Village Chief

As Argon and Brolan stride into the nearly deserted village, the only sound that greets them is the howling wind, carrying with it the stench of desperation and fear. Not a soul is in sight, the residents seemingly having vanished into thin air, no doubt scared shitless by the earlier bloody spectacle.

Undeterred, Argon bellows into the unnerving silence on horseback, his voice echoing through the barren streets. "Who the fuck is running this sorry excuse for a village?"

His demand hangs heavy in the air for a brief, tension-filled moment before the creaking sound of a door interrupts the silence. Out steps a boy, no more than ten, trembling like a leaf in the wind, his wide, tear-stained eyes flicking anxiously between Argon's hardened gaze and the three lifeless bodies at the village entrance.

"Please, don't kill me," the boy stammers, dropping to his knees and clasping his small hands together in a desperate plea.

A faint smirk tugs at the corners of Argon's mouth. The sight is pitiful, but he wasn't a bloodthirsty monster. His voice is gruff but not unkind.

"Easy, lad. We're not here to butcher innocents. Now, quit your sniveling and tell me who's in charge here."

With a sniffle and a shaky nod, the boy manages to squeak out, "Ch-Chief Dolren...he lives in the big house...there, at the center."

Brolan chuckles at this, a wide grin splitting his face. "Of course! Where else would the Chief be but in the grandest shit pile of this village?"

Ignoring Brolan's jibe, Argon gives the boy an appreciative nod before turning his steed toward the so-called 'center' of the village. There, among the mud-brick huts and dilapidated buildings, stands a larger, more robust structure. It's nothing fancy, but compared to the rest of the village, it's practically a palace.

Constructed from solid stone and timber, the house has a thatched roof that's seen better days and an iron-studded door at the front. A thin trail of smoke wafts from the chimney, suggesting a fire is burning inside. Several windows dot the house, though the interior is dark and quiet.

"This must be the place," Argon mutters under his breath, urging his horse towards the Chief's house, his hand instinctively hovering over his sword hilt, ready for anything.

Even with the sound-dampening effect of the thick wooden door, the crashing noise of Argon's third kick echoed through the house. The door's hinges broke, and it flew open, revealing a gloomy interior. "Come out, you damn fool!" Argon commanded, his tone gruff and laced with impatience.

A man, presumably Chief Dolren, tripped out from a side window, his eyes wide with fear and surprise. He was a thickset man with a beard that had seen better days and clothes that looked like they had been worn for weeks without washing. His hands were raised in surrender, his eyes darting between Argon's stern face and the gleaming sword at his side.

"Spying on us, are you?" Argon asked, a sneer spreading across his face as he drew his sword. The steel sang as it slid free from the scabbard, and the look of absolute terror on the Chief's face seemed to amuse Argon. He advanced towards the Chief; his sword pointed threateningly at the man. "You like to watch? Watch this," Argon growled, prepared to make his point quite clear.

Chief Dolan fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes as he begged for mercy. "Take my gold, just spare my life," he pleaded. He scrambled to a corner of the room, prying up a loose floorboard to reveal a small, worn-out purse.

Brolan moved swiftly, his hand snatching the purse from Dolan's grasp before he could even blink. Argon, however, simply scoffed, his gaze stern. "We're not here to rob you, but thanks for the contribution," he said, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Argon continued, "We're here by the order of Baron Eldrige to restore control of this village. We were told of some unrest, disobedience." He pointed his sword at Dolan, the blade glinting ominously in the low light. "It seems you're too incompetent to do your job. Well, consider us your replacements." The words were harsh, a stinging reminder to Dolan of his failures and the current state of his village.

Looking defeated, Dolan attempted to justify his failures. "I lost control of my guards when I couldn't pay them... the taxes are too high in this drought... everyone is starving."

Argon's voice turned ice-cold at Dolan's comment. "I suggest you keep your opinions about the Baron's economic policies to yourself unless you want to taste my blade. Anyhow, it looks like some are starving more than others."

Dolan paled noticeably at the threat, his excuses dying in his throat. Argon's gaze was fixed firmly on the village leader, his stance powerful and intimidating. "Gather your people and bring them here outside your house. I will address them in one hour," he ordered. The threat lingered in the air, pushing Dolan to nod his agreement. He quickly scurried off to fulfil Argon's command, desperate to avoid the wrath of the imposing man.

Brolan's laugh echoed in the empty room, his amusement clear in his voice. "Well, that was easy," he remarked, reclining casually.

Argon, however, was less relaxed. "Still, be on your guard," he warned, his eyes sharp. "Activate your artefact once we go outside, mine's wearing off. If two hundred peasants decide they'd rather try to kill us than listen, we'll need to make a quick exit."

In the distance, they could hear Dolan's frantic shouts, a disorganised clamour rising from the villagers as they congregated. Soon, the noise outside had grown to a loud, constant murmur.

Brolan glanced towards the door, then back at Argon. "Should we go out now?" he asked, an eyebrow raised in question.

Argon shook his head, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. "No. Let's make these fuckers wait." He wanted to assert his authority, remind them exactly who was in control here, and he was going to do just that.