Old Habits

Awakening from his slumber, Argon finds himself sandwiched between Lyra and Saera. Their soft, rhythmic breathing provides a calming soundtrack to the early morning, and he feels the warmth of their bodies next to him, a comforting presence.

Lyra's hair, splayed out on the pillow, is the first thing he sees, strands of it tickling his nose. He moves his gaze to Saera, curled into him, her hand resting on his chest. He could feel the steady thump of his heart under her touch.

The two women, both beautiful in their unique ways, had become a significant part of his life in Blackwood. They offered comfort, pleasure, and companionship - valuable commodities in his often chaotic and challenging world. As Argon gently extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, being careful not to wake them, he can't help but feel a sense of contentment.

Rising from the bed, Argon looks back at the sleeping figures one last time before readying himself for another day,

After sharing a morning meal with Brolan, Argon feels refreshed and ready to tackle the day ahead. The mundane discussions and light banter of breakfast serve as a comforting routine in the midst of uncertainty. As he finishes the meal, Argon turns to his second-in-command, a determined glint in his eyes.

"By the way, how is your girl Emelia doing?" he asked, a teasing edge in his voice.

Brolan, a hulking figure with a rough exterior but a surprising depth of affection for his girl, looked taken aback at first, caught off guard by the sudden inquiry. He then chuckled, his boisterous laughter filling the room before replying with a smirk of his own. "Emelia? Well, let's just say she spends most of her time on all fours..." His voice trailed off as he winked at Argon.

Argon lets out a hearty laugh at Brolan's response, the amusement evident in his voice. "Brolan, you sure know how to pick 'em!" Argon comments, grinning.

"Bah! It's not like there's much of a selection around here," Brolan responds, shrugging nonchalantly while trying to conceal a grin of his own.

They both share a moment of laughter, understanding the jesting nature of their banter. Despite the ongoing turmoil and uncertainty around them, these small instances of camaraderie provide a semblance of normality, a moment of relief from the constant tension over Argon's play for Isolde.

Brolan then adds, "But seriously, Emelia is a good lass. She knows her place and knows how to treat a man. Can't ask for more."

"Hm, sounds like you've got it all figured out," Argon remarks, finishing off his breakfast. It was time to get to work.

"Let's make rounds to the blacksmith and the tailor today," Argon proposes, setting down his fork. "I want to see the progress made with the new supplies."

A nod from Brolan signals his agreement, and they both rise from the table. Outside, Blackwood is already awake, the village bustling with activity as the day's work begins. As they make their way towards the blacksmith's forge, the rhythmic sound of metal against metal resonates through the morning air. The smell of hot iron and the spark of the hammer on the anvil are familiar, comforting even.

The sight of the blacksmith hard at work, moulding raw materials into something useful, strengthens Argon's resolve. His gaze then shifts to the tailor's shop, its facade quaint and inviting. The hum of activity from within hints at the craftspeople busily at work, turning simple fabrics into garments for the villagers.

Argon turned his path towards the newly-constructed blacksmith's shop. As he approached, the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil resonated through the air, a testament to the blacksmith's relentless work. The blacksmith was a burly man, his muscles rippling with each strike, his face masked in concentration and the grime of his trade.

The structure was sturdy, built from the dark, resilient wood native to the Blackwood. Smoke billowed from a chimney that bore the signs of constant use. The sound of searing metal and the glow from the furnace inside painted a picture of industry and craftsmanship. A water trough sat nearby, its surface occasionally disturbed by the splash of heated metal being tempered.

Laid out neatly beside the blacksmith were the fruits of Melvin's recent procurement. Crucibles for smelting, tongs for holding hot metal, anvils of varying sizes, and an assortment of hammers specifically designed for the blacksmith's trade. Most importantly, there were sacks of quality coal, pivotal for achieving the high temperatures required for steel production.

Furthermore, Melvin had managed to secure a supply of iron ore and small quantities of carbon - the two key ingredients in steel production. Also present was limestone, used as a flux to remove impurities during the smelting process. Argon couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. With these resources, Blackwood could produce and shape its own steel - a significant step towards self-sufficiency and strength.

"Ferris, isn't it?" Argon began, addressing the blacksmith. Looking up from his work, Ferris wiped his soot-streaked face with a cloth. His gaze met Argon's, revealing a pair of eyes accustomed to the glare of a forge's fire.

"I've been managing well, m'lord," Ferris replied, setting his hammer down onto the sturdy anvil. His voice was rough, matching his calloused hands, yet it held a tone of respect.

Argon nodded, observing the man's work with an appreciative eye. "I see that the tools and materials we acquired have been put to good use. How goes the steel production?"

Ferris straightened up, pulling his apron tighter as he prepared to answer. He looked genuinely pleased as he began to detail his progress, explaining how the new equipment had improved efficiency and quality. Ferris shared his excitement about the potential of steel, discussing the possibility of forging better weapons, armour, and tools. His enthusiasm, reflected in his wide grin and animated gestures, was infectious, and Argon found himself sharing the blacksmith's anticipation for the future of Blackwood.

"Have you been paid for your services?" Argon inquired, his eyes scanning the assortment of metalwork laid out before him.

Ferris scratched the back of his head, a hint of discomfort clouding his features. "Well, Sir Edrik, he told me what to make and such, but I haven't been paid yet. Not that I'm complaining or anything, m'lord," he quickly added, hastily looking down at his calloused hands.

Argon's expression softened. "You should be compensated for your work, Ferris. Even as a serf, your labor holds value." He reached into his purse, pulling out a single, gleaming gold coin he casually tossed to the blacksmith. Ferris clumsily caught it, his eyes widening at the sight of the gold.

