The Hunt Begins

Argon's eyes fluttered open, his senses slowly returning to him. Weakness still gripped his body, but his mind was clear, focused on the metal disc beside him. It had been freed from its confining hilt, its true nature now exposed. With a surge of hope, he extended a trembling hand to examine it more closely.

The liberated pommel shimmered in the dim light of his shabby room. Its essence resonated with a faint but discernible power. Argon's feelings allowed him to identify the object; however, its purpose remained elusive. The true extent of its nature remained a mystery, waiting to be unravelled.

Hunger gnawed at Argon's stomach, a relentless reminder of his dire situation. It had been days since his last meal, and his strength waned. With its enigmatic power, the metal medallion held the potential to change his circumstances to secure his survival in this unforgiving city.

A seductive whisper flows through his mind, pleading for his blood. He is momentarily distracted by the chillingly comforting familiarity of the voice, the sensation it creates under his skin.

With a deep breath, Argon turned his attention to the infected wound on his hand. He winced as he applied pressure, squeezing a few drops of blood onto the unremarkable metal pommel. The drops glistened momentarily upon the medallion before sinking to its surface.

The medallion instantly responded to the contact, glowing with an ethereal light. Argon watched in awe as the light radiated outward, filling the room with a warm glow. The air seemed charged with anticipation, as if the medallion promised sustenance and salvation.

But as quickly as it had ignited, the glow subsided, leaving the medallion looking ordinary and inconspicuous again. Argon's heart sank. The medallion's purpose remained elusive, its power hidden within its unassuming exterior. He knew he had to uncover its true potential to survive.

Desperation fueled his determination. Argon rose from his bed, his weakened body protesting the effort. He needed sustenance, a source of nourishment to replenish his dwindling energy.

Leaving his shabby room behind, Argon ventured into the streets of Duskhaven, the city's despair echoing in his ears. His gaunt figure drew little attention amidst the sea of wretched souls. Every step was a struggle, each movement weighted by hunger and exhaustion.

Argon was a pitiful sight wearing rags for clothes. The faded and muddied fabrics hang loosely on his frame, patched and mended in many places, revealing their age and extensive wear. Despite their tattered condition, they provide some protection against the elements and serve as his only attire.

A thin, worn-out leather belt cinched his waist. It's an old piece, noticeably worn but structurally sound. Its function goes beyond holding his clothes together, also providing a means to secure his most crucial possession - his satchel.

Argon's satchel is as weathered as the rest of his attire and slung over his shoulder. It's made from a rough material, showing signs of considerable use. Despite its worn appearance, it held his valuables: it was empty save for his purse.

Argon scoured the streets, his eyes scanning for any signs of sustenance. The city was a desolate wasteland devoid of resources and compassion. He knew he had to rely on his resourcefulness to secure a meal.

Argon approached a dilapidated stall offering a meagre selection of stale bread with his remaining bronze coins. The vendor regarded him with indifference and disdain as Argon exchanged cash for a handful of the dry, tasteless loaves.

Argon felt a mixture of gratitude and disappointment as he clutched the meagre sustenance. The bread was far from satisfying, but it would stave off starvation for longer. It reminded him of his constant struggle in this cruel city, where survival came at a high cost. It was time to invest in his survival and advancement.

Argon's gaze fell upon a weathered stall adorned with trinkets and necessities as he weaved through the labyrinthine alleys. It was a modest purveyor of survival essentials, catering to those who clung to life within the city's unforgiving embrace.

Argon approached the vendor, a weary-faced man with weathered hands, and exchanged a curt nod. There was no need for pleasantries. He surveyed the wares, his eyes scanning the assortment of items available for purchase.

His attention was drawn to a modest stack of flint and steel, a humble tool that held the potential to ignite the fires of change. He examined the materials, the flint's rough texture and the steel's metallic sheen reflecting his desire for transformation. He also took a grinding stone.

Argon negotiated a fair price with the vendor, exchanging his scarce coinage for the tools. After completing The transaction, he slipped the tools into his pack, feeling renewed purpose and readiness.

Emboldened by his acquisition, Argon turned his attention to other essential supplies. He bartered for a small but sturdy leather pouch, ideal for storing provisions and treasures he might encounter in future endeavours. He secured a few loaves of mouldy bread and a water skin, aware that sustenance and hydration were paramount to his survival.

With a satchel now laden with the tools, Argon felt a flicker of hope ignited within him. These humble supplies were more than mere items; they represented his commitment to forging a chosen path. No longer would he be a passive victim of circumstance; he would seize the opportunities and carve his destiny. He was now completely broke, without a copper to his name.

Argon returned to his shabby room and laid the meagre provisions before him. The bread taunted him with its lacklustre appearance, a stark reminder of his meagre means. He knew this respite would be short-lived, but for now, it offered a reprieve from the gnawing hunger that had plagued him.

With his hunger momentarily appeased, Argon returned to the medallion. It still held mysteries waiting to be unravelled. He vowed to continue his search for understanding, to find a way to harness its power for his survival in this unforgiving world.

He had to do something about his predicament. He would starve if left if it continued like this; he left his hovel and went to a quiet street.

