Torment

Groaning, Argon and Brolan wake up early, crammed into the same bed, sleeping tip to tail. It's an awkward arrangement, but Argon wasn't about to let Brolan sleep on the floor, despite his rank. With a groan, Argon jostles his foot into Brolan's back. "Get the fuck up, you stinking slave," Argon jokes, trying to hide his own discomfort from the shared sleeping arrangements. Brolan mumbles something unintelligible rolls over, and rubs his eyes. "Sorry, master," he chuckles, voice hoarse from sleep, "Must be all that damn meat I've been eating." Despite the rudeness of their situation, the camaraderie between them remains strong.

Clad in their armour, Argon and Brolan rise to the tasks of the day. "We've got work to do, buddy," Argon states, sounding gruff and business-like despite their close quarters the night before. First on the agenda is getting this pathetic excuse for a village back up and running. They'll need to see what resources they have, survey the damage done, and determine what needs to be done to make the old chieftain's house livable again.

Next, they'll have to check in with the soldiers. It's important to maintain discipline and morale, especially after a battle. Argon knows that the mood of the troops can greatly impact the success of their endeavours.

After that, they'll need to take stock of the village's food reserves. The recent battles may have depleted what little the peasants had left, and they couldn't risk a famine on top of everything else.

And, of course, we'll need to... unwind. Argon smirks as he mentions the last task. "We can't forget the most important task of all: seeing to the needs of the local ladies, they must be sad being newly widowed." It's a crude joke, but it earns a rough laugh from Brolan. The day's tasks won't be easy, but at least they can find some enjoyment along the way.

They make their way back to the chieftain's house, finding the village doctor waiting for them. The poor man looks worse for wear, the toll of staying up all night clearly etched on his face. His eyes are bloodshot, framed by deep shadows, his hair unkempt and dishevelled, the greying strands sticking out in all directions. His normally robust complexion is pale, a sheen of perspiration glistening on his forehead.

"It's all done, my lords," he greets them, his voice strained from exhaustion yet bearing an undertone of satisfaction and relief.

"Good job," Argon responds, his voice carrying a note of rare approval. He pauses, realizing that he does not know the man's name. "What's your name?"

"Melvin, my lord," the doctor replies, dipping his head in a show of deference.

"Ah, Melvin," Argon acknowledges, a small, appreciative smile playing on his lips. "Go get some sleep. You've done very well. I won't forget this."

Stepping into the refurbished chieftain's house, Argon and Brolan can't help but be pleasantly surprised. The transformation is impressive - the place, while still holding onto its rustic charm, looks decidedly more habitable and comfortable. The old, damaged furniture has been replaced with sturdier, well-made pieces, the dingy walls scrubbed clean, and the dilapidated roof replaced.

As they absorb the changes, a knock echoes through the quiet house, pulling them out of their inspection. "Come in," Argon calls out, curious to see who their early morning visitor might be.

The entrance of Brom, Dael, and Edrik cuts through the viewing in the room. They bring with them the scent of the outside - earth and sweat, the smell of men hard at work. Brom takes the lead, his weather-beaten face serious as he delivers their findings. "My lord," he begins, his voice resonating in the room, "We've assessed the supplies of the village. The grain stores are completely empty, likely looted by the peasants." His words hang heavy in the air, the reality of their situation sinking in. "There's also a hole in a section of the wooden wall surrounding the village," he adds, his brow furrowing in concern. The importance of this fact is clear - a breach in their defences could spell disaster if not rectified promptly.

Argon's response, bristling with expletives, reverberates in the room. "Fuck's sake, these peasants are should've died long ago," he grouses, a harsh scowl creasing his face as he envisions the dangerous vulnerability of the village. "A rabid beast could just waltz in and slaughter them all." He pauses, considering their options before issuing commands with an air of finality. "Round up the carpenters, have them fix the wall. And that's not enough; I want a trench, a deep one, encircling the whole damn place except the gates. Get every able-bodied villager to help. Furthermore, construct guard towers at equal distances along the wall. I won't have this place left wide open for attack from beasts or foes."

Returning from their night watch, Garen, Ulf, and Lark walk into the room, their footfalls heavy with fatigue. They bear good news. "There was no sign of anything untoward last night," Lark reports, his voice carrying a certain relief. "The village was quiet as a crypt. And the forest? Not a rustle or a murmur." He takes a moment to sweep a hand through his hair, brushing off invisible dust. "Nothing ventured close, as far as we could tell," he adds. Their report concludes with a collective nod, indicating a calm first night under Argon's rule.

