"What are you doing, Ryheric?"
He breathed this question to himself. His accent was no longer that of a dreg born in some backwater barn. The vowels were now rugged, harsh yet airy. The Rs were spoken with a slight roll. Each consonant had a twisting divergence from the previous one, an over-enunciation that seemed natural, varying from one consonant to the next. No drawl. The accent would have pleased the ears of most, if not for the fact it was thickly foreign.
Sounds ought not to have a colour, he knew this. He wasn't crazy, after all. He assured himself of this as though checking in with reason, not for the first or the last time. After this small check in he resumed his thoughts. He also knew, somehow, that this accent's colour was a burnt honey when he spoke eagerly. It was smooth taupe when he resorted to his richer contemplations. The backwater drawl was, predictably, khaki green.
He paused from his walk as he gave voice again to that question. Darker burnt honey today, a colour with corners of black and red licked edges.
"What are you doing, Ryheric?"
The woodland hummed with the transitional life of late dusk. This was summertime in Breeland. The sounds of daylight insects gave way to crickets. Bird calls faded into silent owl wings and restless rustling. Predators and foragers of the evening were awakening.
Behind him led by his reins, Boltin shifted weight from one foot to another, tonguing the bit with a soft jingle. The colt swayed his head from one side to look around then inward towards Ryheric. His eyes were outward facing like all horses, meaning that he regarded Ryheric with a warm stare out of one eye while at such close range. The look was ironically lopsided like how Ryheric's stare was held with other people. Though the colt had equine's grace about it. Natural, poised, and how it should be. This inquisitive look from the beast was then ruined by the colt's tameness which caused him to nudge his forehead against his master's shoulder. It was as if Boltin was saying: "Why are we stopped? Weren't you leading me somewhere?"
The man did not react to the nudge of his horse. Instead, the question he had whispered to himself had tumbled into a brief image of a dark but sun drenched figure looming. The man in his memory stood over him with a weighty, curved blade in hand. Ryheric felt no pain as he remembered, but the colour in his own vision had turned black, even against the glaring sun as he stared upwards, and this is how he knew the pain was there. Or had been once.
"What are you doing, Ryheric?" The man demanded in that very same exotic accent carried on an older, rougher voice. He spat on the ground in disgust and Ryheric tried with all of his vigorous strength to stand, but he couldn't.
The memory jolted him into itself, then spat him out again, and he exhaled sharply, looking around. Boltin had grown bored and had his neck arced lazily down, picking at a tiny patch of new grass blades by the stump of a tree to one side of them. The man looked around at the happy, serene, khaki green woods. He remembered the recent trip with the girls, Lavendara's company, Silver's return and recent meetings. Many recent developments hit him at once. He knew there was no reason for the irrational freeze gripping his heart. The sweat beaded on his brow and he was glad there was no one to see it. For some time, there was a black haze looming around the edges of his vision and he warred with it in silence. Boltin's nonchalance and the proper realisation that he was alone, calmed him after a time, and once more, the forest was its proper Breeish khaki green.
He finally continued on his way, leading the colt to the clearing where they would rest that night. He muttered to himself and shook his head a little as he went.
"What're ye doin', Ryheric?"
All he chose to think about later that night was the dwarf, Galdik, in the Prancing Pony, and his wholesome list of things to accomplish before he died.
Ryheric decided he would make one of these lists, for himself.
