Slaves

By the time the first light of daybreak started to peek through the maze of buildings. Following Charles's advice, Argon made his way to the outskirts of Duskhaven, where Murdock's slave market was located. The place was abuzz with activity, bidders haggling loudly, slaves of all shapes and sizes being showcased, the air thick with despair and excitement. Argon felt a wave of nausea, but he swallowed it down, focusing on the task at hand.

The space was divided into a variety of makeshift sections, and the air was thick with the clamour of bargaining voices, clinking coins, and the dull thud of gavel strikes. Flags fluttered in the afternoon breeze; each emblazoned with the distinctive emblem of an iron chain - the sign of Murdock, the slave trader.

The auction area was a raised platform at the centre of the market. It was a simple wooden stage, weathered by time and use, surrounded by a throng of potential buyers.

The crowd was a mixed bag of traders, adventurers, wealthy citizens, and rogues. They were eager, calculative, or merely curious, their eyes hungrily scanning each new product that Murdock presented.

When Argon arrived, a woman, thin but with a fiery look in her eyes, was on the block.

As Argon wove through the bustling crowd, he found a spot where he had a clear view of the platform.

With a loud clap of his hands, a man gathered the crowd's attention. His voice was like gravel, toughened by years of barking orders over the din of the market.

The man who immediately grabbed Argon's attention was the auctioneer. A wiry figure dressed in plain garb, his sharp eyes darted across the crowd, missing nothing. His silver tongue darted out, spinning tales of the slaves' potential and worth.

"Good afternoon, Duskhaven!" He roared, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Welcome, welcome to Murdock's auction. You know the drill. We've got strong backs and nimble fingers on offer today. Let's find these folks a new home, shall we?"

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd, and the auctioneer beamed, pointing at a frail-looking woman. "Let's start with this fine lady Elara here. Who'll give me a gold piece for her?"

The auction rolled on, and slaves paraded on the stage and sold to the highest bidder. Each one looked tired, resigned to their fate. Argon couldn't help the pang of discomfort twisting in his stomach.

Then came the muscly man called Tavian, a veritable mountain of muscle. He was led onto the stage, his bulk almost dwarfing the auctioneer. He'd be an ideal candidate for Argon, strong and stout. Argon sensed that he would be manageable and capable of taking hits in a fight. The bidding began at four gold pieces but quickly shot up to a staggering fifteen. Argon could only watch as a wealthy merchant in the crowd won the bid, the man smirking as if he'd just won a prize racehorse.

The auctioneer wiped the sweat from his brow and gestured for the next slave. The man that was led onto the stage was unremarkable, to say the least. He was of average build, his face a mask of resignation.

"Next up, we've got Brolan here." the auctioneer introduced, patting the man's shoulder with a rough hand. "He's a sturdy one, this lad. From the south, good for heavy lifting. And obedient won't give you any trouble. Let's start the bidding at...two gold coins."

Brolan didn't react to the description or the low starting bid. He just stared blankly ahead, seemingly oblivious to the potential buyers assessing him. Argon took a deep breath and raised his hand, calling out his bid and bracing himself for the potential bidding war to come.

Finally, Argon's attention was drawn to an unassuming man who led to the stage. He was of average build and height, with short-cropped hair and a blank expression. Murdock began his usual spiel. "This one's from the south, folks. name's Brolan. He's a sturdy one, capable of heavy labor. No particular skills or training, but he's strong and loyal. Let's start the bidding at...two gold coins."

Argon was relieved. This man, Brolan, seemed like his price would fall within his budget. He was unremarkable, true, but Argon didn't need a gladiator; he needed someone sturdy who could hold their own in a fight. He decided to place his bid, hoping he wouldn't be outbid in the process.

With the spotlight now on the slave known as Brolan, the auctioneer raised his gavel. Brolan was an unremarkable figure, not possessing the same obvious strength as the previous slaves sold, but there was a certain fire in his eyes that suggested a hidden resilience.

"Bidding starts at 3 gold for this one!" the auctioneer called out. The crowd buzzed with murmurs, and glances were exchanged. A burly man with a hooked nose immediately raised his hand, "3 gold and 50 silvers."

Before the auctioneer could acknowledge the bid, a thin, wiry woman dressed in an ostentatious red gown shot up her hand, "4 gold!" she announced loudly. The crowd turned to look at her, some with surprised eyes and others with an appreciative nod.

The bids rose in increments of 50 silvers, the hooked-nose man and the woman in red seemingly locked in a fierce bidding war. The tension was palpable in the air as Argon watched, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he wanted Brolan; something about the man felt right.

Finally, Argon raised his hand, "5 gold," he announced. The crowd turned to look at him, eyes wide. The hooked-nose man scowled while the woman in red gave him a sharp look. Undeterred, Argon maintained his composure.

