The Preparation

With the promise of the early morning sun, Argon roused from his sleep on the bed in the new apartment. The meagre comforts it offered were a step up from his previous squalid living arrangements, and he appreciated the small privilege of having a roof over his head.

Brolan was already awake. He'd spent the night on the floor, the hard surface a small price to pay for the shelter the apartment offered. Despite the unspoken tension between them, there was a strange camaraderie.

The day began in earnest as they set out to locate the bandit's hideout. The outskirts of Duskhaven, filled with thorny undergrowth and patches of wild forests, were known to be the bandits' stomping grounds. Stealthily and carefully, they navigated the treacherous terrain. However, their initial attempts to locate the bandits' hideout proved fruitless. The bandits, it seemed, had perfected the art of camouflage and concealment.

Argon and Brolan had spent the better part of the day trudging through the outskirts of Duskhaven, eyes and ears straining for any sign of the elusive bandits. Their search, however, yielded nothing but a growing frustration.

"Damn those bandit bastards," Argon muttered, throwing a frustrated glance at the endless expanses of wilderness.

"Perhaps they're just not here, Argon," Brolan suggested, his brows furrowed in thought.

"No, they're here alright," Argon shot back, his gaze steely. "Just too damn slippery."

Silence fell between them for a moment, the two men lost in their thoughts. Argon scratched at his stubbled chin, his mind spinning with new strategies. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

"Brolan," he started, turning to the other man, "those bandit fucks have to be getting their loot somewhere, right? Let's change our approach."

Brolan tilted his head, considering Argon's words. "What are you suggesting?"

Argon's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Let's stop looking for them in the wilderness. Instead, let's wait by the highway, where they'd likely strike. We're not going to hunt them anymore. Instead, we'll let those greedy fuckers come to us."

Brolan nodded slowly, a glint of approval in his eyes. "That's a smart idea, Argon. Instead of chasing shadows, we let them reveal themselves."

"Then it's settled," Argon said, rising to his feet. "We'll lurk by the highway and wait for those bastards to make their move."

The two men were clearly more comfortable with a fight than thought.

As Argon and Brolan ventured down the highway in the underbrush on the outskirts of Duskhaven, their attention was drawn to a commotion in the distance. Through the thicket, they spotted a plump merchant, his face flushed and perspiring under the midday sun. He was dressed in rich but dust-streaked attire, his eyes wide with terror as he clung desperately to the reins of his frightened horse-drawn cart.

His assailants were a brutal sight to behold - four grimy, scarred brutes that epitomized the filth and cruelty of Duskhaven. They were dressed in mismatched armours, bearing crudely crafted weapons that gleamed ominously in the sunlight.

They were mounted on horses, the hooves of their steeds kicking up dust as they thundered down the highway, moving with a chilling certainty.

The leader, his scarred face twisted into a cruel sneer, rode at the front of the pack, his eyes scanning the road ahead with predatory intensity. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his weapon, clearly itching for the inevitable confrontation.

Following in his wake, the wiry bandit with the tattooed arms hunched low over his mount, silent as a shadow. His gaze flicked between the road ahead and the unsuspecting merchants with an alarming focus, clearly strategizing their assault.

The rotund bandit, his pudgy fingers clenched tightly on the reins, kept apace with his compatriots. His grating laugh echoed in the quiet of the highway, a sinister soundtrack to the approaching danger.

Trailing at the back was the youngest bandit, his skinny frame nearly swallowed up by his mount. He looked nervous, his eyes wide and his grip on the reins unsteady. His gaze was locked onto the back of the lead bandit, the fear in his eyes evident.

As the unsuspecting merchant came into view, the bandits kicked their horses into a gallop. With a deafening roar, they dismounted and launched themselves at the hapless trader WHo had given up fleeing.

The leader was ripping a sack of coins from the trembling merchant's hand.

The other three bandits were busy ransacking the cart, tossing aside items of lesser value and stuffing their pockets with the most prized possessions. Their laughter was a harsh sound that echoed through the eerily quiet forest, the scene a chilling reminder of the lawlessness that reigned in Duskhaven. His once vibrant goods were strewn across the dirt path, the bright silks and precious gems a stark contrast against the harsh wilderness backdrop.

