[littlemanpoet]

Mellonin's advice for clearing his nose seemed well on the face of it, but she had no illness. Raefindan knew that the viscosity of what his body was producing would not allow of such a prim delivery. Green, no less! That was bad.

"Green means I have pneumonia," he said to himself, "which means this blamed buggery illness has been incubating for some time! I wonder what I did to myself?"

"What is ya, Raefindan?" Aeron asked, walking beside him. He was quick with his ears, compared with most folk. He had to be for thieving, and he was sure that he could make out most of the strange things Raefindan said on the first try. "I know new and moan, but not ya. And how can you have it?"

Raefindan had not realized he had been talking out loud. It was no surprise, he hardly knew what was going on around him, his head throbbed so.

"What about the other thing he said?" Gwyllion put in. "Ink you baiting? Those words do not go together either! And what has ink to do with fishing?"

Raefindan groaned. "They are just words frub by owd coudtry. I do dot doe how to say theb your way, by head swibs so." He coughed long and hard, and fell to his knees with the effort of it, and spit green stuff. When he was done, he looked at the others, who had stopped, looking more worried than they had. "Is there a towd cubig sood? Baybe you should leave be there so that I cad rest ad regaid by health, ad thed I cad catch up to you od the way. This cold reaches by bodes."

With an effort he stood, then crumpled to the ground, fast asleep.