New Structure

The day began with the slither of sunlight, signalling the break of dawn. Argon roused himself from his quarters, where Lyra and Saera were still in a peaceful slumber. The day's work awaited him. Dressing, he joined Brolan at a table laid with dried meat for breakfast. They ate in companionable silence, the quiet morning punctuated by the crunching sounds of their meal.

His curiosity piqued, Argon inquires about Brolan's choice among the village girls. With a broad grin, Brolan reveals, "I've chosen Emilia, Argon."

Emilia, as Argon remembers, is a fair maiden, older than Saera yet still in the bloom of her youth. Her hair, the colour of rich honey, cascades to her waist in gentle waves. Her blue eyes, crystal clear, hold an untamed spirit that is equally captivating and intimidating. Her slender, willowy frame carries a grace that is unmatched. Brolan's choice, Argon thinks, was a wise one.

"Emilia," Argon affirms, the approval apparent in his voice. "An excellent choice, Brolan." He then adds his tone, a mixture of command and jest, "And do ensure all the girls get extra rations from the stores. They've earned it."

Brolan, still grinning, responds with a nod. "Will do, Argon." His gaze then shifts towards the ongoing construction in the village.

The palisades, trenches, and watchtowers are rapidly taking shape, each day's progress a testament to the villagers' steadfast determination and the direction of their leaders. The transformation of the once vulnerable village into a defensible stronghold fills both men with pride.

"Just a little longer," Brolan muses, looking at the nearly completed fortifications, "and this place will be as defensible as any. Then, my friend, we'll be in for some smooth sailing." The air between them crackles with determination as they part ways, committed to their respective tasks, their focus unyielding as the defences they're working to build.

Once done, Argon set about his first task - checking on the villagers and assigning daily chores. He walked through the bustling village, greeting the people with a stern nod or a curt word here and there. He observed the ongoing work and provided guidance where necessary, ensuring that everyone knew their tasks and that everything ran smoothly.

By mid-morning, he found himself on the outskirts of the village, overseeing the ongoing defence construction. The trenches were getting deeper, and the skeletal structures of what would become formidable watchtowers were taking shape. Argon felt a sense of satisfaction at the sight - their defences were becoming stronger.

The afternoon saw him in a discussion with Melvin. Together, they mulled over the food and water situation of the village. Melvin's ideas of planting drought-resistant crops were starting to bear fruit, and Argon approved plans for new strategies to better manage their resources.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Argon carried out his evening ritual of distributing food rewards. The hardest-working villagers received extra meat - a small token of appreciation that did wonders for their morale.

Night fell, and with the day's work done, Argon returned to his quarters. Lyra and Saera were waiting for him, their faces lighting up as he entered. It had been a long day, but the sight of them made everything worth it. With them, he could unwind and prepare for another day of ruling Blackwood.

Over the next two weeks, Blackwood gradually transformed from a vulnerable village to a fortified settlement. The trench that encircled the perimeter of the village was finally dug, providing a formidable obstacle to any invaders. The watchtowers, constructed at strategic points around Blackwood, rose high, offering an unobstructed view of the surrounding lands and serving as an early warning system.

In addition to these, sturdy palisades were erected around the village, fashioned from the densest trees in the surrounding forest. These wooden walls were a further deterrent, and the sharpened stakes on top added to their effectiveness.

The process of creating the palisades was arduous and time-consuming but ultimately beneficial in making Blackwood a more defensible village. The old wooden walls were pulled down and replaced by tall, imposing stakes. The villagers worked day in and day out, using sturdy timbers from the edge of the surrounding forest to construct the new defences.

The new palisade walls were built to Argon's precise specifications. He insisted on a rectangular perimeter to offer the most protection and efficiency. The corners of the rectangle provided optimal viewpoints for watchtowers, and the straight lines of the walls offered no hidden corners for potential invaders.

The stakes were driven deep into the earth, standing well above the height of a man. They were sharpened at the top to deter climbers and placed close together to prevent anyone from slipping through gaps. In front of the wall, a trench was dug as an additional line of defence, making it even harder for enemies to breach the perimeter.

This new setup provided the village with a more fortified and intimidating exterior. The palisades, coupled with the watchtowers and trench, transformed Blackwood from a simple village into a stronghold. Each day as the villagers saw the walls growing higher, their confidence in their safety grew as well. They were no longer the vulnerable settlement at the forest's edge but a community ready to defend its home and its people.

