( voice ) delivery

[haillenarte]

Name: Francel
Date: June 5
Format: Voice

Might I — ngh — might I trouble someone for help?

[there's a soft crackle of what might be breath on the mic, and then the shifting of what sounds like bedsheets. the voice that ultimately speaks again is low and husky, fairly deep, but there's something boyish and hesitant to it. some of francel's words come out awkward and tense, as if he is in a great deal of pain, and struggling to get the words out.]

It's been... several bells since last I took a meal, by my count, and... I'm terribly hungry. The... the man with whom I share a residence is not like to be back for some time. Could I trouble someone to bring food to my doorstep?

[really, even he can't believe he's asking for this.]

I have little coin, but I would happily pay you for your time. Please, and blessings on you.

Comments

[veilfires]

[He purses his lips in concern: he doesn’t leap to his side, but he instinctively readies himself to, wavering in place a moment.]

Do stay seated; I wish only to catch my breath. [...] Let me know if I can get you anything.

[With that said, he sits and listens, considering Francel’s words seriously. He know Francel is not learned in such matters, and that his speculation is thoroughly a twist of imagination, but – apocalyptic a scenario though he proposes – it does not seem far outside of the realm of what he knows possible.

In truth – though he makes an effort to skirt around his uglier tendencies in conversation, so as to not wear on others with hopeless melancholia – his own thoughts regularly spiral into grim speculations. He is ever guarding himself with readiness for the hardship yet to come. It’s fatalism not inherent to him but learned after a lifetime of watching the worst come to pass.

Hearing Francel speak aloud such fears is validating: it makes one feel less alone. He is a little pensive as he replies.]

I agree with the sentiment. Cavalier attitudes can be dangerous. Damage to the fabric of our worlds may be occurring unseen: we must learn more. My world faces danger too terrible to forget the necessity of vigilance and knowledge.

[Which begs the question whether Francel’s fears are similarly based on experience, and so,]

Is Eorzea in such a peril, that you think of calamity following us here?

[haillenarte]

[francel may remind solas of his younger, more naive self in many ways, but on this point, at least, they seem in present-day agreement; the young lord has learned in only eleven short years that the worst will always come to pass. he conjures up his hopeless melancholia because it is the only way he knows how to protect his fragile heart. to francel, the most flawless defense against disappointment is simply to have no hope.]

...I... I would like to temper my words, Solas — I must needs impress upon you that I am no scholar, no sage. I studied neither the void, nor aether, nor crystals, nor beasts. I know no more than any other educated man of my time would know.

[he pauses breath.]

Eorzea has always been in peril, but it is in peril due to mortal conflicts. War, famine, conquest, subjugation, inequity. I know nothing of the fabric of the worlds; I was ever consumed by the problems around me, in my corner of Ishgard.

But we knew, as a matter of science in Eorzea, that worlds adjacent to our own exist. In fact, it was not unusual to hear, from time to time, of people who supposedly slipped into our world from other worlds, but unlike we who now reside in Aefenglom, they would eventually find their ways back. Thus, my understanding of how world-to-world travel works is that anomalies are eventually corrected. I had not thought deeply on it in my first weeks here, but the fact that we have not yet been so corrected now suggests to me that we have been deliberately summoned against the laws of nature.

...You spoke to me once of spirits turning into demons. The demons of our world are known as voidsent, beings that slip into our world from a world of darkness known as the Void. Many schools of thought exist regarding the Void, but voidsent themselves will typically assert that they seek to conquer our world for its abundance of aether. I suppose that is from whence my thoughts came, though I know the situation here is not at all the same.

[veilfires]

[Solas is very still as he listens, shoulders squared and fists clenching on his knees. Beings of the Void who seek to conquer Eorzea? that is – highly disturbing. He once again feels the edge of Andruil’s weapon at his throat, her armour swathed in darkness, as the ancient things meant to be forgotten howled at his face. He thinks of Anaris and the Forgotten Ones.

