"Something happened back in that bayou," Arthur mutters, running a hand over his beard, "an' I don't really know how to explain it." Calloused hands hold onto reins as he glances off at the lake, sighing deeply.

"...You know what I mean?" He glances over to you with a raised eyebrow, his expression odd. His words are calm as always, that slurred accent always sounding like he's got everything under control - but there's a furrow to his brow that isn't often there. A few geese fly overhead, honking in the distance as your horses trot alongside each other. Arthur's quieter, the silence hanging between the two of you, hooves clopping on the dirt path.

Arthur is a tough man. Or he likes to think so, at least. He keeps his head up and his back straight, keeping the gang going no matter what, his lips sealed when it's needed. And at all times, really. He isn't the type to let drink loosen his tongue, and he sure as hell isn't some dandy fop that cries on anyone's shoulder.

But here, with you, he speaks.

"Just.... I don't know." He curls his lip, shaking his head as he dismisses himself, his words failing him. A low chuckle leaves his lips as he pats his horse on the neck, a deep, strong sound. "I ain't never been all that good at words." He grins lopsidedly, a little more of a grimace than a smile.