Spitefulness

With a fair share of swear words and harsh language, the buxom woman guides Argon through the gritty, narrow streets of the village. "This is it, my house," she murmurs, gesturing towards a humble thatched-roof cottage. The house itself is a simple two-room dwelling with a whiff of past modest prosperity to it, only one bedroom and a dining area with a bit of straw in the corner. The whitewashed walls have greyed with time and neglect, while the thatched roof is notably weather-worn and patchy in places. A small, ill-tended garden out front speaks of lost care. The wooden door creaks loudly as she pushes it open, revealing an equally dismal interior. A threadbare rug covers the hard-packed earth floor, and a few crude pieces of furniture are scattered about. Despite its rundown state, there's a semblance of home to it, a hint of warmth that the woman has managed to retain amid the chaos.

The moment they step into the dwelling, a flash of movement catches Argon's eye. With a feral shout of "For my father!", a scrawny boy lunges at him, brandishing a dull, poorly made knife. A growl slips from Argon's throat, "What the fuck?!" he yells, effortlessly deflecting the amateurish strike with a backhand. The boy - Eldrin, if the woman's desperate cry was any indication - instantly drops the weapon, the force of Argon's punch sending him sprawling on his backside. The entire room echoes with the sickening crack of fist against flesh. The boy lies whimpering, clutching his face as tears stream down his cheeks. The woman gasps, rushing to her son's side. "Eldrin, no!" she cries. Argon's laughter fills the room, cold and cruel. "Is this how you welcome your new lord, you little shit?"

The woman lunges forward, placing her body between Argon and the crumpled figure of her son. Her face, marked with traces of hardship, pleads with Argon. Tears carve rivulets through the dust on her cheeks as she begs. "Please, ser," she chokes out, her voice shaking with desperation. "He's just a stupid boy. Have mercy, please!" She clings onto her son; her body wracked with sobs. "He's all I have," she implores, her voice barely a whisper, pleading for the life of her only remaining family.

In a fit of foul language and swift violence, Argon laughs, addressing the woman, "Calm your tits, woman. Your brat tried to stab me. Can't have that shit, can we?" He looms over the boy, who's crying on the floor, holding his bloodied nose. "But lucky for you, I need all the peasants, even the stupid ones, I can get and you'll owe me even more," Argon snorts dismissively, eyeing the trembling boy. The woman falls to her knees, clutching at Argon's leg. "Thank you, Ser, thank you," she sobs. "He's just a boy, doesn't know any better." The hardness in Argon's eyes softens just a fraction. "Teach him then, bitch. I won't be so fucking lenient next time."

With an icy stare, Argon moves towards the boy who's sprawled out on the ground. He doesn't care for the cries of the woman or the pathetic pleas in her voice. "Actually, I'll teach this shit a lesson, you're clearly too soft," Argon growls. He plants his boot firmly on the back of the kid's arm, applying weight. His grip tightens on the boy's wrist, pulling back against the natural bend of the elbow. The sound of tearing muscles fills the room, followed by a sickening pop. The boy screams out in agony, and Argon just smirks, stepping back. His message has been sent.

As Argon delivers his brutal lesson, the woman throws herself at his feet again, her pleas growing more desperate. Her voice trembles as she cries out, "Stop! Please, stop!" Her eyes, filled with terror, are fixated on her son writhing on the floor. Her hands clutch Argon's armoured leg, trying to somehow halt his cruel actions. Every fibre of her being is screaming out in anguish, begging him to spare her child from further torment.

After a tense and emotionally charged confrontation with the boy, Argon dismisses him with a cold, harsh stare. He then turns his attention towards the woman. Ignoring her protestations, he begins to undress from his armour, his gaze never leaving hers. The air in the room grows thick with tension and fear. He approaches her, grabbing her arm roughly. The woman's protests are swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room.

Argon, after taking off his armour, commanded the woman with a harsh voice, 'To the bed.' There was a threatening authority in his tone that made her obey without a word.

Her movements were graceful, like a willow in the wind, despite the harsh realities that currently surrounded her. There was a certain resilience in her posture, a quiet defiance that belied her current circumstance. In these trying times, she managed to retain her dignity, an attribute that was as captivating as her physical appearance.

Their physical interaction was charged and intense, echoing the rugged nature of their environment. Argon's hands navigate the curves of her form, tracing the contours of her body as if staking claim to his new territory. Her movements are reactive, caught in the tumultuous tide of Argon's assertive actions. Despite her outward resistance, there is a subtle surrender to the inevitability of the situation.

Argon swept the woman into his arms, his eyes burning with an unspoken desire. Their bodies pressed together as he leaned in, capturing her lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. She yielded beneath him, their breaths mingling in the close confines of the room. He traced a line down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. The room was filled with an intense atmosphere, their shared heat palpable. Their actions grew more fervent, each lost in the throes of shared passion, marking the beginning of their tumultuous liaison.

Argon asserts his dominance, pressing himself into her. His actions are rough and demanding, mimicking the intensity of their circumstances. As he finds his rhythm, he begins to increase the pace, each movement a proclamation of his newfound authority over this territory and its inhabitants. The room fills with an atmosphere of wild abandon, every sound echoing his exerted control.

In the room's shadowy corner, the young boy sits huddled, tears streaming down his face. His blue eyes were wide with horror, unable to comprehend the scene playing out before him. His mother's muffled cries and the grunting of the man who called himself their new lord resonates through the small room, shattering the innocence of his youth in the crudest way imaginable. The harsh reality of their situation dawns on him as he silently weeps, his small hands balled into fists of impotent anger.

