Bad Hygiene

As Argon stirs from his slumber, the first rays of morning light pierce through the curtainless window, casting a soft glow across the room. His eyes flutter open to the sight of Mira, who is curled up next to him, her arm thrown across his chest and her face nuzzled into his shoulder. There's a certain innocence about her in sleep that makes her look even younger.

The cold, hardened Argon, one might not expect to find any sentiment within him, but there was a small, barely perceptible softening in his heart as he watched the sleeping girl. He remained motionless, careful not to disturb her slumber. Her body was warm against his, a comforting presence in the otherwise cold room.

He noticed her even breaths against his skin, her face a picture of calm and tranquillity. This was a stark contrast to the fire and defiance he'd seen in her eyes the previous day. Subconsciously, he understood that she was searching for a protector, a figure of safety in this harsh world, especially after the abandonment by her parents.

Her warmth seeped into him, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest syncing with his own breaths. As he lay there, holding the sleeping girl, he couldn't help but ponder on the peculiar bond they had formed.

His mind filled with thoughts of the hardships this young woman must have faced, and he felt a twinge of respect for her resilience. He lay there, holding her, letting the morning light wash over them, feeling a strange sense of peace in the shared silence. The tough, menacing Argon shows a hint of softness, a rare moment of tenderness amidst the harsh reality of their world.

Argon, in the midst of his musings, doesn't notice Mira stirring until he feels her weight lift off his chest. She pulls away abruptly, her body recoiling as if touched by fire.

Turning to look at her, Argon notices the distance she has quickly put between them. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, her back rigid and her eyes fixed on the floor. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wide, a look of repulsion clearly etched across her face.

"You stink," she says finally, her voice barely more than a whisper but the disgust clear in her tone. The accusation hangs heavy in the air between them, an unpleasant reality slicing through the morning serenity. It's an observation so simple and honest that Argon can't help but raise an eyebrow at her audacity. Despite his rough exterior and often abrasive demeanour, such straightforwardness is unusual, especially from one so young and vulnerable.

With an air of casual disdain, Argon swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets to his feet, his bare skin cool in the morning air. He glances over at Mira, who is now sitting up, her arms folded over her chest as she eyes him with a hint of distaste. "Careful, girl. I enjoy you, but be careful...", he murmurs, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Ignoring her protests about his stench, he rummages through his things for his armour and tunic, pulling them on with practised ease. He is, after all, a warrior, and such things as personal hygiene are not high on his list of priorities in these tough times. With his armour back in place, he feels more at home, the cool metal a comforting weight against his skin.

Turning back to Mira, he tosses her a gold coin. "Get Brolan and me some extra tunics", he orders, not bothering to wait for a response before continuing, "And make sure they're decent."

She catches the coin, her brow furrowing slightly at his command. "Tunics are only a silver each...", she starts to protest, her gaze shifting uneasily from the gold coin to Argon.

His patience wearing thin, Argon cuts her off with a growl. "And what the fuck do you want me to say? You think I'm so dumb I don't know the value of money?" he retorts, his voice icy. "Accept the kindness I've sown you, don't you have a brother to take care of?" he adds, his words a clear reminder of her situation.

His message was clear: the extra gold was not simply for tunics. It was for her and her brother, a gesture of his satisfaction with her and a warning not to cross him. Argon had no time for protests or petty haggling - he simply expected results.

The morning sun shines brightly, illuminating the common room of the Chief's house. The smell of simmering stew wafts through the air, immediately making Argon's stomach growl. He spots Brolan over by the hearth, stirring a large pot of stew with a ladle. The broad-shouldered, hulking figure of his trusted ally is a familiar sight, and the banter between them is even more so.

"Good morning, master," Brolan greets him with a brief nod, never pausing in his task.

"Good morning, Brolan," Argon replies, steering Mira towards the wooden table in the room's centre.

A sudden, teasing curiosity seizes Argon as he notices Elna seated at the table, her cheeks burning a deep shade of red. "And how was your night, Brolan?" Argon asks, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Elna looks down shyly, a blush spreading across her cheeks as Brolan responds, his voice booming in the quiet morning, "A gentleman never tells, master."

Argon breaks into laughter, the sound echoing throughout the room. "Really now? You couldn't shut up about the last girl you were with!" he teases, clapping a hand on Brolan's back.

Brolan merely grins, accepting Argon's jibes in good humour. Despite the harshness of their environment and situation, such moments of camaraderie bring a semblance of warmth and normalcy to their lives. The companionship they share, even in the face of adversity, is a testament to their bond.

Brolan, with a strength that only a seasoned warrior possesses, hoists a large pot filled to the brim with steaming stew. He carefully ladles it into five waiting bowls on the table, the aroma of dried meat and unknown herbs filling the room.

From the corner of the room, Dolan emerges, his figure appearing gaunt in the morning light. His gaze nervously darts towards Argon, clearly anticipating a rebuke.

"A bowl for Dolan?" Argon scoffs. "What the hell has he done to earn it?"

Brolan, in a rare show of defending the feeble Dolan, replies, "To be fair, Dolan was up most of the night making sure all the meat was dried and stored."

Argon grumbles but eventually relents, "Fine. If you keep up the good work, Dolan, I might even let you sleep in the other spare bedroom."

"Thank you, my Lord," Dolan stammers, his gratitude seemingly genuine. However, despite the apparent victory, there's an undercurrent of subservience in his tone, reminding everyone of his lowly position and how much he is at the mercy of Argon's mood. His countenance might be of thankfulness, but his demeanour is nothing short of servile, reinforcing his subservient role within the group.