Rolling Out The Red Carpet

As they ride on the morning of the fourth day of travel, Baron Eldrige's voice rings out, muffled slightly by the walls of the carriage. "This is where you leave us, Argon."

Argon nods in understanding, a knot of apprehension and excitement tightening in his stomach. He manoeuvres himself to the side of the road. He raises a hand, calling out to Brolan, "Brolan, come over here!" The ever-faithful slave quickly guides his horse over to Argon, both of them matching the pace of the retinue to avoid causing a disruption.

He sidles up next to Argon, curious eyes flicking over to the still-moving carriage. "Just me and you again, my friend," Argon says, his voice holding a note of melancholy but also a strange sense of excitement. They had been through much together, and now they were about to embark on a new journey, just the two of them. A spark of determination lights up in Brolan's eyes as he nods, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead.

The sun had begun its ascent, casting long shadows over the landscape as Argon and Brolan veered off from the main path, heading northwest. Brolan kept the small parchment held tightly in his grasp, glancing down at the crude map from time to time. This was entirely new territory for both of them, and the task they were given was a substantial one.

The road they followed was less travelled, narrow and winding, sandwiched between looming, verdant trees that seemed to touch the sky. Nature here was wild and unforgiving; it was a stark contrast to the controlled beauty of Duskhaven. The sounds of their horses' hooves crunching on the gravel beneath them were the only interruptions to the serene, almost eerie quiet.

They travelled for a few hours, the scenery changing subtly as they moved further away from the familiar. The trees grew less dense, and the road began to widen and smooth out. They were leaving the shadow of the woods, entering grasslands that were sprawling and open, specked with vibrant wildflowers and interspersed with small, rolling hills. The late afternoon sun was warm on their armoured bodies, reflecting off the polished metal.

As they journeyed, the mundane signs of human life began to appear - fences, farmsteads in the distance, and fields ready for harvest. Their destination was nearing. They shared no words, their concentration solely on the path ahead. It was a tense quiet, filled with anticipation of their new duty.

As the sun glows, the silhouette of a small village appeared on the horizon - the thatched roofs of houses, the outline of a watchtower, and the faint glimmer of lights. This was it - their destination and their responsibility. The simplicity of the village was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Duskhaven they were used to.

Feeling a surge of impatience, Argon grumbles to himself, "Fuck it, can't sit on my ass waiting for Eldridge's bloody men."

His gaze sweeps over the pathetic state of the village. It's clear the place is teetering on the edge of anarchy and that they don't have the luxury of time.

Argon isn't some pampered noble patiently waiting for things to fall into his lap. He's a fucking survivor. He's learned the hard way that if you don't seize the moment, it'll leave you in the dust. His gaze flicks to Brolan, a hard edge to his stare.

It's high time to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty. Immediately.

Their journey had been long and tiring, but it was only the beginning. Now, their real task was about to start. The village was not welcoming. It was a place forgotten by time, neglected by its lord, a place desperate for change.

Situated amidst a sparsely vegetated landscape, the village seemed to be a modest one, comprised of several dozen houses that were scattered haphazardly across the terrain. Most of the structures were simple, single-story dwellings built from a mixture of wood and stone. Several were in dire need of repair, their dilapidated state reflective of the village's overall condition.

From a distance, the village bore an aura of quiet and solitude. However, as Argon and Brolan drew closer, the signs of the villagers' struggle became more evident. The fields that would usually be lush with crops were barren and parched, and the air was tainted with a bitter undertone of desperation and resignation.

Brolan, with his keen observational skills, estimated the village population to be around two hundred, give or take. His trained eyes studied their surroundings, constantly alert for any sign of trouble. Their attention was drawn to the village's entrance, where three burly men stood, serving as a rudimentary gatekeeping force. Their hardened expressions and ragged clothes told a tale of endurance and survival, a testament to the harshness of their circumstances. Each man held a shortsword, their grips firm and unyielding, an unspoken declaration of their intent to defend their home from any perceived threats.

The three men standing at the entrance of the village were an imposing sight. Each of them bore the mark of hardship on their faces - sunken eyes, weathered skin, and a hardness in their expressions that were a testament to the tough life they led. Their clothes were a mixture of rough spun fabric tunics, bearing the stains of hard labour. Their bodies were muscular, hardened by the endless hours of toil, their hands calloused from manual labour. All three were armed with short swords, their blades reflecting the dying light of the setting sun.

"I'm here on orders from the baron to restore order", Argon's announcement was met with immediate hostility. A man who looked to be the leader of the group, the tallest and the most burly, stepped forward. His beady eyes narrowed, and a wicked grin spread on his face, revealing stained and chipped teeth. "Who gives a fuck? Give us your gold and your food," he spat out, his voice gravelly from years of smoking.

Argon's reaction was swift. His hand touched the cool metal of his artefact, activating it with a small, sharp prick of his thumb against the blade. The energy rush he felt was immediate; his senses heightened, and his strength increased. His spear, which had been resting against his back, was in his hands in a flash. He threw it with a force he knew would be deadly, aiming directly at the man.

The spear flew true, the air whistling as it cut through, and struck the man straight in the abdomen. The force of the impact carried him off his feet, the spearhead piercing through his body, dragging with it a bit of intestine. Blood gushed out from the wound, pooling around him as he collapsed onto the ground like a sack of potatoes, his eyes wide open in shock and pain. The gruesome sight and the swift, brutal act of violence immediately silenced any further challenges.

The remaining two men, now visibly trembling, quickly back away from Argon. "W-w-we're sorry," one of them stammers, his eyes wide with terror. "We'll... we'll comply, we promise."

Argon merely sneers at their pitiful attempts at pleading. "I don't care," he snaps, his voice echoing eerily through the silent village. He urges his horse forward, the animal obediently quickening its pace. The two men break into a run, their footfalls echoing in the silent night.

With a practised ease, Argon draws his sword, his grip tightening around the hilt. As he approaches, he lifts his blade high above his head, its polished surface glinting in the dim light. Then, with a swift and brutal downward slash, he brings his weapon down onto the skull of the first man. The sound of metal meeting bone echoes through the night, a sickening crunch that sends a chill down the spines of anyone within earshot.

Retrieving his sword, lodged in the skull, Argon uses a hefty amount of force to pull it free. A few droplets of blood splatter onto the parched soil, adding to the macabre scene playing out in the once-peaceful village.

The second man has time bun a bit further as Argon charges toward him, his horse's hooves kicking up dirt and rocks. There's a look of paralyzed fear in the man's eyes, his body stiffening as Argon swings his sword horizontally.

With a swift, brutal arc, Argon's blade cuts through the air before making contact with the man's skull. The sound of metal cleaving through bone fills the air, a chilling symphony of impending death. In an instant, a significant portion of the man's head is severed, sent flying off in a spray of blood and gore.

The sword gets lodged into the skull, requiring Argon to exert considerable force to yank it out. Blood splatters onto the dry ground, the crimson droplets sinking into the parched soil, an ominous reminder of the ruthlessness with which Argon would carry out his duty to restore order.

The gruesome sight of the brain matter, half-exposed and rapidly draining of life, serves as a horrific testament to the raw, unfiltered power behind Argon's blade. The rest of the body slumps to the ground, a lifeless husk in the dust, the world forever extinguished from its sight.

His grip tightens on the sword, the blade still dripping with the blood of the shitheads he'd just put down.