hinting at the hidden charms. Her hips are full and womanly, a testament to her previous motherhood, swaying hypnotically as she moves. Though unkempt, her long, chestnut hair cascades down her back in wild abandon, framing her flushed, high-cheekboned face. Despite the layers of dust and grime, there's an underlying allure to her that Argon finds impossible to ignore.

She suddenly drops to her knees on the dirt road, her hands clasped tightly in supplication. "Please, ser... forgive my son," she pleads, her voice shaky but determined. "The rebels misled him. He knows not what he speaks."

Argon's stern expression softens at her plea. His earlier threats had been more for intimidation than anything else - he had no intention of spilling innocent blood. "Alright, alright," he grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. "No harm done. I'll hold my word. But let this serve as a lesson for the young lad."

He then gestures at the woman, kneeling before him, "Stand. Guide us through the village. We won't harm anyone unless provoked." His words, though still authoritative, carry a tone of reassurance meant to ease the tension that had palpably built up.

Holding his head high, Argon looks down at the woman still sprawled on the ground. Her words hang in the silent air, pleading for mercy as if not believing him. "All right, all right, enough groveling," Argon interrupts with an irritated edge. "I gave my word, didn't I? The boy's safe."

He takes a moment to let his gaze sweep across the faces of the villagers peering fearfully from their huts. Turning his attention back to the woman, he instructs, "Take us to the village chief's house."

The woman hesitates before stammering, "Our village chief...he was killed a long time ago by the rebels. His house, however, remains. It's the largest one in the village."

Argon gives a curt nod, "Take me there then. I suppose it's mine now. I need to survey what's left of my...ahem... 'new estate'. Hopefully, it's not as dilapidated as the rest of this village appears to be." The scorn in his voice is unmistakable as he surveys his surroundings, not overly impressed with what he sees. The woman leads them deeper into the village, her shoulders tense with anxiety.

The house the woman leads them to stands apart from the rest, not due to its grandeur, but simply because of its size. It is built of stone and timber, unlike the other homes in the village, but it's evident that neglect has taken a toll. The thatch roof looks threadbare, with a few bald spots showing clear signs of leaks. The stone walls are weathered and grey, with a hole in the side.

The front door is heavy and aged, its hinges creaking loudly in protest as the woman pushes it open. The rooms are dark and musty from disuse, the furniture is minimal and rustic, and the hearth is cold. There's a faint smell of dampness and decay in the air.

"Here it is, ser," the woman says, an apologetic note in her voice, "Our...your new home."

Argon takes a sweeping glance over his new domain, his face unreadable. The house is far from the comfort and luxury he was accustomed to, but it's him nonetheless.

Argon's eyes fixate on the woman who has just entered, her expression weary yet determined. There's a moment of silence, in which the atmosphere seems heavy, and then Argon finally breaks it with his gruff voice. "Where's the boy's fatherl?" he asks, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing. His tone leaves no room for lies - he expects the truth, nothing less.

Her voice trembled as she confessed, a deep shame filling her eyes. "I am... ashamed to admit," she started, her words barely a whisper. She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the ground. "My husband... he... was among the rebels." The final words came out in a rush, her voice hitching as she admitted to the grave offence her late husband had committed. The confession hung heavy in the air, a damning testament to her husband's betrayal of their liege.

Argon's harsh words cut through the tense silence like a sharp blade. "Your husband?" He asked, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, I daresay he probably met his unfortunate end at the tip of my blade not too long ago," he admitted, shrugging off the man's death with a casual indifference that was as startling as it was callous.

His gaze returned to the woman, appraising her with a new interest. "Now that you're single and I've spared your boy, you'll be doing me a favour," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that belied the raw power he now wielded, "you'll be keeping my bed warm. I've admired that figure of yours ever since we first entered this godforsaken village."

Argon's gaze raked over her, taking in the sight of her with a blatant appreciation that left no room for misunderstanding. His words may have been crude, but their implication was crystal clear: he was the new power in Blackwood and intended to use that power to its fullest extent.

The woman stared at him, her face paling under his intense scrutiny. But she said nothing, her despair echoing in the silence that followed Argon's harsh decree. Despite the dire situation she found herself in, the woman remained quiet, her spirit seemingly broken by the cruel twist of fate that had befallen her once peaceful village.

Argon barks at the woman with an authoritative and slightly irritated tone, "Go round up the rest of the damned villagers in this shithole. I've got some words for them." The harsh command rings across the village, causing a few to flinch.

