Young and Old Speak of Revolt
The sun is shining on the buildings and streets, but one face on the main path brings a cloudy atmosphere to the room. The disheveled warrior Chabal shuffles up the street, a scowl on his face and a forbidding air to his posture. He talks to none, but glares at all. A beautiful day it may be, but not for Chabal.
Standing at the end of the street gazing northwards is a smokey white figure. The figure is an old man with pale skin, and bone white hair. He is drapped in traveling robes that match his white-grey tone. Leaning on a long wooden shafted gravedigger's shovel he is gazing at the wreckage of the House of Healing. Next to him munching on some weeds that stick up from the rubble is a large quarterhorse as old as the old man, loaded with packs and suppies.
Chabal eyes the old man, his gaze still hard despite the lack of threat that aged figure presents. "Tell me, old man, what do you see when you look at these streets?" His query is not offered with a malicious voice, but the tone is far from cordial.
Without turning around to look at the younger man Vardaen peers only at the rubble of the northern end of the town and the healer's house. With a noise like a grunt mixed with a laugh he snorts a reply, "I see opportunity. What do you see?" Leaning on his shovel with one hand he scratches his ear with the other.
Chabal's surly countenance seems to soften as he is offered conversation. "I see cowardice, old man," he grunts, but says no more.
The man known as the Grey Boar take a moment now to glance to the side at Chabal. "Cowardice, fear, doubt. All these things make opportunity possible." He smiles at the much younger man who bares a blade and shield among his things. "How long have things been this way?" He motions now with his shovel at the broken healer's house, but clearly means more by his statement.
Chabal doesn't seem to fully comprehend the old man's words, but he goes on anyway, speaking tersely in short words and phrases as if each utterance were a precious resource to be used sparingly. "The Forgoil drove us away. We don't fight back. Instead we build." He pauses his staccato monologue and eyes the old man before repeating. "We build ourselves a cage. We don't fight back." He looks off to the East, face angry.
Vardaen, face turns into a half smile as listens. "Fighting requires weapons, armor, and leadership, but more importantly it requires courage, hate, and passion." He kicks a rock toward the rubble. "I know where we can get weapons and armor a plenty, where do we get the rest?" The gears are turning in his head already.
Chabal finally grins, his rough beard parting to show a mouth that is fearsome like a beast's. "I have enough for all of us." His eyes alight with satisfaction at Vardaen's response.
Vardaen says, "Do you now? Do you have enough of it to cull the weak from our numbers? Do you have enough to do what must be done, even if our pampered chieftains says otherwise?" He scoops up some debris with his shovel and looks at it, holding it out with one hand for the man to gaze at. "This is what those men have brought us to, a crumbling cage that denies our granfathers their revenge." He tips the shovel over and lets the contents spill out onto the street. "Can just two of us do what must be done, or do you think there might be more?""
Chabal grins as the old man convinces him that the two are of one mind about this matter. He responds, once again laconic: "Two men meet on the street. One is old. One is young. They find their minds share a thought." He nods to himself as he finishes his cursory argument. "Others share it too, then."
The grey clad man looks around the street, "The others are weak, they are cowards, you said so youself the moment we met. They need guidance, they need to know that the sleeping boar should not be poked with sticks, for it has tusks sharper than any sword to fight with when it is woken up." He goes to his horse and touches one of the bundles there, it is wrapped with wool and could easily be a tent pole, some fire wood, or perhaps a sword. "Find others who are sleeping boars, and I will see to it that they have sharp tusks. When there are enough of us, we shall make use of this opporotunity, we shall make our grandfathers proud."
Chabal shares not the old man's love for words. Again, his response is briefer, less nuanced. "They will take up the sword," he scowls. "Or face it."
Chabal reaches up swiftly with a heavy, hairy-knuckled hand and catches the coin. Eyeing the emblems on it for a moment, he nods. "We shall see." He tosses the coin back to the old man and turns back down the street. "Tell them. Chabal wants to fight back."
"Chabal..." He tosses the coin back to him again. "Keep it, or give it away if you want, but don't insult me by giving it back to me." The old man turns back around and returns to pat his horse on the back.
Chabal catches the coin on the full once more and nods at the old man. "I will repay you." Again he smiles, showing predatory teeth. "In Forgoil blood."
The laughter of Vardaen fills the street with echoes as Chabal walks away. Thinking to himself he pats his horse's neck, "Perphaps finally old friend it will happen."