A harsh, piercing squawk from a distant bird interrupted Argon's fitful slumber. His eyes snapped open, the first rays of dawn streaking across his vision. The gruelling battles and long trek from the day before had taken their toll, reducing him to a heap of exhaustion amidst the forest ruins.
His makeshift bed was a pile of moss and dried leaves, far from comfortable but better than the hard forest floor. The chill of the early morning had seeped into his bones, making his movements stiff and pained. For a moment, Argon lay there, staring up at the stone ceiling of the ancient ruin, the once grand structures reduced to moss-covered stones and crumbling pillars.
Sitting up, he stretched, trying to shake off the stiffness in his muscles. His body protested, but Argon gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort. He was used to roughing it up in the wilderness, a necessity in his line of work. He wrapped his cloak tighter around him, trying to ward off the cold that clung to the morning air.
He pulled out a chunk of dried meat from coals, his breakfast. It was a simple, unappetizing meal, but it served its purpose - it filled his stomach and replenished his energy. He munched on the meat, his mind already beginning to plan his next move.
Once he had finished his meal and packed up his belongings, he looked around the ruins one last time. The ruins, bathed in the soft morning light, seemed serene, a stark contrast to the dangers lurking within the depths of the forest.
Pushing himself to his feet, Argon adjusted the straps of his backpack and picked up his rusty sword. It was time to continue his journey. With one last glance at the crumbling ruins, he turned his back and strode away, ready to face whatever the day had in store for him.
Argon clutched the two valuable beast cores tightly in his hands, their pulsating energy a bittersweet reminder of his desperate situation. The goblin core, worth a meagre five silver, was dwarfed by the more extensive and valuable mole rat core, priced at seven silver. However, the riches they promised remained out of reach, locked behind the impenetrable walls of the Seric merchant hall, a place he couldn't access.
Argon's survival instincts roared within him after his near-death encounter with the mole rat. He knew he had to find a way to convert the cores into much-needed coins to secure his next steps. With a heavy heart and an uneasy resolve, he decided to return to Duskhaven, a wretched town teeming with danger and deceit.
After his bloody but fruitful expedition in the southern hunting grounds, Argon began his return journey back to Duskhaven. Leaving the seclusion of the forest, he stepped onto the beaten dirt path that served as the main route back to the city. The path, usually teeming with merchants and travellers, was conspicuously deserted at this hour.
His boots crunched on the gravel, the rhythm a comforting reminder of the long trek he'd embarked on. Around him, the dense forest began to thin out, replaced by the open fields and occasional roadside taverns that signalled the outskirts of Duskhaven.
As he trudged along the winding path, the solitary silhouette of Argon was a stark contrast against the landscape. His body ached from the exertion; his rags were caked with goblin blood and dirt. But underneath the fatigue, a glimmer of satisfaction echoed in his chest. His pack was filled with his deadly trophies, proof of his successful hunt.
Gradually, signs of civilization began to appear. The occasional merchant wagon rolled past him, the horses snorting and shaking their manes in the early morning chill. Slowly, more people began to dot the path, a vivid indication of his proximity to the city. Travellers, merchants, and other adventurers like him, their numbers growing as he drew closer to Duskhaven.
Finally, the towering walls of Duskhaven came into view, a welcome sight for his weary eyes. The fortified city stood as a symbol of security and civilization in the midst of the wild lands of Nekros. He entered through the city gates, the familiar hustle and bustle of Duskhaven washing over him. He had returned victorious, ready to claim his rewards and prepare for his next quest in this harsh, unforgiving world.
Argon's mind wandered to the artefact and its untapped potential as he travelled. The brief encounter with the mole rat had left him with more questions than answers. He wondered if the artefact's protective barrier could only ward off killing blows or if it possessed more defensive capabilities. How many times could he rely on its power before it faded? The uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts, fueling a relentless curiosity to explore its limits.
Argon pressed on, his weary legs carrying him closer to Duskhaven. The journey would take half a day. The landscape grew increasingly desolate, with the ruins of forgotten structures looming in the distance. The air reeked of decay and despair, an unyielding reminder of the unforgiving world he inhabited.
Finally, the crumbling silhouette of Duskhaven emerged from the gloom. The town stood as a testament to the cruelty and desperation that pervaded Nekros. Its streets, lined with dilapidated buildings and despairing souls, told tales of shattered dreams and broken lives.
Argon stepped cautiously into the town, his senses heightened to the lurking danger in wait. Suspicion and hostility hung thick in the air, a palpable tension that made him acutely aware of his vulnerability. Every face he encountered held a touch of malice, a reminder that in Duskhaven, trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Argon approached the bustling sprawl of Duskhaven's unofficial marketplace, a labyrinthine maze of stalls and shops that served as the city's beating heart. He moved through a shabby archway that unofficially marked the market's entrance, the structure a relic from the city's more prosperous past. A heady blend of scents hit him immediately — the tang of fresh fruit, the stench of rotting waste, the spicy aroma of cooked meats, and a subtle undercurrent of human sweat.
