Argon awakens the following morning, the dawn light seeping through the cracks in the shutters. Mira is still asleep next to him, a serene expression on her face. He contemplates waking her but decides against it. Quietly, he slips out of bed and begins to dress in his armour. The cool metal feels familiar against his tunic, and it's a reminder of the battles to come.
Downstairs, Brolan is already waiting for him, the faithful squire having made it a habit of rising before his master to attend to the various tasks that need doing. He's bundled in his own armour, the morning sun glinting off its polished surface. Argon claps him on the shoulder. "Time to leave," he announces, his voice gruff.
Brolan nods, looking back towards the village with a hint of melancholy in his eyes. "I'll miss this place," he admits, and there's a weight to his words that Argon can understand. The village, for all its hardships and trouble, had been a home for them for a short while. But duty calls, and they are men of action.
With a sense of urgency, Argon and Brolan unfasten their horses from the posts they were tied to. With an expert grace that speaks of years of practice, they mount their steeds, the animals whinnying softly. They guide their horses towards a house located near the entrance of the village, the building serving as a temporary residence for the soldiers who had arrived the previous day.
The door creaks open, and a soldier emerges, clad in the same polished armour. He wears a look of readiness on his face, and Argon acknowledges him with a curt nod. "Let's go then," Argon commands, his voice echoing in the silent morning air.
As if on cue, the remaining four soldiers appear from within the house. They quickly mount their horses, the creatures stamping impatiently at the ground. The village is starting to stir, smoke curling from chimneys and the muffled sounds of awakening reaching their ears.
One of the soldiers, a man with a weathered face and eyes that have seen many battles, turns towards Argon. "We can make it to Horntide in three hours if we make haste," he suggests, his tone matter-of-fact.
With a mutual understanding, they spur their horses into motion, leaving behind the peaceful village. Their journey has only just begun.
Their journey to Horntide is a diverse montage of changing landscapes, displaying nature's grandeur in its purest form. They traverse through vast stretches of emerald-green meadows, the golden hues of sunlight creating an ethereal glow on the dew-kissed blades of grass. The smell of the earthy loam and wildflowers mingle with the crisp morning air, forming a natural, tranquil fragrance that puts one at ease.
The sounds of chirping birds echo through the quiet, providing a soothing melody to accompany their journey. The rhythmic clatter of horse hooves against the uneven dirt path forms a steady, comforting beat, punctuating the otherwise serene sounds of the wilderness.
Along the way, they pass through dense patches of woodland, their canopies a mix of varying shades of green and brown. The sunlight filters through the thick foliage overhead, casting a dappled pattern of light and shadows on the forest floor. The rustle of leaves and the occasional scurry of small woodland creatures paint an acoustic portrait of life thriving in the heart of nature.
As they ride, they cross over trickling brooks, their crystal-clear waters glinting in the sunlight. The sound of rushing water provides a peaceful ambience, its consistent murmur harmonizing with the tranquil environment.
Hours slip by, and the landscapes start to change again, transitioning from dense woods to undulating hills. The hills are blanketed with a layer of wildflowers and tall grass, swaying gently in the breeze. The panoramic view from the top offers a breathtaking vista of the sprawling landscape, with the horizon's edge kissed by the sky.
With Horntide looming closer, the rustic charm of small solitary dwellings comes into sight. These dwellings are huddled around fields, a testament to the humble rural lifestyle of the inhabitants. Smoke spirals from the chimneys of small cottages, lending the air an earthy scent.
They finally enter the bustling streets of Horntide. Its stone houses with thatched roofs are a stark contrast to the natural landscapes they've just passed through. The town is alive with the cacophony of daily life, the clatter of horse hooves on cobblestones, the murmur of townsfolk going about their day, and the distant tolling of church bells welcoming them to Horntide.
As they approach Horntide, the soldiers veer their horses towards a cobblestone path delicately lined with blooming flowers and tall, majestic trees. This path leads them directly towards a towering, wrought iron gate, which stands as the grand entrance to a magnificent walled estate. The gate is adorned with intricate patterns of intertwining vines and blossoms, which allude to the nature-infused charm of the manor hidden behind the tall stone walls.
Beyond the gate, a gravel driveway lined with well-trimmed hedges and flowering shrubs winds its way towards Horntide Manor. It is a remarkable structure, a resplendent blend of age-old grandeur and timeless elegance. Its grey stone facade contrasts beautifully with the surrounding lush greenery, while numerous tall windows punctuate the walls, their glass panes shimmering in the sunlight.