The auctioneer nodded at Argon, "5 gold going once... going twice..." he began. The woman in red opened her mouth as if to bid again, but Argon cut her off, "5 gold and 50 silvers."

The crowd gasped collectively, some chuckling at the audacity of this newcomer. The woman in red gave him a venomous look before sitting back down, defeated. "Sold to the gentleman for 5 gold and 50 silvers!" the auctioneer announced, bringing down his gavel with a resounding thud.

After the auction, Argon was led to a tent where Brolan was handed over to him. As he handed over his coins, Argon noticed a mark on Brolan's neck. It was a tattoo of chains in a circle, a well-known symbol for a slave.

"Ah, you've noticed the mark, eh?" the auctioneer said, following Argon's gaze. "That's the slave mark. No need to worry, sir. If Brolan here ever runs off, the Seric will execute him if they find him without his master. It's their law."

With a nod of thanks, Argon walked away with Brolan trailing behind him. His heart was still racing from the auction, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He had made his first big purchase in Duskhaven, a step towards his survival and, possibly, success.

Argon turned to Brolan, attempting to establish some ground rules. "Listen, I'm Argon, no need to address me as master", he started, his tone firm, "I expect loyalty. In return, I'll treat you fairly."

Brolan laughed, a bitter, scornful sound. "Why should I be loyal to a weakling like you?"

Argon felt a spark of anger at Brolan's disrespect. He was not going to be disregarded by his own purchase. He reared back, slamming his fist into Brolan's face with surprising strength. The burly man staggered, caught off guard by the unexpected attack.

Brolan's shock quickly turned into defiance, and he moved to retaliate. But Argon was faster. He rained down a series of hard hits, targeting Brolan's gut and face. Each punch was a clear message: Argon would not be disrespected, and disobedience had its price.

When Argon finally stepped back, Brolan was hunched over, gasping for breath and clutching his bruised body. Argon was panting slightly from the exertion, but his eyes were hard and uncompromising.

"Your life depends on your loyalty to me," Argon said coldly. "Remember that."

Brolan looked at him, pain and a hint of fear in his eyes. He nodded, silently agreeing to Argon's terms.

Satisfied, Argon decided to continue with his preparations for his mission against the bandits. He walked towards the blacksmith's shop, with Brolan stumbling behind him. Despite the harsh beginning, Argon hoped that he had made a strategic choice. Only time would tell.

Next, Argon decided to visit Greg, the blacksmith.

Argon and Brolan trudged into Greg's blacksmith shop. Greg, a large, burly man, was behind the counter, his sweaty skin gleaming in the dim light of his shop. His rough hands were blackened with soot and grime, telltale signs of a hard day's work.

"Well, if it isn't the lucky cunt," Greg growled, eyeing Argon and his newly acquired slave. "Moving up in the world, are ya?"

"I need a fucking helmet. None of your overpriced shit, just something to keep my skull from cracking open."

Greg raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly at Argon's bluntness. He was used to dealing with the gruff attitudes of mercenaries and adventurers. "Well, aren't you a charmer," he drawled, sarcasm dripping from every word.

He turned his back to Argon, rustling around behind the counter before producing an aged, battered helmet. "This one's seen better days, but it'll do the job," Greg said, tossing it towards Argon. "And it's cheap."

Then, Greg's hands disappeared behind the counter again, emerging with a newer, shinier helmet. "This one's a bit more, but it's solid steel, better protection." He shrugged, setting it down next to the first. "Your call."

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter, waiting for Argon to make his decision. His gaze was cool and indifferent, a stark contrast to the heated forge behind him.

Greg gestured towards a small collection of helmets on the side shelf, each varying in shape, material, and condition. "Take your pick," he grumbled, wiping the sweat off his brow with a grimy forearm.

Among the assortment, one helmet immediately caught Argon's eye. It was an imposing piece, jet-black and glossy, with a menacing look about it. A row of formidable spikes crowned the top, lending the helmet a threatening aura. It was as though it were forged in the heart of darkness, its exterior consuming all light, reflecting nothing back. Its sleek yet hostile appearance was intimidating, exactly the image Argon wished to project.

"That one," Argon pointed, his gaze fixated on the black, spiked helmet. "How much for that one?" he inquired, his tone brusque, revealing his interest. He glanced at Greg, awaiting his response, his hand instinctively reaching for the formidable headgear.

"That right there? That's dayless steel, lad. The black stuff. Made by the ancients, that is," Greg informed him, a trace of reverence in his usually gruff voice. "We can't make that shit anymore, only reforge it. The supply? All scrap metal from the ruins or intact pieces such as this one here."