As Argon observed the scene, he noticed the bandits did not go for the kill. The merchant was left bloodied and bruised but breathing, a pitiful figure sprawled on the ground. His goods were gone, his dignity stripped, but his life had been spared.

This tactic struck Argon as peculiar. He knew that bandits in Nekros were usually not inclined towards mercy. But this group, it seemed, had a different modus operandi. They were violent but calculated, causing harm and creating fear but stopping short of crossing that irrevocable line.

Argon speculated that this strategy had a purpose. Killing the merchant would undoubtedly raise the stakes. A murder would elicit a stronger response from the city guards, forcing them to pursue the bandits more aggressively.

Moreover, it could also draw the ire of the merchant guilds. Wealthy and influential, these guilds had the resources to hire mercenaries and bounty hunters, making life exceedingly difficult for the bandits.

But even more significantly, Argon suspected that this deliberate restraint had something to do with the bandits' mysterious backer. The bandits were likely under instructions to avoid unnecessary killing.

In the cover of the underbrush, Argon and Brolan fell back to a safe distance. Argon's face was etched with resolve, his gaze fixed on the retreating forms of the bandits.

"Well," Argon growled, his fingers curling into fists. "Those filthy bastards aren't so elusive anymore."

Brolan grunted in agreement; his eyes narrowed in thought. "Aye, but now we have their scent. We know they're bold enough to attack in broad daylight, close to the city."

Argon turned to Brolan, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Then we change our fucking plan, Brolan. No more wandering aimlessly. We follow them."

"Follow?" Brolan echoed, raising an eyebrow at Argon.

"That's the plan, Brolan," Argon stated matter-of-factly, clapping a heavy hand onto Brolan's shoulder. "We wait until those bandit cunts strike, then we follow them back to their hideout. We'll catch them unawares."

A slow smile spread across Brolan's face, his eyes lighting up with dangerous excitement. "Sounds like a plan, Argon. We could learn their tactics, study-"

"Fuck that," Argon interjected sharply, shooting a disdainful glance at his new slave. "You're starting to sound like a boot-licker, Brolan. This ain't a time for learning, this is a time for action."

Brolan blinked, surprised by the sudden rebuke, then gave a slow nod of understanding. "Right... Action, not words. Got it."

Argon scoffed, rolling his eyes at Brolan's easy acceptance. The idiot would agree with anything, it seemed. "Don't 'got it' me, you dumb fuck. We don't have time for your 'studying'. We follow them to their hideout check it out, then tommorow we ambush them while they rob, and then we torture the living shit out of them until they spill the location of their loot, perhaps we won't even have to storm their encampment. That's the plan. Do you understand, Brolan?"

"Yes, Argon," Brolan replied, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. The tension in his stance told Argon that he had understood the gravity of their plan. There was a fire in his eyes that Argon hadn't seen before, a fire that promised a brutal fight and sweet revenge. It made Argon feel oddly satisfied.

"Good," Argon grunted, turning his attention back to the road. "Now, let's get a move on. I've got a feeling that we won't be waiting long."

They followed the bandits from a safe distance, silently trailing them back to their hideout.

The hideout was a motley collection of makeshift tents sprawled in a hidden valley. From their vantage point, Argon and Brolan observed the bandits' movements, assessing their numbers and watching for patterns in their patrols. They noted the weaknesses in their defence - the irregular patrols and their lax nighttime security.

Brolan, with his knack for stealth, ventured closer to the camp. Moving like a shadow, he gathered invaluable information about their internal hierarchy, numbers, their guard dogs, and their lookout posts. Armed with this information, they retreated to a safe distance to plan their assault.

The afternoon turned into evening as they journeyed back to their apartment. Back at the apartment, they took a moment to appreciate the shelter it provided from the cold night air. Despite the looming danger, they felt a glimmer of hope. They had a plan, and they had each other's back. They knew the coming days would be fraught with danger, but they were ready to face it.

The night was spent in restless anticipation of the coming day. They checked and rechecked their weapons, mentally prepared themselves for the fight, and discussed the plan one last time before finally succumbing to a fitful sleep.

With their preparations complete, they waited for dawn, ready to put their plan into action.