The marketplace was an arena of transaction and interaction, filled with the gritty determination of survival and the eternal human dance of barter and negotiation. It sprawled across a large area, meandering through narrow alleyways, open squares, and winding streets. Stalls and shops were haphazardly arranged in no discernible order, each vying for the attention of potential customers.
It was an eclectic mix of the traditional and the improvised. Permanent storefronts lined the main thoroughfare, selling a variety of goods from food to clothing to domestic items. The rest of the marketplace was dominated by makeshift stalls erected from scrap wood, cloth and metal. These were the domains of independent traders and peddlers, people without a permanent place in Duskhaven's structured economy.
Merchandise varied as widely as the sellers themselves. There were fruits and vegetables of varying freshness, wares ranging from handcrafted jewellery to second-hand shoes, and items of uncertain origin and questionable quality. Amidst the cacophony, one could find precious antiques nestled against worthless knick-knacks, a testament to the city's tumultuous past and uncertain present.
The marketplace was an organism of perpetual motion. Sellers shouted to advertise their goods, buyers haggled over prices, children darted around underfoot, and the occasional pet or livestock added to the chaos. Sounds clashed and overlapped: the rustling of cloth, the clatter of coins, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional heated argument.
Navigating the labyrinthine alleyways, Argon searched for a merchant willing to buy the beast cores. His footsteps echoed against the worn cobblestones, his gaze shifting from stall to stall, looking for a sign of opportunity amidst the destitution.
Amidst the clamour and chaos of the marketplace, Argon's keen eyes spotted a stall that piqued his interest. It was a ramshackle structure constructed from mismatched pieces of wood and a tattered cloth roof. What set it apart were the peculiar items scattered across the countertop. Bits of animal teeth, scales, claws and fur were interspersed with a variety of gem-like items that glowed with faint, ethereal light. These were beast cores harvested from the monstrous creatures that roamed the wilderness around Duskhaven.
Behind the counter stood the stall owner, a stout man with greying hair and a cunning gleam in his eyes. His face bore the lines of a hard life, etched deeper by the constant haggle of the marketplace. He leaned against the counter, his hands resting lazily on his rounded belly as he surveyed the crowd for potential customers.
Argon approached, pulling out the beast cores he had harvested during his hunting expedition. The stall owner's eyes lit up at the sight, but he quickly masked his interest with a dismissive grunt. "Not much demand for these, boy. I'll give you 4 silvers."
Argon's brows furrowed, his grip on the beast's cores tightening. He had taken risks to gather these cores, and he knew their worth. The stall owner was trying to swindle him, likely assuming that his youthful appearance translated to naivety.
"These are high-quality cores," Argon retorted, the simmering anger in his voice resonating through the bustling marketplace noise. "They'd fetch me 12 silvers in the Seric merchant area."
The stall owner scoffed, throwing back his head in a throaty laugh. "Then why don't you sell it there, boy? Oh, let me guess, you're not welcome there, are you?"
The tension was palpable as Argon's jaw tightened, his eyes shooting daggers at the older man. "I'll take no less than 10 silvers," Argon declared his voice firm with resolve.
The stall owner stroked his beard, his cunning eyes assessing the situation. "A tough negotiator, huh? You have guts, boy. I like that." He paused for a moment, his gaze fixated on the beast cores, his mind calculating the profit he could make. "9 silvers. Not a coin more."
Argon glared at the man, his frustration boiling over. But he also knew this was a battle he couldn't win. He needed the money, and there were few willing to pay for beast cores outside the Seric merchant area.
With a final, exasperated sigh, Argon acquiesced. "Fine. 9 silvers."
A satisfied grin stretched across the stall owner's face as he handed Argon the coins, his hands eagerly reaching for the beast cores. With the small sum of coins in hand, Argon's heart sank. It was far from enough to afford proper armour, leaving him vulnerable to the lurking dangers that awaited him. Determination hardened his gaze as he considered his options. He had only one choice—prioritise better weaponry.
As Argon ambled through the cluttered, chaotic expanse of Duskhaven's unofficial marketplace, another stall piqued his interest. Hidden amongst a sprawl of makeshift shops, it was a ragtag assembly of discarded wooden planks draped with tattered cloth. It was a veritable cornucopia of junk, items discarded as useless, interspersed with a few gems for the discerning eye.
Amidst the sea of broken pots, rusted tools, worn-out shoes, and other pieces of trivial paraphernalia, a faint gleam of sharpened metal caught his attention. Argon's heart pounded with heightened anticipation as he spotted a selection of weaponry.
The stall owner was a grizzled, old man with a face etched with deep lines, each wrinkle narrating a tale of hardship. His slumped shoulders and permanently furrowed brow suggested a life dominated by struggle and toil. He sat hunched on a stool, his calloused hands absentmindedly fondling a chipped bronze coin, a stark symbol of his financial woes.