The manor itself is a two-story building with a high, peaked roof and elaborate chimneys reaching towards the sky. Its front is adorned with an elaborate portico, held aloft by a series of impressive, fluted columns that hint at the manor's opulence.
Around the manor is a vast garden, teeming with a riot of colours from the countless variety of flora. The garden is a spectacular mix of carefully tended flower beds, wide expanses of manicured lawns, and artistic topiaries. A few tall, ancient trees provide shade, their branches gently swaying in the breeze.
Towards the rear of the manor, a serene lily pond adds to the tranquillity of the setting, its surface occasionally disturbed by the playful leap of a fish or the gentle landing of a dragonfly. The soft murmur of the fountain at the centre of the pond creates a soothing backdrop.
Overall, Horntide Manor is a splendid oasis amidst the bustling town, a haven of old-world charm and refined elegance hidden behind its imposing stone walls. It stands as a testament to the power and wealth of its inhabitants, Baron Eldrige of Horntide.
As Argon and the lead soldier dismount their horses, they are immediately met with the figure of Thorne, the Baron's butler.
"Welcome, sirs," he intones, his voice a deep, resonating bass. "His Lordship has been expecting your arrival. Argon please, do follow me." Thorne's manner is formal, but there's a touch of warmth to his voice, a welcome contrast to the austere environment of the manor.
He leads them through the lavish interior of the manor, past grand chandeliers and polished marble floors, intricately woven tapestries and stunning works of art, until they reach the Baron's study, a handsome room with walls lined with countless books and a large, imposing desk of dark mahogany wood.
The Baron's butler opens the door for them, revealing the Baron himself, seated behind his desk, a look of expectation on his face. "The gentlemen you were waiting for, my Lord," Thorne announces before stepping aside to allow Argon to enter.
Baron Eldridge still possessed an air of strength and vitality.
Beside him sat an extraordinarily beautiful woman whose radiance was almost surreal. Her youthful appearance suggested she was in her early twenties. She was graced with a cascade of golden hair, a pair of gentle blue eyes, and a captivating smile. Her soft lavender gown complemented her slender figure perfectly, hinting at her high station.
Next was a familiar face to Argon, Garrick, whose stern, hardened demeanour was unchanged. His weathered features were the result of many years under the sun and countless battles. He wore his Dayless over his dark red tunic as always, the symbol of the Vanguard prominently displayed.
There were four men donning immaculately polished black Dayless armour, hinting at their status as Seric Knights. Their appearance was formidable, their helmetless faces revealing expressions of discipline and resolve that only rigorous training could forge.
A wiry, bald man with hawk-like eyes hidden behind spectacles was also present. His green robe, indicative of his affiliation with the treasury, was richly designed, making him a figure of importance. His eyes darted from one person to another, constantly making assessments - a treasurer, perhaps.
The final figure was a heavyset man donned in white and gold robes, his hands folded over his ample stomach. Several rings, each carrying the symbol of the Church, adorned his fingers. His jovial demeanour contrasted with his authoritative presence. Likely, he was a bishop.
Baron Eldridge, with a warm smile on his face, starts the introductions.
"Argon, I welcome you," he starts, gesturing towards the radiant woman beside him, "this is my daughter, Lady Isolde." Isolde bows her head slightly, her eyes sparkling with polite curiosity.
"Next, as you know, is Garrick, our steadfast Vanguard." Garrick gives Argon a nod of acknowledgement, his expression as stern as always.
"These two," the Baron continues, pointing to two of the men in black Dayless armour, "are my sons, Ser Branton and Ser Lancel." The knights, sharing their father's blue eyes, nod at Argon in unison.
"Also at the table, we have Ser Harold and Ser Edwin," Eldridge gestures to the other two Dayless knights, each acknowledging Argon with a curt nod.
The Baron then indicates towards the wiry, hawk-eyed man. "This is our efficient Treasurer, Master Wymond." The treasurer adjusts his spectacles and gives Argon a calculated look.
"And lastly," Baron Eldridge concludes, turning his attention to the heavyset man in the white and gold robes, "we have our esteemed Bishop Osmund, the spiritual guide of our region." The bishop graces Argon with a jovial smile and a wave of his ring-laden hand.