Umber

Pan and Carignane reflect on what it means to be an adventurer. (mo, sab)

Pan Zerschrek sits with his back to the fire, staring over the still forms of his compatriots. He impatiently roughs a crude whistle out of a piece of bone using his knife. A brow normally unfettered by deep thought is suddenly drawn down. He glances over at his watch-mate, Carignane.

“Why are we doing this, Carignane?”

“So that our companions are not murdered in their sleep,” the ranger responds. Then, catching the look in Pan’s eye, he decides that a less glib answer is called for. “I apologize. I see that your question was intended to encompass a larger scope than simply that of our current watch.

“Why not lead a simple life, safe, at home, on the farm or in the city, leading the life that is led by the rest? My reasons are many and varied. I wish to learn more of the world around me. I wish to test my eye and wit against true foes, not target dummies. I wish to help those in need fight the tyranny of their oppressors. But most of all, I wish to live, to take an active role in my own life, not just sit and watch it come – see it pass – and slowly fade away.

“I will make mistakes. I may get killed. Worst of all, it may turn out that I am not cut out to do anything but join the common drones and pass my days in mere meaningless existence. But I do not believe this to be true. I believe that no matter what happens, they will tell the tale and sing the songs of our exploits.”

Carignane pauses to reflect a moment, watching Pan’s broad hands as he idly carves the bone whistle. A flicker of thought, then a broad grin spreads across his face, and he leaps to his feet.

“Bah! I am a fool! I must take own words to heart! I will take an active role. I will not allow some mysterious ‘they’ to tell our tales, sing our songs. We shall do it ourselves! Whittle that whistle well, my friend, for its sound shall be as the howling of fiends to our foes and a choir of angels to our allies! Let the former fear and the remainder rejoice!”

Pan gazes dreamily into the fire at Carignane’s words. The embers reflect in dark eyes, which soon turn back to the pacing ranger. A deep laugh bursts from his throat, child-like in its glee, quickly stifled as the nearby sleepy dwarf snorts loudly in his sleep. “It always shames me to have others express what’s in my heart better than I can find words for. The Ragesingers of our tribe always were more about fury and violence than eloquent expression of meaningful thought. Perhaps I inherit more than size from them.” A deep sigh follows, as he glances at the rough whistle in his hands. He brings it to his lips.

A simple tune begins, sounding of the wind on the plains. Over time, it begins to sound more and more martial, until it ends in a seemingly violent climax. A mournful denouement follows, and trails off into the night.

Pan grins tightly after a moment. “Barbarian music is only made for one kind of dance, it seems.” He glances at Carignane speculatively. “Do you know the steps?” He gives a feral smile as his grip tightens on his axe.

“I do indeed,” says Carignane, as he pulls back the armor covering his shoulder, revealing a set of deep scars. “My instructor did not believe in using practice blades. Something about the edge being wrong, but I was never sure if he was referring to the sword or to the accompanying mental state.”

He studies Pan’s posture carefully, remembered lessons coming into focus. Carignane’s newfound blade slips into line in a manner that would appear casual to the untrained eye, while his feet push outwards, leaving him ready to spring in any direction. His manner is confident, almost cocky, but Pan’s bulk and freight train-style approach to combat leave him disinclined to encourage the barbarian further.

“Perhaps we should return to our duties… so that our companions are indeed not murdered in their sleep,” he says, becoming thoughtful. He sits and lays the blade across his lap, and begins to recite:

    “To die – to sleep –
    To sleep? perchance, to dream. Ay, there’s the rub;
    For in that sleep of Death what dreams may come,
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause.”

He turns his back on the fire and resumes his watch.