With an authoritative voice, Argon gives out instructions, his words piercing the morning silence. "Brolan, take Garen, Ulf, Lark - you three, get into that bloody forest and hunt us some beasts," he commands. "Crops are in the shit because of this godforsaken drought. It's not as bad here as in Norenway, but we need food. And we need it quickly, get dried meats back on the menu."

Before they have a chance to nod in agreement, Argon continues, his mind already on the next task. "Actually, we need a messenger to report back to Baron Eldrige," he says, his gaze falling on each of his men in turn. "I don't trust these bloody peasants to do it, so Ulf, since you've already shown your weak streak, you'll be our messenger. Take Brolan's horse and go report back to Horntide. And be quick about it."

He throws a gold coin to Ulf, the metal glinting in the morning light. "And one more thing," he adds, handing him a gold coin, a stern look on his face. "If you can get us any grain and supplies whilst there, it would be bloody appreciated."

Argon shifts his attention towards Brolan, his trusted companion. His eyes hold an unusual softness, a concern masked by his otherwise hardened features. "Brolan," he warns, his voice not as stern as before, "be careful in the forest. I don't want any heroics from you. Stick to the small fry, understand?"

His hand rests on Brolan's shoulder briefly - a silent message of trust and reliance. Then he pulls away, resuming his stern demeanour. "I'll be here, making sure these peasants don't slack off," he announces, the promise of his oversight ringing clearly in his words.

With their tasks set, the hunting party and Ulf take their leave, each member nodding towards Argon before disappearing into the forest. Argon, in the company of Brom, Dael, and Edrik, heads towards the centre of the village. He doesn't let the sight of his soldiers herding villagers into organized groups escape his keen gaze. Their forceful directions echo in the morning air, stirring the lethargic village into life.

As they continue their rounds, Argon finds himself near Lyra's house. A teasing smirk plays on his lips as he contemplates taking a break. The very thought of it seems comical to him. "All this hard work requires a break," he mutters to himself, chuckling at his little joke.

Pushing open the door of Lyra's house, Argon strides in with the sort of arrogance only a conqueror could wear. The sight of Eldrin, the boy, lying in the corner, nursing his wounded arm, doesn't evoke any sympathy in him. Meanwhile, Lyra, the voluptuous woman, is tending to the hearth, her body tense with his sudden entrance.

"Ah, my subjects," Argon barks, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had followed his entrance. "And what the hell have you been doing, huddled in here like rats?" He throws Lyra a pointed look. "I was expecting you at my new house last night, Lyra."

His sharp words cause Lyra to flinch slightly. "I'm sorry, my lord," she murmurs, not meeting his gaze. "I did come, but you weren't there..."

Argon grunts, seemingly appeased by her response. "Fair enough."

Eldrin glares at Argon, a heated fury burning in his youthful eyes. His arm, dislocated by Argon's cruel hands, hangs uselessly at his side. His defiance is strong, but the injuries he sustained make it impossible for him to take up a weapon.

Argon, not bothering to disguise his intentions, grins at Lyra. "Well, let's pick up where we bloody well left off, shall we?" he suggests with a lascivious grin.

Lyra, her eyes betraying a mixture of fear and resignation, nods. "Sure, my lord. Follow me," she says quietly, leading the way to the small bedroom, her heart heavy with the knowledge of what is to come.

"Right here will do fine," Argon insists with a wicked grin, glancing at Eldrin. "The lad didn't have such a good view last time. It'll be more fun this way."

Lyra looks at him with shock and horror, but before she can protest, Argon grabs the edge of her stola (female tunic) and yanks it off with a swift pull.

The fabric falls to the floor, revealing Lyra's figure to Argon's eager eyes. Despite the hardship of recent times, her form remains curvaceous and attractive. Her waist is narrow, forming a striking contrast with the fuller curves of her hips and bust. Her body, though marked by the difficulties of peasant life, is nevertheless enticing in its feminine shape.

Her breasts, full and well-rounded, are like ripened fruits, straining against the confines of her simple undergarment. They move with each breath she takes, drawing Argon's gaze with a powerful, magnetic pull. They're certainly a sight to behold, and Argon feels a sense of satisfaction looking at them.

Similarly, her behind is equally appealing. It fills out her simple skirts, presenting a luscious curve that is both enticing and captivating. The way it moves with her body, adding a certain rhythm to her steps, is enough to stir the desire within any man. Despite her dire circumstances, Lyra's physical attributes are undeniably attractive.