"I'll pay you three silver for each item you produce," Argon declared sternly. "That's more than generous considering your status. When that gold runs out, get your payment from Melvin."

Ferris nodded, his eyes still locked on the gold coin safely tucked away in his pocket. "Thank you, m'lord. I appreciate your generosity."

Argon gave a curt nod, acknowledging the blacksmith's gratitude before turning to depart. He was satisfied with what he saw here, and now it was time to visit the tailor's workshop.

Strolling into the tailor's shop, Argon's eyes quickly fell on a man standing apart from the group of industrious women. His fingers were nimble, quickly moving across a piece of cloth with a needle and thread. "You there!" Argon called, the hint of a smirk on his lips. "What's your name?"

The man stood, placing his work down, "Horace, m'lord, Oakshad's village tailor."

Argon looked him up and down before bursting into a gruff laugh. "Tailor, huh?" He said through fits of laughter. "Isn't that a fucking woman's job, Horace?"

Horace's polite smile wavered, but he maintained his composure. "A tailor's craft knows no sex, m'lord. It's about skill, precision..."

Argon interrupted him, "An eye for beauty, is that it? You spend your days playing with fabric and you have the gall to talk about skill and precision?" He glanced at Brolan, who was trying to hide his laughter.

Argon prodded further into the tailor's work, a cruel smile never leaving his face. He belittled Horace at every chance, poking fun at his craft, all while ensuring he was paid for his work. His treatment of Horace differed from his interaction with Ferris, the blacksmith. But in Argon's mind, a man doing a woman's job was a source of endless amusement, a jest that would never get old.

Argon glanced at Horace's thin, unassuming figure, struggling to hide his sniggering. He nudged Brolan's side with his elbow, a wicked grin on his face. "Brolan," he began, his voice loud enough for the entire room to hear, "if Blackwood village ever comes under attack, we'll toss this one at the enemy first, won't we?"

Brolan, struggling to hold back a grin, snorted out a laugh. "Surely, m'lord. Horace here will scare them off with his needles."

Despite the tense atmosphere, a ripple of stifled laughter passed through the room. All the while, Horace stood there, his face growing redder by the second, yet not a single word of protest escaped his lips.

Argon seemed satisfied with the stir he had caused, heaving a final bout of laughter before leaving the tailor's shop. Clearly, his cruelty was more for his own amusement than anything else - a clear display of his unchecked power and influence.

As they traverse the village's main street, a figure catches Argon's eye. Eldrin, Lyra's son, is as youthful as a spring bud. A cruel smile plays on Argon's lips. "Look, Brolan, it's our budding 'soldier'," he sneers, emphasizing the last word mockingly.

Eldrin is a lanky boy, far too young to bear the burdens of manhood, but the hard life in Blackwood has chiselled him prematurely. Upon seeing Argon, the boy snaps into a rigid salute, his face a mask of terror masked by a thin veneer of bravado.

"Oh, don't piss yourself, boy!" Argon chortles, deriving a perverse pleasure from the fear he instils in the youth. The lord of Blackwood thrived on power, the ability to dominate and control others.

"My Lord," Eldrin begins, his voice tremulous, "the patrols have been heightened, and basic combat training for the new recruits is underway. The village remains secure and there have been no reported issues."

Argon dismisses him with a flippant wave, "Yeah, yeah. Continue with your 'play soldier' games. Just remember, this isn't a child's play yard. It's a real world with real dangers. So, grow some balls and learn to fight. Or don't. Either way, you'll just be fodder in a real battle."

Argon's eyes danced with malicious pleasure as he stared at Eldrin. "Well, Eldrin," he began, his voice honeyed and laced with venom, "you seem to have omitted one crucial detail in your report. How is your dear mother, eh?"

Eldrin stiffened, his fingers clenched around the haft of his spear. His youthful face hardened, eyes aflame with rising anger. He bit back a response, holding his silence with visible effort.

"Not very talkative, are we?" Argon taunted, leaning in closer. His voice dropped to a low, cruel whisper. "You know, your mother, she's my favorite," he stated, a wicked grin stretching across his face. "Especially the way she eagerly welcomes my cock. Takes it like a champ, if I do say so myself."

Brolan watched from the side, a twisted smirk on his face. He knew better than to interfere when Argon was in one of his cruel moods. Eldrin needed to understand his place in this harsh, unforgiving world, and Argon was determined to teach him in the most cutting manner.

Argon relished in the silence that followed his words. He leaned back, casually crossing his arms over his chest. A ripple of laughter erupted from him, breaking the heavy tension in the air.

"Ah, such a sweet expression," he continued, gesturing at Eldrin's face. "You look like a rabid dog about to bite. Tell me, Eldrin, do you save that look for just anyone, or is it a special one reserved for me?" His grin widened at the boy's knuckles whitening around his spear.

"And by the way," Argon added, glancing at Eldrin's spear. "That grip won't do you any good in a real fight. You grip your spear like a lifeline, not a weapon. It's a pity your mother doesn't hold on to my cock with such fervor. But I guess, she doesn't need to; it stays firm and steady without any desperate grip."

Argon's laughter echoed around them once more, a twisted symphony of mockery and insult. The young boy's discomfort and anger were palpable, a delicious cocktail Argon drank in. Even Brolan's grin grew wider, feeding off the relentless cruelty of his lord.

As they walked away, leaving Eldrin standing with clenched fists, Argon's laughter still echoed in the air, his cruel words a stark reminder of the ruthlessness of power and the bitterness of those who endure its torment.