Derps

Isolde sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of Argon's demands. A strange mixture of resignation and defiance crosses her face. "Fine," she finally relents, the single word cutting through the tense silence of the room. "I'll agree to the marriage."

A satisfied grin spreads across Argon's face at her words, a glint of triumph flashing in his eyes. "Good, good," he responds, the satisfaction evident in his tone. "That'll do wonders for my political influence."

However, a trace of doubt lingers in his mind. How could he trust that Isolde would not renege on her agreement? His eyes narrow slightly, a shadow of suspicion crossing his face. "But how do I know you won't go back on your word?" he asks, his voice echoing the scepticism clouding his mind. The question hangs in the air, a silent demand for reassurance in the face of uncertainty.

Isolde's eyes widen as Argon declares his intentions, a flicker of fear flashing through the deep blue depths. "My word is my bond," she states, a hint of desperation in her voice. Yet Argon scoffs at her words, showing a clear lack of trust. "A woman's words mean as much to me as shit. I'll be taking my wedding rites this second," he states, his voice resolute and firm.

Isolde looks visibly taken aback, her face paling at his declaration. "What...?" she stammers out, the surprise clear in her voice. "What the fuck do you mean? I'm pure, my father will kill you!" Her words hold a trace of fear, her posture rigid with the shock of his audacious declaration. Yet Argon's face remains unfazed, a determined glint in his eyes as he braces himself for the inevitable backlash.

Argon dismisses Isolde's protests with a wave of his hand. "What does it matter, now or later? It's all the same shit," he says, his tone indifferent. Her agreement to marry him should mean she doesn't mind him taking the marriage vows now.

"No," Isolde protests, her voice strained. "I need to ask my father if it's acceptable first." Argon raises an eyebrow at her words, his expression one of disbelief. "Ah, so you were planning to undermine your word?" he states, his words like a slap to her face.

Argon straightens up, his stature seemingly growing in size as he speaks. "I've killed Ser Bornmowe, what's to stop me from killing your father, Garrick and the other nobodies? No doubt I could best them all now." His words send a chill down Isolde's spine.

Isolde relents, her eyes flickering with a hint of fear. She is well aware of the potential dangers of angering Argon. He is now a force to be reckoned with, having proven his strength against the formidable Bornmowe. Silverthorne is far more powerful than their territory; thus, it stands to reason that Garrick must be weaker than Bornmowe. Argon's claim doesn't seem so outrageous anymore.

In a swift, deliberate motion, Argon reaches out, his hand gripping her right buttock firmly. He pulls her closer, the gap between them disappearing in an instant. His other hand tangles into her golden hair, tilting her head back slightly.

Their lips meet in a passionate kiss, Argon's assertiveness not leaving room for hesitation. It's a kiss of dominance, of possession, conveying the power dynamics between them. Isolde responds, her initial surprise fading as she matches his intensity. Their shared moment is as fiery as it is unexpected.

With a firm grip, Argon seizes her arm, guiding her through the grandiose manor and up the staircase towards his private chambers. Isolde protests, her voice filled with shock, "No...this is all too fast."

Isolde, stricken, her face flushed and eyes wide with trepidation, takes a step back from Argon, her defiance clear. "No...I won't do it, Argon," she insists, her voice shaking with a mixture of fear and indignation. "My father...he hasn't confirmed it...I can't just..." She struggles to complete her sentence, her uncertainty as palpable as the tension in the room.

Argon's patience wanes, his face contorting with annoyance. He whirls on her, his voice a harsh whisper, "You dare defy me, Isolde! Fine, have it your way."

His gaze hardens, a chilly reminder of the power he holds, "You will stay in this manor. I have a battle to plan, now that I have risked offending your father, Baron Eldrige. I must be ready to strike him preemtively."

Without missing a beat, he continues, "And remember, if you try anything, I won't hesitate to kill your whole retinue." The threat hangs in the air, stark and unavoidable, emphasizing the precariousness of the situation Isolde has found herself in.