Among the clutter, Argon's eyes landed on a spear, its simple elegance and practical design a stark contrast to the trash around it. The weapon had a sturdy wooden shaft and a spearhead that, although slightly tarnished, held a sharp edge. Its length suggested a good range, and the well-balanced nature implied it had been crafted by a skilled hand. The weapon resonated with Argon, appearing as a beacon of hope amidst the grime and ruin.
Approaching the stall, Argon could feel the intensity of the old man's gaze upon him, a mix of scepticism and desperation. The stall owner eyed him warily, his eyes squinting, analysing the potential customer.
"How much for the spear?" Argon asked, pointing towards the weapon that had lured him towards the stall.
The stall owner hesitated before uttering, "Five silver."
Ultimately, Argon resolved to purchase a spear, a weapon that would give him reach and versatility in combat. It was a practical choice, an investment in his survival, but it left him vulnerable. Armour remained an unattainable luxury, and he would have to rely on his wits and agility to evade the lethal blows that awaited him.
The price was steep, especially for a marketplace known for its affordable wares. However, Argon was aware of the spear's value. The advantages it would provide in his struggle for survival outweighed its cost.
He unfastened the small pouch attached to his belt and carefully counted out five silver coins. The transaction left his pouch significantly lighter, but the purchase promised potential benefits that outweighed the immediate financial loss.
As Argon handed over the coins, a look of surprised relief washed over the stall owner's face, his weary eyes momentarily lighting up at the unexpected windfall. The old man thanked him profusely, carefully stowing away the silver coins in a battered metal box.
In return, Argon received the spear. The moment he gripped its wooden shaft, a surge of hope coursed through his veins. The weapon was a tangible symbol of his quest for survival and prosperity in the harsh world of Nekros.
As he left the stall, spear in hand, the weight of his circumstances bore down on him heavily. He was acutely aware that his life hung in the balance with every step he took. The shadows of desperation clung to his weary form, but he refused to succumb to despair. Embracing the darkness, he steeled himself for the awaiting trials, knowing that survival in this cruel world demanded more than weapons and armour—it required resilience and a relentless spirit.
After also purchasing food, Argon clutched the meagre bread bag in his hands, the only sustenance he could afford with his dwindling funds. It was far from a satisfying meal, but at least it would stave off starvation for a while longer. With heavy steps, he returned to his humble abode, a place of solace and respite from the unforgiving world outside.
As he entered his dimly lit room, exhaustion washed over him like a tide. His weary body longed for rest, and his mind yearned for clarity amidst the chaos surrounding him. Collapsing onto his meagre bed, he allowed himself a moment of respite, hoping that sleep would bring physical and mental rejuvenation.
When Argon awoke, hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant reminder of his dire circumstances. He reached for the bread bag, tearing off a small piece and chewing it slowly, savouring the meagre sustenance it offered. It was a stark reminder of his struggles, the daily battle for survival in a world where even essential nourishment was a luxury.
With his hunger momentarily appeased, Argon's mind turned to his newfound weapon—the spear. Its gleaming metal tip starkly contrasted with the rusted blade of his old sword. He felt a flicker of confidence, a glimmer of hope that the spear would give him an advantage in his quest to secure more beast cores.
The thought of amassing many beast cores to improve his financial state sparked a renewed determination within Argon. He knew that the forest held the answers he sought—the beasts that roamed its depths possessed the coveted cores. However, he also recognized the risks involved. Hunting alone in the treacherous wilderness was a perilous endeavour, especially when facing creatures capable of inflicting severe harm.
An alternative plan whispered in the recesses of his mind—the idea of robbing a local bandit group. They were known to amass wealth through illicit means, and their spoils could lift him from destitution depths. But Argon's practicality prevailed over his desperation. He knew facing more than one opponent would likely result in his demise, even with the artefact's mysterious power. The risk outweighed the potential reward.
With a heavy sigh, Argon made his decision. He would journey back to the dense forest, where danger and opportunity coexisted in a delicate balance. The forest promised more beast encounters and the potential to secure the precious cores he desperately needed.
The road back to the forest was familiar, though no less treacherous. Each step carried him closer to the unknown and the potential for triumph and tragedy. Doubts and uncertainties plagued his thoughts as he contemplated the true capabilities of the artefact. Its power had saved him once, but he couldn't fully comprehend its limitations or potential to shield him from harm.
As he ventured deeper into the forest, the air grew thick with anticipation. The twisted and gnarled trees whispered ancient secrets, their twisted branches casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. Argon's heart raced with excitement and fear, his grip tightening on the spear, his only companion in this realm of shadows.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, a silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or distant growl of a creature. Argon's senses sharpened, attuned to the slightest movement or sound. He moved cautiously, his steps calculated and deliberate, his eyes scanning for any signs of the beasts that called this place home.
Argon knew he was on the right path as the sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting ethereal beams of light. He would face the creatures that lurked within and test his mettle against their primal strength. The hunt would be his way of defying the darkness that threatened to consume him, a flicker of defiance amidst the shadows of hunger that haunted his every step.