Wake Up Call

When Argon stirs awake, the pale light of the dawn is just beginning to seep into the room, casting long, gentle shadows. It seems his rest had been sound and restorative; an early sleep meant an early rise, which was both a curse and a blessing. With a groan, Argon rises from his bed and reaches for his helmet. The chill of the helmet is a sharp, cold contrast against his skin, yet oddly comforting. He activates the healing artefact, revelling in the familiar sensation of it working to mend his battered body.

An hour later, the edges of his pain had dulled to an almost bearable sting. He can move his arm without flinching, and his body feels more like his own than it had in days. Satisfied with his progress, he decides it's time to get up and do something.

Despite the ungodly hour, Argon felt the urge to wander around. His restlessness and curiosity drove him out of his chambers, the cold stone floor under his bare feet making him feel more alive than he'd been in a while. Wrapped in the silence of the early morning, he steps into the quiet of the manor house, ready to explore.

Awakened by the soft whispers of dawn, Argon slowly rose from his bed, feeling the lingering echo of restfulness in his muscles. His stomach grumbled, reminding him of the human need for sustenance. Shrugging on a casual outfit, he took off his helmet and headed towards the storage cupboard. There, he grabbed a handful of dried meat - a simple yet efficient solution to his hunger.

The meat was tough, its taste and texture a stark reminder of the rustic lifestyle he now led. It was a far cry from the decadent feasts he had once indulged in, yet he found a certain satisfaction in its simplicity. Clutching the handful of dried meat, Argon left the manor.

As he strolled around the early morning village, the cool air brushing against his skin, he chewed on his dried meat thoughtfully. His eyes observed the subtle shifts in the village, the new structures that had started taking form under his directive. Despite the hour, the promise of productivity and growth was palpable in the quiet surroundings. Each bite of his dried meat seemed to echo this promise, fueling him for the challenges and opportunities that lay ahead.

Argon's attention is immediately drawn to the skeletal frameworks of two new structures, partially shrouded in the morning mist. One larger than the other, they are striking additions to the humble village landscape. His boots crunch against the dew-laden grass as he makes his way towards them, a chunk of dried meat clenched in his hand, which he absentmindedly chews on.

The larger of the two is the future blacksmith's forge; the other is the tailor's workshop. Right now, they stand as skeletal reminders of his ambitions for the village, their unfinished timber frames stark against the morning sky. Despite their current emptiness, Argon can already envision the vibrant activity they would host - the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer, the steady hum of the tailor's loom.

However, their potential is currently stifled by the lack of necessary resources. Without iron ore for the blacksmith and wool or cotton for the tailor, these structures remain hollow shells, their true purpose unfulfilled. Argon finds himself grimly chewing on his dried meat as he contemplates this, the taste suddenly bitter in his mouth. His gaze sweeps over the two incomplete structures, silently vowing to supply them with the needed resources sooner rather than later.

With the village still in the grip of slumber, Argon found a certain amusement in the silent, sleeping world around him. A mischievous thought crossed his mind, a decision to pay an unexpected visit to Melvin, a man who had become an important figure in the village and one of his main sources of information.

Walking with light steps, he navigated his way to Melvin's house. The humble dwelling was quiet, as was expected. With the stealth of a fox, he entered the house. The wooden floor beneath his feet was cool, creaking subtly under his weight but not enough to alert its sleeping inhabitant.

Guided by the dim morning light filtering through the thin curtains, Argon ventured into Melvin's bedroom. He was greeted by the sight of Melvin asleep in his modest bed. The man's face was peaceful in slumber, his chest rising and falling gently in the rhythm of deep sleep. Argon couldn't help but smirk at the sight, finding amusement in the tranquil scene before him. The early morning prank had just begun.

With a devilish grin on his face, Argon stepped forward and shook Melvin awake. His actions were abrupt, almost rough, as he aimed to create an atmosphere of panic.

"Melvin! The village is under attack!" Argon's voice was a thunderous roar in the quiet room. "Silverthorne has come for revenge! Get to your post, man!"

Melvin, woken up from a deep slumber, bolted upright with a start. His eyes, wide with fear and confusion, darted around the room, struggling to make sense of his sudden awakening. He stumbled out of his bed, still half-asleep and completely disoriented. His heart pounded against his chest like a war drum, fuelled by adrenaline and the startling revelation from Argon. Despite his disoriented state, he was a man of action, and even in his dazed condition, he prepared to face the reported threat.

Argon's laughter, deep and rich, echoed through the room, filling it with mirth at Melvin's expense. He leaned on the door frame, clutching his stomach as he laughed heartily.

