Sorcery

Eldridge gives a firm nod, his stern gaze scanning the room. "Now that we've got the introductions out of the way, let's get down to business. I must apologize for the delay in sending soldiers to your aid. We've had... unforeseen difficulties of our own."

Argon dismisses his apology with a wave of his hand. "No problem," he replies confidently, leaning back in his chair, "I had the situation under control."

Eldridge raises an eyebrow, interest sparking in his eyes. "Indeed? And were there any instances of mutiny in the village?"

Argon shrugs nonchalantly, "A couple of characters tried to stir up trouble, but they were quickly dealt with. Once they realized I wasn't messing around, everyone fell in line." His words hang in the air, a testament to his capability and swift action.

"That's indeed wonderful news," Baron Eldridge muses, a hint of relief painting his stern features. He drums his fingers on the grand wooden table, the rhythmic tapping resonating in the hushed room. "With Norenway back under control, it certainly simplifies matters."

Eldridge leans back in his chair, weaving his fingers together as he surveys the council. His eyes linger on Argon, a flicker of determination sparking in the depth of his gaze. "As you're well aware, Argon, my territory has been suffering from a severe drought and pestilence. It's caused a great deal of hardship among the populace, and there have been repercussions."

He unfolds a large, detailed map, laying it flat on the table for all to see. The territories are meticulously marked, and each village and hamlet is denoted with precision.

"My domain includes these villages: Horntide, Norenway, Silverdale, Oakheart, Ironhill, Goldenfield, Ashbourne, Blackwood, Stonebridge, Willowbrook, Mistwood, and Embercrest."

He taps his fingers on the map, specifically on the spots marking Blackwood, Stonebridge, and Willowbrook. His brow furrows in concern.

"These three areas, Blackwood Village, Stonebridge Hamlet, and Willowbrook Settlement, are in open rebellion. Their proximity to each other may have facilitated their coordinated defiance," he explains, tracing the distance between the villages on the map. "We need to address this before the unrest spreads further."

"The traitorous villages lie to the north of Horntide," Baron Eldridge says, tracing his finger along the paths leading to the said villages on the map. The harsh lines etched into his face deepen as he looks at the marked points. "They are like a festering wound that we need to cauterize swiftly."

His gaze drifts down towards the southern regions of the map. "Meanwhile, Norenway lies in the south, and your successful efforts there have proven beneficial, Argon." There is a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he acknowledges Argon's contribution. "You've quelled the embers of rebellion, ensuring that we don't face threats from both ends."

Eldridge drums his fingers on the table, a thoughtful expression playing on his face. "As of now, all our forces are stretched thin, maintaining order in the loyal villages. We need to ensure that their loyalty remains intact. The last thing we want is a spark to ignite the powder keg of unrest."

A sense of urgency fills the room, mirroring the gravity of the situation. The Baron's voice echoes amidst the silence, a stark reminder of the brewing storm that threatens to destabilize their lands.

The room takes on a sombre tone as Baron Eldridge elaborates on the dilemma facing them. "A peasant uprising, in itself, might not be a large threat. But every man we lose weakens us further," he concedes, his voice heavy with the weight of responsibility. "We are forced to spill the blood of our own peasants."

His gaze turns steely as he continues. "Moreover, each conflict drains our already strained resources, further impoverishing us." He raps his knuckles on the wooden table, underlining the seriousness of his words. "But the root cause of all this is not the discord amongst our people, but the relentless famine and the ensuing drought. That is our true enemy."

He pauses, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in. The air in the room grows heavy with shared concern. "It's like we're caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. We need to address the rebellion to maintain stability, but also find a solution drought to remove the cause of the discord," he concludes, looking each council member in the eye. The Bishop, his robes rustling in the silent room, speaks up, his voice trembling with a potent mix of fear and piety. "Sorcery taints the air, Baron. Dark forces toy with us," he prophesizes.

Baron Eldridge squints his eyes, leaning forward in his chair. "What the hell do you mean, Bishop?" he questions, his tone harsher than intended.

The room stills, each individual hanging on to the words exchanged. Garrick, a formidable figure standing in the corner, breaks the silence. "I never thought I'd say this, but I actually agree with the holy man," he grumbles. "This shit is odd. There's more to this drought than meets the eye."

A murmur of agreement echoes around the room, the severity of Garrick's words hitting home.

He continues, his eyes hardening. "And let's not forget, Eldridge, you've made a shitload of enemies. Chief among them are those fuckers in Silverthorn," he adds, pointing out the enmity between Baron Eldridge and the neighbouring territory to the southwest.

With a grumble, Baron Eldridge rubs his forehead, his fingers brushing through the greying strands of his hair. "That bastard, Baron Waleran, definitely has a bone to pick with me, but resorting to fucking magic?" He scoffs, the sound echoing in the high ceiling of the council room. "He'd be signing his own death warrant. The king would have his head for that."

His son, Ser Branton, a well-built man with eyes that held a sharp intelligence, speaks up. "Father, you're underestimating that snake. There's no depth Waleran wouldn't sink to for a piece of Horntide."

Branton crosses his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "He can't openly declare war, the laws are clear on that. But what if he swoops in as the 'savior', claiming to aid our drought-ridden villages? That sly fucker could be planning to use our plight to his advantage."

Baron Eldridge turns his attention to his treasurer, Master Wymond, an older man with a calculating gaze that speaks volumes about his experience with numbers. "Wymond, how long can our coffers hold up with the current grain distribution to the villages?"

Master Wymond, having clearly pondered this question already, takes a deep breath before sharing his estimation. "Approximately seven months, my lord. After that, we'll start depleting the treasury."

A sigh of relief escapes the Baron. "Well, that's not too bad," he murmurs, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. "If this is indeed some trickery or sorcery, it surely can't last forever. We can weather this storm."

Argon raises an eyebrow, intrigued and mildly concerned. "Forgive my ignorance," he says, "But I thought sorcery didn't exist."

The Bishop, an elderly man with wise eyes and an air of absolute belief, smiles. "Oh, it exists, my son," he says. "And it's a dangerous and destructive power."

Argon leans back in his chair. "And what kind of powers does a sorcerer wield?"

The Bishop's smile fades, replaced by a serious expression. "Only one, really: the power to curse. It's a foolish and damaging endeavor. Not only does it condemn one's soul, but it also uses the sorcerer's own life force as fuel. Once depleted, it cannot be recovered."

Argon considers this, then asks, "And does this Baron Waleran have an infinite supply of villagers he could turn into sorcerers?"

At this, the Bishop laughs, a dry, husky sound. "If that were the case, the world would have been doomed long ago. No, only those with dark blood are capable of such magic. To enact a curse over an area as large as this would rapidly drain a person's life force. It could only last for two months at most. The longest curse I've ever seen lasted a year, and that was cast on an individual, not a whole region."

Garrick suddenly snaps at Argon, "now shut the fuck up, Argon. We don't have time for your damned stupidity."

The Bishop turns to Baron Eldridge. "If Baron Waleran has indeed used such dark magic, then we might have a chance to nail him," he says.

The Baron runs a hand through his hair, looking fatigued. "I'm aware, Bishop, but proving such a thing won't be easy. We would first have to inform my superior, Viscount..." He trails off, his expression thoughtful. "...and then it would go up the chain of command. We would need an investigation from the church to determine the source of the curse, if there even is one we can find. And if we screw this up... well, it'll be our heads on a platter."