Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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The scattered villages dwindled to be replaced by charred ruins, or the squalid residences of the sub human ones as the two men pressed further north into the dune country. There were no eager audiences here to grace with his songs or stories and Jhary found the further they ventured into these territories the more nervous he felt, even in the capable presence of his unwitting, fierce protector.
That evening over the last of their rations Jhary was most discomforted to see Aran shedding the majority of his large quantities of gold and secreting them in his bag. He knew Aran well enough to know he would not do this without good reason. He had also noticed the warrior now carried his sword by his side ready always to be drawn swiftly, even if the heavy weapon was unwieldy and repeatedly slapped his calf as he walked.
The slight man followed suit. He had no real valuables to hide but he did bring forth from the bundles on his mule a light, sharp rapier. Aran did not miss the appearance of the weapon, watching his companion lay it next to his bed roll. So mused Aran this little, merry man of song had been armed all this time.
"Can you use that over sized knife?" Aran said smugly, a rare grin lighting his usually stern visage.
"It's not a knife, it's a rapier." Jhary corrected, adding. "I sure can, well enough. Though I'm not sure it would do any good against your sword." He chuckled somewhat uneasily. "It's a weapon that relies on speed my friend, not brute power."
"Well, lets hope you never have to use it." Aran's words had a formidable tone to them as he turned over, positioning himself that he might sleep covered in his cape. Jhary shivered, and it was not because of the cold, as he too bedded down for the night by the dying fire. Questioning his sanity for following this man so far from his comfort zone.
The following morning the two men broke camp in silence, the wind was on the rise portending a miserable day of cold and stinging sand ahead. However there was little option but to continue as there was no shelter here or anywhere nearby. The usually ebullient bard was silent as he packed his scant belongings on his patient mule this day, and Aran did not offer any words either as he rubbed his gelding's ailing foreleg in a fruitless attempt to wish the horse to mend.
The only saving grace was at least the wind was to their backs, but progress was slow in these conditions the visibility being no more than a few feet in any direction. Aran pulled his furred hood over his head limiting his vision, something he was always most loathe to do in this dangerous place, but it was all he could do to relieve his eyes of the worst of the flying sand.
As they walked Jhary found his hand straying to the comfort of his rapier, it had been a very long time since he had had the cause, or motivation to use it. He preferred to make music and love as opposed to any kind of aggressive act; part of him wanted to turn about and go back to the familiar villages and towns he had always plied his trade in. To be adored by the women and girls, hear the laughter of the children, and feel the camaraderie of the menfolk as he sat drinking with them late into the night, for no one refused a bard. Yet he felt compelled to follow this man on his quest to hell knows where? To locate some mysterious woman he knew very little about.
