Sir Viorel is a knight passing through the village of Larunge, which had been mostly deserted because of war. He's in his noble armor, which is light and more decorative than practical, and it lacks a helmet.

He steps up to a rose bush, which had been partially burned, and he picks up a charred rose. It crumbles with his touch, and so he sighs.

"How sad it is, that war liveth on." He says to himself. "Thine own beauty is never enough to protect thee. And so, thou springeth thorns."

Not everyone speaks like this. It's just his dialect.