Argon strides outside, leaving Isolde inside, giving her time to brood over her gross miscalculation.

Perched atop their horses, Brolan and Isolde's accompanying soldiers sat still, awaiting their respective master's orders. Argon makes his way towards the guard leading Isolde's escort with a stern look on his face. Argon speaks decisively, his voice carrying an edge of command, "Your mistress is staying in the manor. You lot can lodge in that disused house over there."

The guard's face hardens at this, "I need to speak with my mistress." His tone is gruff, obstinate.

Argon's eyes narrow. "Didn't I just tell you she's busy in my manor? Are you deaf?" Without waiting for a reply, Argon swiftly draws his longsword. The blade whistles through the air, swiftly descending on the horse's neck.

Without missing a beat, Argon's sword bit into the flesh of the horse's neck, the sharp blade slicing through the muscle and veins with ruthless efficiency. Despite Argon's immense strength, the blade only severs half the neck. Blood sprayed out from the severed arteries, coating the ground and splashing on the guard's face. He could taste the metallic tang of the horse's lifeblood in his mouth, hot and bitter.

The horse's pained scream echoed through the quiet of the village, a grotesque symphony of raw, primal fear that hung heavy in the air. Its eyes widened, a look of utter shock and agony reflected in its glassy gaze. Its legs gave out from under it, buckling and sending the beast crashing to the ground.

The guard beneath was powerless to stop the horse's colossal weight from falling onto him. He felt the air rush out of his lungs as the horse landed on him, the impact driving him into the hard ground. He could hear the wet squelch of his own body being crushed, his bones crunching under the immense weight. Pain exploded through him, consuming his world in a flash of white-hot intensity. He tried to scream, but only a weak gurgle came out, his lungs too compressed to draw in air.

Meanwhile, the horse thrashed weakly, its lifeblood pooling around it, soaking into the thirsty earth. Its breathing became ragged, each inhales a struggle, and each exhaled a weak gasp. Then, gradually, its movements slowed, and its eyes began to lose their panicked glow. Its life was ebbing away, surrendering to the inevitable end. In a final weak spasm, it exhaled its last breath and stilled; its life extinguished under the cruel blade of Argon.

Looking down at the carnage he'd just wrought, Argon straightened, turning his attention to the rest of the soldiers. His Dayless armour gleamed in the sunlight, making him appear a formidable and terrifying figure. His helmet, a mass of sharp, intimidating spikes, only added to his imposing presence.

"Do we have any more complaints?" Argon's voice cut through the air like a whip, causing several of the soldiers to flinch. When they all shook their heads in the negative, he chuckled, a dark, mocking sound.

"Good, good," he said, his tone dripping with scorn. "Stupid fucking artefact-less retards. Thinking they can boss me around." He spat on the ground, a show of clear contempt.

"The strong rule and the weak," he continued, his gaze sweeping over the cowed soldiers, "can only sit and pray the strong won't kill 'em." His words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the grim reality of their world.

With a grin that stretched across his face, Brolan responded, "A wonderful spectacle, indeed, master. Just for my amusement, isn't it?"

Argon let out a hearty laugh, patting Brolan's shoulder. "Indeed, just for you, Brolan. How about we make up a name for these artefact-less lot? How does 'derps' sound?"

Brolan chuckled at that, clearly amused. "Haha! What about 'doinks'?"

Argon's laughter echoed through the surrounding area, his glee evident. "Haha I like mine better! Now, what goodies have you brought me, Brolan?"

With a nod, Brolan stepped towards the cart, pulling back the heavy fabric that had been covering its contents. As the material was pushed away, it revealed a variety of items packed securely and neatly into the cart's space.

Brolan's cart was a veritable treasure trove of martial wares. Piled haphazardly on the rough wooden planks was a daunting assortment of weaponry and armour, each gleaming ominously in the dull light.

Numerous short swords, their blades honed to a deadly edge, were strewn across the cart. The blades, with hilts wrapped in hardened leather for grip, promised a deadly efficacy in skilled hands. Alongside them were sturdy maces, their iron heads decorated with cruel spikes, promising brutal force and damage.

