It burns. Orange and red beat down from the sun onto the orange and red of the plains. It also beats down onto the man; much as many things tend to do. Dark steel, dark eyes, dark hair. Bright scarlet and white clothing make him stand out, even amongst all of the burning planes.
"It's beautiful," he thinks, eyes slowly roaming the area, back and forth, back and forth. Endless, like a record. His horse huffs and paws at the ground, rusty blood standing out almost sickeningly in the light, muscles bunching and unbunching under her sorrel coat as she shifts about.
"Shh, Kyveli," he rumbles, reaching out to pat the big battered mare on the side. Steel clinks quietly in the midday air, and he burns. Cuts and scrapes, the remains of the swords that hadn't gotten through his shell. A long cut down his cheek makes him wish, once more, for a visored helm.
Motion. A flash of more red. The point of his sword rises, yet more dark steel and scarlet leather clad grip. It's just a lynx. He inexplicably thinks about Kordelia, and that ridiculous rumor she posed to him. He lays the naked blade back across the saddle, staring down at it's dried blood covered length. He sighs, long and hard, and smoky. Like a disappointed father.
"Honestly," he says, lips curving upward, just a bit. It's not really a smile. It's like he's putting it on for the grass and the wildflowers. His eyes stay flinty as he eyes the far off city. "At least noone died this time. Except that fellow's mule. But I don't imagine he deserves a beast if he can't take enough care not to leave it in the middle of a battlefield. He shifts up a bulky shoulder, and then winces as the motion pulls at a bit of his wounds. He resists the urge to reach up and rub at the cut. Anyone with experience in being wounded probably doesn't want to do that. and he certainly has been wounded a lot.
He cocks his head, eyes opening wide as if he's heard something he both wants and dreads to hear. And then he shakes his head. It's just the wind. Sometimes it sounds like a far off woman, out here. But he can't help the romantics, sometimes. Obviously it doesn't. But wouldn't it be very storybook, if it did? Ridiculous. It just sounds like burning, to him, now. The far off crackle of dry grass. If he sits there, he can imagine the flames leeping up. The grasses don't look too far from that, anyway.
He barks out a laugh, returns his eyes toward the town, and then gives his charger the lightest tap with the heels. Steel clinks and leather creaks as the two set off down the packed road, eventually turning northwards.
"I really don't have the patience for this, anymore," he tells Kyveli. She doesn't care. "In some ways, the last few weeks have been good to me. But in others? Well, I can't complain." He stops at the side of the road a moment and deftly slips out of saddle, graceful despite his bulk, his armor and his wounds. He lets the sword fall into the scabbard at his right hip and leans down to pluck a single orchid. He eyes it critically, and nods. He smiles, a little. This time, it reaches his eyes. He burns.