With a look of surprise on her face, the woman quickly nodded, eager to obey the new Lord's command. "Of course, my Lord," she hurriedly said, swiftly turning and hurrying down the narrow street that led to the heart of the village. She quickly began knocking on doors, calling out to the scattered villagers and urging them to gather in the village square. The villagers, though surprised and frightened, started trickling into the open area, their faces reflecting a mixture of apprehension, curiosity, and fear about what their new Lord might say to them.

Speaking loud enough for his men to hear, Argon's voice rings out in the quiet outside the dilapidated house, "This bloody dung heap's defenceless. Taking over will be a damn stroll in the park. These simpletons are practically on their knees already," he sneers, looking around at the scared faces of the villagers. "Come on, Brolan, let's check out the other rooms of old chief's dump and see what kind of shit we've landed in," he says, striding towards the biggest house in the village with an air of ownership.

Pushing open another creaky door of the chieftain's house, Argon steps inside, his eyes quickly surveying the surroundings. "Not too bloody shabby," he grunts, noting the surprisingly solid furniture and reasonably clean interiors. "Looks like the chief had some semblance of taste before he fucked off."

The house had been abandoned for a while, a layer of dust gathering on the wooden surfaces and the stale scent of disuse permeating the air. Old tapestries hung from the walls, the colours faded and dulled with age, and a sense of emptiness echoed throughout the space, adding to its forlorn state. The only foreseeable problem was the roof of the place and the hole in the stone wall.

He strides through the house, the creak of his boots on the wooden floor breaking the hush. The hearth is cold and barren in the kitchen, abandoned pots and pans crowding the counters. Upstairs, the bedrooms are sparse but functional, the bedding rumpled and untouched. "Could use a good fucking clean," he mutters, already making plans for his new abode.

Looking out of the chieftain's house, Argon's eyes widen as he observes the crowd. A sea of faces, all drawn and weary, stand huddled together in the village square. Their numbers swell around a hundred – a figure that causes a flicker of unease ripple through him.

"Crap, Brolan," he mutters, his gaze flicking towards the burly man at his side. "That's a damn larger mob than I expected." His eyes scan the faces again, assessing. "Look, if this goes to shit, be ready. We get out of here, understood?"

Brolan simply nods, his face set in a stern expression, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. Argon swallows down his apprehension and squares his shoulders, readying himself to address his new subjects.

With a slight tremor in her voice and her eyes cast down, the woman murmurs from the doorway, "I've gathered the villagers, my Lord." She's terrified but trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

"That's a good girl," Argon retorts sarcastically, throwing her a look that's part approval, part derision.

Argon steps out into the open, the sea of faces turned towards him. He squints under the glaring sun, his eyes sweeping over the crowd - mostly women, children, and old men.

"Listen up, you bloody dimwits!" he begins, his voice booming across the square. "I know you all probably had your grubby hands deep in this rebellion nonsense. Under normal circumstances, I'd gladly send you all to meet your maker." A smug grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"But, see, I find myself in an unusual situation here. I'm the Lord of this festering shit pile now, and having a heap of dead bodies doesn't do much for the village aesthetics, you get me?" His words are met with silence, the villagers staring at him with a mix of fear and confusion.

"So here's what we're gonna do: We're gonna get this dump back on its feet. Anyone here know a trade? A skill? Anything useful? Or are you all as useless as you fucking look?" His gaze challenges them, daring them to speak up.

A handful of older men timidly step forward, mumbling their professions. "I'm a carpenter, milord," says one. "A doctor," declares another, his hands trembling. A gruff man with scars marring his face claims to be a builder. Some of the women speak up, their voices wavering as they admit to being seamstresses.

"Good, good," Argon smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. "I want this shithole of a house fixed up immediately. Make it habitable. And you women," he turns his gaze onto the seamstresses, "start mending whatever you can. I want this village to at least look like it's worth a damn."

As his words hang in the air, he adds with a pointed glance at the crowd, "Get this done, and maybe, just maybe, I won't have to massacre this whole sorry lot. Now, get the fuck to work!"

With a pointed sneer and a voice dripping with contempt, Argon bellows to the villagers, "Here! You greedy little shits!" He flings a handful of gold coins to the ground, watching with disgust as the villagers with skills scramble to gather them.

"Absolute fucking pigs," he mutters to Brolan as he gives his orders. "You, watch these fools and make sure they get this piece-of-shit house back into shape."

Turning his gaze to Brom, Dael, and Edrik, he barks, "Scour this godforsaken dump. I want to know exactly what we have here."

His voice turns icy as he addresses Garen, Ulf, and Lark. "Keep a sharp eye on the perimeter. I don't trust these fuckers not to try something."

Finally, he turns to the voluptuous woman who'd opened the village gates to them. His eyes rove over her form appreciatively before he demands, "Lead the way to your hovel, woman. Let's see what comforts this shitheap of a village has to offer a new lord."