[Some part of Bard knows he's not going to make it through the night: he's heard of neighbors freezing to death on milder nights than what they've had here because they hadn't the firewood to spare. He'd rather not be dwelling on that while his extremities turn to ice, though, so he's going to make an attempt at changing the subject.]

You're a morbid one, aren't you? Do you sit around the campfire with all your friends at home, discussing the merits of all the ways you might die tomorrow?