Without a blacksmith, the villagers had to make do with rudimentary wooden spears, each carved with care and diligence. While they were no match for steel weapons, in the hands of a determined defender, they were more than enough to cause damage.

During these weeks, the food problem that once loomed over Blackwood was also resolved. The food reserves were filled to the brim with dried meat from their hunting expeditions, and an assortment of fruits, nuts, and roots scavenged from the forest. This abundance not only staved off hunger but also served as a morale booster for the villagers.

As for Argon, these two weeks were not just about survival and building defences. Each day ended in the warm embrace of Lyra and Saera. They became his nightly respite, their company offering a soothing counterbalance to the demanding days. There was one instance when the girl's bleeding had come, and thus argon did without them for a few nights.

Two weeks of backbreaking work and gruelling effort had resulted in a few hopeful green shoots pushing through the stubborn, unforgiving soil. The seeds Melvin had chosen were of a variety that prided resilience over taste, chosen solely for their potential to survive in the inhospitable climate of the drought in Blackwood.

The appearance of these sprouts brought neither cheer nor celebration from the villagers but rather a grim satisfaction. It was a stark reminder of their bleak existence, relying on unappetizing, tough crops for sustenance. Yet, it was an improvement from the constant gnaw of hunger that had been their constant companion before.

Argon viewed the slowly developing crop with cold pragmatism, acknowledging the minor victory against their challenging circumstances. To him, these were not symbols of hope but pieces in his grand plan, green pawns that promised a minimal level of sustenance and survival. This was one step closer to ensuring the villagers would be in shape enough to serve him when the time came.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of crimson and orange, Argon found himself confronted by a rather disgruntled Brolan. His formidable stature cast an imposing shadow in the waning light, and his rough voice echoed with irritation. "Fuck me, Argon," Brolan growled, a scowl twisting his rugged features. "We've got no fucking work left around this godforsaken place. It's about as exciting as watching mud dry."

Argon, leaning against the sturdy frame of a newly erected watchtower, turned to his friend and huffed a laugh. "And the lack of rice wine getting to you as well, is it?" he teased, eyeing the burly warrior. A drink in hand was a common sight with Brolan, and the absence of it had not gone unnoticed.

"Damn straight, we brought so little," Brolan shot back, his frown deepening. "Ain't seen a single sodding rice field since we arrived. No bloody chance of making any here, either. Not with this piss-poor amount of water."

The lack of rice fields wasn't surprising. This land was harsh, barely sustaining the vegetation it had, let alone supporting water-intensive crops like rice. But the way Brolan kicked a pebble across the dusty ground as if it was personally responsible for his woes, was enough to draw a hearty laugh from Argon. His friend's grumbling was a small beacon of entertainment in the otherwise grim reality of their situation.

"Just you wait, Brolan," Argon retorted, clapping him on the back. "Things are about to get a hell lot more interesting."

Without missing a beat, Argon shifted his attention back to the serious matters at hand. The stern edge to his voice sliced through the remnants of their banter. "Now that the defenses are up, I need you to put Brom to work," he commanded, his gaze hardening on Brolan.

"Train the reserves, you mean?" Brolan grumbled, scratching at his grizzled chin, "Those old coots and green boys? They can barely lift a bloody spear!"

Argon raised an eyebrow at his companion's sceptical tone. "They don't need to be knights, Brolan," he snapped, "They just need to be enough of a threat to make anyone think twice before trying to breach our walls. This is about creating an image, a facade. Now, get Brom on it. I want those reserves trained and ready."

He could see Brolan's resistance crumbling, a resigned sigh escaping the burly warrior. "Fine, fine. You're the fucking boss, Argon," he grumbled, throwing his hands up in defeat. "But don't come crying to me when half of them can't swing a damn stick without toppling over."

Argon couldn't help but snort at the mental image, shaking his head. "Just make sure they can hold their own, Brolan. That's all I ask."

With a final, dramatic huff, Brolan turned and stomped off, bellowing for Brom even before he was out of Argon's sight. As much as the man grumbled and complained, Argon knew he could count on him. Brolan had his back, and that was worth more than all the rice wine in the world.