Argon's heart pounded as he watched the unsuspecting figure saunter down the desolate street. The man was adorned with tattered garments, a testament to his destitution. Argon's mind raced with a dangerous idea — perhaps it was time to resort to more desperate measures.

Now missing its pommel, his rusty blade hung at his side, tucked into his belt. It was a pitiful weapon, barely capable of inflicting harm, but it was all he had. With a mixture of hesitation and determination, he stepped out from the shadows, his hand gripping the hilt tightly.

As Argon approached, his footsteps silent against the cracked cobblestones, his mind wrestled with guilt and a primal hunger for survival. He was about to embark on this dangerous path, but the desperation within him pushed aside any moral reservations.

With a sudden burst of energy, Argon lunged forward; blade raised high. His victim was caught off guard, turned in fear and desperation. Their eyes locked for a moment, both bearing the weight of poverty and despair.

The confrontation was brief and brutal. Argon's blade, dulled by years of neglect, scraped the man's arm, drawing a thin trickle of blood. It was enough to startle the man into surrender. Their eyes met again, and Argon recognised shared suffering in the stranger's gaze.

The gaunt man held out what little bronze he had. Argon's desperation transformed into a flicker of anger. This man was like him, struggling to survive in a merciless world. It was pointless to rob someone on the brink of destitution; it had no gains. Why he had decided to robe the man in the first place perplexed even him; perhaps starvation and poverty clouded his judgement.

Reluctantly, Argon withdrew his blade; stealing was dishonourable even for him, an act he didn't want to engage in. "Go," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. The man nodded, his eyes reflecting gratitude and confusion, before disappearing into the darkness.

Argon stood alone in the quiet street, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. Robbing fellow destitute individuals was not a sustainable solution. He needed to find a way to secure his survival without preying on those who were already teetering on the edge.

A new plan took shape within his mind. He would venture beyond the city walls into the treacherous wilderness surrounding Duskhaven. There, he would seek out the beasts that roamed the land, their wild nature a reflection of the harsh world they inhabited. The path of an adventurer.

Argon, clutching the rusty sword he had acquired. Determination burned in his eyes as he laid the medallion on a makeshift table, his hands trembling with anticipation. With a small rag soaked in vinegar and his grinding stone, he meticulously began rubbing away the layers of rust that clung to the blade. The effort was met with minimal success. The rust stubbornly clung to the metal like a scar that refused to fade. Argon cursed under his breath, realising that eradicating the rust would require more than vinegar and elbow grease. He would need a more robust tool to chip away at the relentless corrosion. But for now, he had to make do with what he had, accepting the imperfect state of his newly acquired weapon. It reminded him of the world he inhabited, where even survival tools were marked by decay and imperfection.

Argon gazed at the rusty sword in his hands, frustrated by its deteriorated state. He knew that acquiring a new weapon would vastly improve his chances of survival in the unforgiving world of Nekros. However, the cost of a decent sword was beyond his meagre means. With its gleaming blade and sturdy hilt, a new sword would command at least ten silvers, a small fortune in this destitute city. He also considered purchasing a spear, a weapon of greater reach and versatility. Still too expensive; additionally, they were only available through the exclusive Seric merchant area, where entry was restricted to those with connections or exorbitant sums of silver. The reality of his situation sank in, reminding him of the stark divide between the haves and the have-nots in Duskhaven. For now, he would have to rely on his rusty blade, a constant reminder of his precarious existence and the desperate need to amass enough wealth to secure a better future.

Argon secured his metal sphere medallion by tightly tying a corded rope around it. The sturdy rope formed a necklace, ensuring the medallion remained close to him. With the metal sphere suspended from his neck, it became a tangible reminder of the unknown power it possessed. Argon recognised the practicality of repurposing the medallion as a wearable item, allowing him to keep it within reach while he navigated the treacherous realm of Nekros. His most precious possession and only source of value on his person.

With his rusty blade in hand, Argon prepared for the hunt. He scavenged what little supplies he had left, knowing he would need sustenance for the perilous journey ahead. The medallion, still a mystery to him, remained securely tucked away, its potential yet to be unlocked.

Argon set out from Duskhaven this morning, a weary figure against the rising sun. The highway to Greenshade stretched before him, a winding ribbon of dust and dirt, teeming with a diverse mix of travellers.

Merchants in ornate carriages led by robust horses bustled past, shouting their wares and waving at potential customers on their path to the south. More affluent travellers perched atop well-groomed steeds, their ostentatious garb contrasting with the dirt-caked travellers trudging along the road's edges.

Argon shared the weary road with folks like himself, poorer souls who had no choice but to walk. His pack was light, his purse even lighter. The horses prancing by were more of a distant dream than a reachable luxury. For now, his hardened feet were his only means of transportation.

For a moment, he was just another face in the crowd, anonymous in the sea of people making their way through life. But soon, he veered away from the congested highway, leaving behind the chaotic cacophony. His route led him into the wilderness, the solitude more comforting than the bustling highway he had left behind.

As he ventured deeper into the wilderness, Argon's senses sharpened, honed by the instinct for survival. He moved stealthily through the underbrush, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement or danger. The hunt had begun.