As their interlude reaches its peak, Argon grunts in satisfaction, his body rigid for a moment before he collapses on Lyra, his chest heaving as he attempts to regain his breath. The intensity of the moment leaves him in a state of lingering euphoria, amplified by the fact that he has taken something else from the woman - her dignity. The power, the control, it all adds to the exhilarating rush that is now starting to wane, replaced by an enveloping sense of weariness.

His body still pressing into hers, he places a heavy arm over her, an unspoken demand for her to stay beneath him. For a few minutes, he remains there, absorbing the warmth of her body, listening to the erratic rhythm of his own breath mingling with hers. He rises off the bed and to his feet.

Argon redresses into his armour, his expression unreadable. The woman remains silent, her eyes downcast, a clear sign of her submission and fear. The power dynamics have been established - Argon's brutish and domineering behaviour marking him as the indisputable lord of this domain.

Argon sneers at her, his contemptuous gaze piercing through her. "Whore, what's your name?" he barks. With a trembling voice, she musters her courage and defiantly responds, "I am Lyra, my lord." His lips curl into a twisted smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "A pretty name for my newest possession," he sneers. "You belong to me now, Lyra."

"I fucking enjoyed that!" He tosses her a gold coin like a common whore. "Tell you what, come to the chief's house later, and we'll have some more fun". As he strides over to the sobbing boy, he taunts him, "I just fucked your mother, and you stood there like a pathetic coward, watching it all unfold. Disgraceful bitch."

Stepping out from Lyra's home, Argon relishes the chilly evening air as it stings his cheeks. The village is still under the cloak of night, only dimly lit by the occasional flickering torch. His new fief, Blackwood, seems almost peaceful in this light. He heads towards the old chief's house, his boots crunching on the gravel path, each step echoing in the silent night.

The walk is short but leisurely, and it gives him a moment to think, to absorb the reality of his new station. He is no longer just a sellsword under Baron Eldrige but now a lord in his own right. The weight of this responsibility, albeit small in the grand scheme of things, dawns on him, heavy yet exhilarating.

As he nears the old chief's house, the scars of past struggles are evident. The structure is in shambles; he sees more problems than initially thought, a grim reminder of the unrest that gripped this village. The sagging wooden beams, the dilapidated roof, and the weather-beaten walls all bear testimony to the neglect that the house has suffered. But it is his now, and he is determined to restore it, to restore the entire village back to its former glory.

As Argon approaches the old chief's house, he observes a flurry of activity. It seems that Brolan has put the villagers to good use. The old men who had stepped forward as carpenters earlier are making swift work of repairing the dilapidated structure. They have removed the decayed wooden panels from the exterior, replacing them with fresh planks. The transformation, although far from complete, is stark.

Sounds of hammers striking nails fill the air, punctuating the occasional grunt of effort. A couple of young lads, probably the sons of the carpenters, are hauling planks from a nearby pile. Even at this late hour, their work is relentless.

Near the entrance, the builder is instructing a group of villagers on how to patch up a hole in the stone wall. They are mixing some sort of mortar in a large wooden tub, and he is showing them how to apply it efficiently.

Argon can see the doctor nearby, supervising some women who are cleaning the interior. He occasionally points out areas that need extra attention but otherwise seems satisfied with their work.

Despite the wreckage that was the old chief's house, the combined efforts of the villagers, under Brolan's supervision, have already begun to turn it around. Argon can see that there is still a significant amount of work to be done, but he can't help but appreciate the villagers' efforts. The house is gradually taking on a more habitable and less rundown appearance.

Brolan steps towards Argon, smirking, "Everything's going fine here, boss," he says, "The old geezers are busting their asses off."

"Good," Argon responds; he continues, "I'm beaten. Let's crash in one of these shitholes around here."

Upon hearing this, the doctor steps forward, a look of trepidation on his face. A haggard-looking man of middle years, his face is a map of worry lines, and his hands bear the signs of countless hours spent tending to others. "My lord," he says, his voice trembling slightly. "I heard your words...my home is modest, but it's clean and comfortable. I offer it to you for your rest."

"Good, good. You lot keep up the fucking work," Argon commands to the others, glancing over the scene. "There's no damn rest until this shithole is looking more like a palace, got it?" His voice carries easily across the area, loud and authoritative.

Argon turns his gaze to the doctor, considering his offer. With an almost mocking smirk, Argon nods at the doctor, "Well, aren't you a gem," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thank you, doctor. That's very kind of you. Lead the way, then."

In spite of the harsh tone, the doctor seems to take this as a compliment, a relieved smile spreading across his face. With a quick nod, he sets off, leading Argon and Brolan through the streets of the village to his home.

Drained from the day's events, Argon and Brolan retire to the makeshift sleeping quarters provided by the doctor. The small house is humble, lacking the comfort they were accustomed to at Horntide, but it's clean, and the beds are reasonably comfortable.

Argon flops down on the mattress, barely even taking time to remove his armour. Brolan does likewise, a sigh of contentment escaping him as he sinks into the simple bed. Both men, worn out from the day's battle and later events, quickly surrender to the lure of sleep. The quiet of the night is punctuated only by the rhythmic breathing of the two knights as they rest, gathering their strength for the challenges of the next day.