"Melvin, you simpleton," Argon managed to gasp out between his bouts of laughter. "You should always sleep with a weapon. We could be under attack at any time!"

His voice was tinged with amusement, but there was a trace of seriousness, too, underlying the jest. "I'm glad you can sleep so soundly while your lord is facing great dangers and constant worry," he continued, sarcasm dripping from his words.

Melvin, now fully awake, blinked at Argon. His fear was quickly replaced by relief and then annoyance. His eyes narrowed at Argon's laughter and his words. "My lord, you could have given me a heart attack," he grumbled, a hand on his chest as he tried to calm his still-racing heart. The room filled with a palpable silence, broken only by Argon's continued laughter.

With a final hearty chuckle, Argon steadied himself and looked at Melvin. "Who permitted you to sleep this late?" He asked, his amusement fading as he replaced it with an authoritative demeanour. "Have you become lax in your duties while I was recovering? This is unacceptable, Melvin."

He began to pace, his energy now all business, a stark contrast to the laughter of moments ago. "We are in great peril and you want to sleep in? Wake all the villagers and the soldiers. They need to know their lord is displeased."

Turning to the door, Argon called out, "Where's Brolan? He should have been on top of this."

Melvin, who was now fully awake and still trying to process the sudden wake-up call, replied, "Brolan left for Horntide already, my lord, under your orders."

Argon stopped his pacing, nodding his approval. "At least I have one industrious man. Let's not waste any more time then, get everyone up and ready, Melvin. We have a lot of work to do."

In the dim light of the early dawn, Argon stood in the centre of the village square, a silhouette against the slowly brightening sky. The village was silent, save for the rapid footsteps of Melvin, who was now running around, banging on doors and shouting for everyone to wake up.

The villagers pulled abruptly from their sleep and stumbled out of their homes, rubbing their eyes and looking around in confusion. The serfs, slaves whose lives were already filled with hardship, were no strangers to early mornings, but the urgency in Melvin's voice had them alert and concerned.

Argon watched them all, an unreadable expression on his face. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the rest to assemble. Gradually, his soldiers appeared - Brom, Dael, Edrik, and Lark - each bearing the same look of confusion that was echoed amongst the villagers and serfs.

At this moment, under the emerging dawn, the whole village had gathered in the square, awaiting the orders of their lord. Their faces reflected a spectrum of emotions; confusion, sleepiness, worry, and anticipation. And as Argon stood there, overseeing them all, he felt a surge of power. This was his domain, and these were his people. And despite the danger looming over them, in that moment, he felt invincible.

In a thunderous roar that rattled the early morning quiet, Argon exploded at the groggy gathering, "What the fuck do you all think you're doing? Sleeping like pampered lords while we're a breath away from disaster? Did you lazy shits think just because your lord is laid up, you can fucking laze about?!"

His frosty gaze slid over to his soldiers, and his voice turned venomous. "And you pack of good-for-nothings," he spat, "my own fucking soldiers, are the last to crawl out. Where's your goddamn respect for your lord, the one who bled for your ungrateful arses, while you toss shit in his face?"

His words hung in the air like a curse. The silence that swallowed his rage was chilling; the gathered villagers and soldiers left wide-eyed and wide awake, their early morning drowsiness rudely shoved aside by their lord's vitriolic rant.

Argon turned back to face the crowd, "this is your one and only fucking warning. If I sense even a sliver of slack from any of you, there will be lashings!" he warned, his voice promising pain for disobedience.

Argon's eyes narrowed, studying the faces of his men, each expression varied and complex. He waved his hand, beckoning his soldiers to approach. His voice echoed in the silent air, heavy with the gravity of his words.

"I've come into possession of a set of Dayless armor and an attribute artifact," he began, pausing for a moment to let the information sink in. The men exchanged glances, the corners of their eyes crinkling with both anticipation and trepidation.

"I had intended to loan them to one of you, as a gesture of trust and confidence," he continued, his gaze probing each face, searching for signs of resolve, "However, the lackadaisical attitude I've been seeing lately has cast doubt over your loyalty to me."

His voice held an edge, a warning of sorts, a test to see who among them would rise to the challenge.

"Yet, as I have only you four to rely on, I suppose one of you will have to suffice. I will hold a series of duels tomorrow to determine who among you is the best warrior. He will be the one to receive the prize."

A weighty silence hung in the air, the men exchanging wary glances. Tomorrow's duel, they knew, would not only be a test of strength, but a test of loyalty and determination, too. The reward was life-changing, a prize only afforded to knights, but they understood, too, the message their lord was sending. Loyalty, to Argon, was just as valuable, if not more so, than mere strength.