He ran a gnarled hand over the smooth, black surface of the helmet. "This is the same material the Seric soldiers wear. And trust me, it's superior shit nigh impenatrable. Hard as hell, but lighter than it's got any right to be."

Argon's eyes widened, his hand retracting from the helmet. He was astounded by the information and the fact that the helmet he'd set his sights on was out of his reach.

"Judging by that look on your face, I reckon you can't afford this one," Greg stated, his face a hardened mask. "A piece like this will cost you a pretty penny."

Argon swallowed hard, the harsh reality sinking in. He couldn't afford it, not by a long shot. But now, he understood why the Seric were so formidable. They had not only artefacts but also the highest-grade armour sets made from this dayless steel. It was a stark reminder that fucking with the Seric was a path best avoided.

"How much, Greg?" Argon asked tentatively, steeling himself for the answer.

"For a friend like you?" Greg paused, assessing Argon for a moment before replying, "110 gold."

"110 gold? Holy shit!" Argon exclaimed, nearly choking on his own spit; you could buy an artefact with that. "How the hell do Seric soldiers get full sets of this?"

As Argon's eyes trailed over the Dayless Steel, Greg cleared his throat. "Those blokes strutting around in the Dayless Steel," he began, leaning back against a wooden table, "they're Seric Knights, not your average foot soldier."

He scoffed. "Regular soldiers don't get shit. They're lucky if they get a decent piece of iron to wield. But the Knights... well, they're a different story. Cloaked in Dayless Steel and armed with the best weapons, they're a sight to behold and a nightmare in combat."

Greg gave a grim laugh. "Oh also, they don't own them. The higher Seric nobility loan them out to their Knights. They are just stewards of the gear."

Argon raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "And if they try to steal it?"

"The punishment is brutal," Greg said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Torture and then a beheading. The Seric don't play games with their gear, lad. It's a death wish to cross them."

"Alright, alright," Argon sighed, acknowledging the reality that the dayless steel helmet was far beyond his means. He turned his attention back to the assortment of helmets displayed on the counter. "What about this one?" he asked, pointing to a simple, functional helmet made of a less expensive metal.

"That one will cost you 3 gold," Greg replied, a more reasonable price lighting up Argon's face.

"Deal," Argon responded promptly, not wanting to haggle over something as vital as protection. He counted out the coins and handed them to Greg, who passed him the helmet. It was a far cry from the black, spiky one that had caught his eye initially, but it would serve its purpose.

He turned it over in his hands, already appreciating the added safety it would provide. Despite the gaping difference between this helmet and the unattainable dayless steel one, Argon was satisfied with his purchase. After all, he now had something solid between his skull and the hostile world outside.

Turning to Brolan, Argon decided to make another purchase. "Give me a short sword and some throwing spikes too. The cheapest you have."

Greg grunted in affirmation, moving to a different part of his shop. He returned moments later with a plain short sword and a set of six throwing spikes, which he handed over to Argon in exchange for some silvers.

With their new gear in tow, Argon and Brolan headed back to the new apartment, ready to prepare for their mission against the bandits.

While Argon was now outfitted in full armour that gleamed with an aura of strength and protection, Brolan was still in his simple, slightly ragged tunic. The difference between them was like night and day.

Argon, looking over Brolan's vulnerable state, couldn't help but let out a snort of amusement. "Look at you," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "A real shining beacon of readiness for battle, ain't ya?"

Argon felt a sense of satisfaction - he was better equipped now, and he had someone to watch his back. For the first time since he arrived in Duskhaven, Argon felt he was truly ready for the challenges ahead.

The apartment that Argon rented was nestled within the more tolerable part of Duskhaven's Merchant District. It wasn't quite the affluent heart of the city where wealthy traders flaunted their riches and opulent abodes. But it was a far cry from the grimy, danger-ridden slums where Argon had been squatting until now.

This section of the Merchant District was a complex blend of functionality and modest comfort. The area was predominantly occupied by the working class - smiths, cobblers, tailors, carpenters, and other labourers. The streets were lined with a mix of small shops and residential buildings, their structures worn but sturdy, indicating a certain degree of neglect offset by a gritty determination to endure.

Argon's new abode was a compact, two-room apartment in a three-story building. The stone structure, a relic of Duskhaven's past, was still solid, despite the signs of ageing etched into its walls.

Inside, the apartment was basic but practical. The first room served as a living space with a rudimentary hearth for cooking and a worn, wooden table with a pair of mismatched chairs. A small, grimy window perched above the hearth let in a stream of natural light, illuminating the room's humble accommodations.

The second room was a sleeping area, with a narrow, straw-stuffed mattress laid on a low wooden frame - the first proper bed Argon could claim as his own in a long time. A wooden chest at the foot of the bed provided storage space for personal belongings. The room was void of any adornments, reflecting the utilitarian nature of its tenant.