A cluster of longbows lay propped against the side of the cart. Crafted from yew wood, the bows bore the slight curve of weapons ready to launch arrows with lethal accuracy. Bundles of arrows, their fletchings neatly trimmed and their iron tips sharp, lay in a neat pile close by.

The cart was also laden with armour. Chest plates of solid iron, reinforced with rivets and leather padding, sat alongside sturdier plate mail. Leather jerkins, hardened and treated for added durability, lay folded in a corner. Helmets of various designs and sizes were scattered about, their insides lined with padded cloth for comfort.

Every piece of equipment in the cart was a testament to the fighting force that Argon was amassing, and the cache of equipment was a clear indication of Brolan's successful mission.

Brolan, grinning from under his rough, grizzled beard, nudges Argon with an elbow, nodding towards a small group of men. "That's not all," he declares, his tone gleaming with a hint of pride. "I bought some doinks. Some of these men, sturdy and robust, could make good soldiers," he observes, pointing out a few who stood taller, their muscles pronounced. "Others, perhaps not as robust or as youthful, look best suited for menial labour."

Argon chuckles at Brolan's new term, shaking his head. "Brolan, please," he says, his tone both amused and admonishing. "Be kind to our guests. They are not 'doinks' but proud derps." His voice, laced with mirth, echoes through the clearing as he addresses his newly acquired men, managing to turn their uncertain looks into a few worried expressions.

Brolan chuckles lightly, "Of course, my Lord," he responds, gesturing towards the group of men he brought with him. "These proud 'derps', as you call them, are ready for whatever tasks you set them."

Among the newly-acquired men, some indeed had the hardened look of soldiers, their stances firm and eyes alert. They had the look of men who had seen and dealt with conflict, carrying themselves with an air of discipline and readiness.

In contrast, the others held a more subdued demeanour. These men appeared better suited for labour and other tasks around the village. Their arms, while not the sculpted arms of soldiers, had the corded strength of labourers. Their calloused hands and sturdy build spoke of years spent working in fields or on construction projects.

Argon surveyed them with a satisfied look. Each man, whether destined for the training yard or the construction site, was an important addition to the growing strength of Blackwood.

"Truth be told, my lord," Brolan begins, a grim seriousness marking his features. "The slave trade in Horntide was far from the booming marketplace; Melvin was right." He rubs his temples, a weary sigh escaping him. "It was a pitiful sight."

"The place was practically barren, far from the hordes of slaves in Duskhaven. I can't say I was too surprised, though. In times like these, every able-bodied man and woman are invaluable."

He motions towards the new arrivals, the desolate expression on their faces reflecting the dire straits from which they were pulled. "These here are what I managed to acquire. Not an impressive lot by any means, but they were the best I could find." He points out the burlier men among them. "The ones who look fit for combat were mostly petty criminals or farmers. We will have to train them from scratch. The rest can handle manual labor."

Brolan pauses, his gaze shifting back to Argon, a trace of guilt in his eyes. "I did the best I could, my lord. But with the scant availability, I was forced to pay more than these slaves would usually cost. I thought it best to secure whatever manpower we could. I hope that was the right call." His voice wavers, a rare instance of uncertainty from the otherwise confident man.

"Indeed, you've done well, Brolan," Argon replies, a note of satisfaction in his voice. He claps his loyal companion on the shoulder, a brief gesture of camaraderie. "You've always had a keen eye for valuable resources."

His gaze then sweeps over the exhausted group of new arrivals, their faces worn and weary yet brimming with a spark of hope. "We'll make use of what we've got. And remember, a diamond in the rough is still a diamond. These men will prove their worth, given the right opportunity."

Finally, he adds, "Now, if you'd excuse me, I need to ensure Lady Isolde is well attended to. She's not used to our... rustic way of life, after all." With a swift turn, he strides away, his armoured form disappearing into the manor, leaving Brolan to manage the newcomers and acclimate them to their new reality.