With a seething gaze, Eldrin makes an attempt to rise. The sight of his mother's voluptuous form exposed to Argon's lascivious eyes sparks a wildfire of defiance in him. However, Lyra's sharp voice slices through the tense atmosphere, "Sit the fuck down, Eldrin," she commands sternly, her voice threaded with unmistakable fear.

Argon, finding amusement in the situation, guffaws heartily. "Yes, listen to your mother, Eldrin," he taunts, "Be a good bitch." The words are laced with a cruel sense of humour. He throws the boy a look that is both condescending and threatening.

Despite the burning resentment flashing in his eyes, Eldrin finally sinks back onto the rough-hewn wooden bench, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He's a pitiful sight - a broken cub watching helplessly as his mother is claimed by a stronger, more dominant male. His gaze never leaves Argon, as if he's committing every detail to memory, storing it away for a future confrontation when he is stronger and capable of exacting his revenge.

With a brutish smirk, Argon pulls Lyra closer. His eyes linger over her, claiming her entirely as his own without a word from her. He can feel Eldrin's eyes burning holes into him, but it only adds to his satisfaction, to his sense of victory. His hands roam over Lyra's exposed form, relishing the gasps and tremors his touch evokes.

Lyra, whether out of fear, submission or an attempt to protect Eldrin from further harm, does not resist. Her eyes are closed tight, her body held rigid under Argon's touch, but she doesn't fight him. She's the unfortunate prey caught in the claws of a savage beast, and she knows any struggle on her part might only invite more torment.

In a few moments, Lyra is pushed against the wall, a silent gasp escaping her as Argon, with a predator's lust, ravishes her, unbothered by the furious eyes of the broken cub who watches in silent helplessness. The room fills with sounds of their intimacy, a cruel symphony to Eldrin's ears, every moment burning into his memory.

Caught in the midst of his pleasure, Argon doesn't falter when Edrik stumbles through Lyra's door, his eyes wide as they take in the situation. Edrik instantly blanches, stuttering an apology, his face a deep shade of red.

"Shit... S-sorry, my lord," he stammers, backing away, "I-I didn't know..."

Argon shoots him a venomous glare; his actions are undeterred. "Get the fuck out, Edrik," he growls, the words seething between gritted teeth, "You should know better than to barge in like a bloody fool. I'm busy here."

Edrik scuttles out quickly, the door slamming shut behind him. The momentary interruption does little to deter Argon as he continues unabated.

The room is once again filled with a raw intensity as Argon, his patience wearing thin, dispenses with the pleasantries. His movements are harsh, fueled by a need to assert his dominance more than anything else. Each of his movements is met with a whimper or a sharp intake of breath from Lyra, her hands clutching at the rough wooden walls to keep herself steady.

Her moans echo through the room, harsh and guttural, and they serve as an acute reminder to Eldrin of their dire circumstances. Each cry from his mother stokes fire in his belly, but he is helpless against Argon. Each sound Lyra makes is a bullet to his heart, her pain vividly clear despite her attempts to mask it.

It is a brutal spectacle, one that further solidifies Argon's authority and power over the villagers, one that leaves Eldrin seething, his eyes burning with hatred and a vow of revenge.

After reaching his climax, Argon withdraws, Lyra falling weakly to the rough-hewn wooden floor. Argon's spent seed drips from her onto the planks below. Out of breath, he looks over at Eldrin, who, despite everything, still manages to maintain a rebellious glint in his eyes.

With a scowl, Argon strides over to the boy, delivering a stinging slap across his face that instantly leaves a mark. Eldrin's eyes fill with unshed tears, but he refuses to let them fall, his jaw set stubbornly.

"We're rebuilding today", Argon states."Lucky for you, Lyra, you're off the hook," Argon grunts out, adjusting his armour. "If any other of my men come asking, tell them you're on my special detail. But your defiant brat here," he says, motioning to Eldrin, "he's working. And if he so much as steps out of line, there will be hell to pay." His warning hangs in the air.

Lyra gives a nod of acquiescence; her tone resigned yet defiant in its own subtle way. "Yes, my lord," she concedes, dusting herself off as she stands. "He's a hard worker, my Eldrin. He'll lose his stubbornness soon enough. I'll beat it out of him."

"Good," Argon replies, a cold smirk playing on his lips. He reaches down, gripping Eldrin by the scruff of his neck like a disobedient pup. Despite the visible discomfort, Eldrin doesn't resist, biting back any protest he may have.

With the boy in tow, Argon exits the house, the morning sun casting long shadows as they head towards the flurry of activity happening at the perimeter of the village. It was time to see just how hard of a worker Eldrin was.