The Inquisition learned a little of that dark chapter of his people’s history in the Arbor Wilds, as he recalls. He can speak of that freely. He unsticks his throat, and gestures similarity between their worlds.]

No scholars are certain of the nature of the Void. It is shrouded in mystery, known only as a great abyss at the heart of all things.

It is half-remembered that, in the time of the Ancient Elves, a war was waged with weapons and armour forged from the darkness. Plague sickened the lands. It was to be a campaign of conquest. Not unlike the voidsent, as you describe them.

[He drops his gaze, his brow lowered and dark and mouth a tense line.]

Peril, indeed. That conflict would leave its mark on all.

[haillenarte]

Then the Void exists in your lands as well as ours...

[francel's expression matches solas's in solemnity; he nods, his curiosity roused by this talk of ancient elves and war, though he tempers his usual impulse to ask a thousand different questions at once. there are more pressing issues at hand.]

...I wonder if the plague you describe is related to the Cwyld in some way. It was certainly not beneath the voidsent of Eorzea to experiment with pestilence. If the Void is affecting things here in Geargadas... perhaps there are traces of its presence, or... or...

[with a heavy sigh, francel leaves his thought unfinished; he knows too little to continue this idle speculation in earnest. he feels suddenly as though he knows very little indeed.]

Forgive me, Solas. If I could move about freely, I would love nothing more than to assist you and Aymeric in exploring the mysteries of this world. As it is — [his wings flap weakly] — my current aspiration is to become well enough to bake a few passable tarts.

[veilfires]

[Solas first encountered the Cwyld in their enchanting fae-dream that, for him, ended with a literal plunge into the black heart of this world. At once he drew the connection Francel describes now. That the Cwyld is very much the mirror image of the Blight, that learning about it in this world could shed light on the Blight in his own, that if there’s any way to resolve it he must try…

He nods along until Francel breaks off. Solas smiles with gentle allowance. Francel, of course, has nothing to be sorry for.]

When you become well enough to grant us your company, I will be glad for it.

I’ll also be waiting for those tarts. [True beyond it being the kind thing to say – he does have a sweet tooth.] Spreading joy in dark times? That is as worthy a pastime as swashbuckler adventuring, I think.

[haillenarte]

[a more paranoid part of francel, more prone to distrust, suddenly wonders if solas is merely being kind to him. perhaps this is merely the patience of an adult faced with a mournful child, as an orphanage sister must be with her more unruly charges. perhaps he ought to keep his problems to himself, bottle them all up in his chest, at least until they threaten to spill out of his mouth from within his rotting insides.

he tries to ignore the sudden nagging sense that solas doesn't care.]

...Would that more men thought of it as you did.

[francel leans against the back of his chair, wings shifting to accommodate his weight.]

In Ishgard — I think I have intimated as much, but in Ishgard, there was no greater glory than to be a knight with title. So much so that any noble son who failed to become such a storied slayer of dragons was regarded as... as a disappointment.

[that he was a disappointment of this sort goes unsaid. he folds his hands in his lap.]

I often wondered why it had to be that way. Ours was a nation at war, of course, and all wars require men and women to fight them. But does not the baker in a nation at war contribute to the effort? Does not the artist in a nation at war fight battles of his own? They sacrifice different things, to be sure, but...

[a momentary wave of heat seizes him; he closes his eyes, brows furrowed, as he tries to ignore it.]

...I don't know that I was ever destined to be a leader of men.

[veilfires]

[He mulls it over, serious and pensive. War has cut deeply into the culture in both their worlds. War breeds fear, fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Right and wrong, chains of command. So much of it a matter of necessity...]

Armies have crude values. Discipline. Unyielding hierarchies. All are contrary to the normal way of life, which is something free and chaotic. It is a quiet tragedy when war imposes soldiers' ways upon the entire populace. I have seen...

[But when Francel’s eyes shut, brows furrow, Solas trails off, instead sitting up with concern.

He slips a hand into one of his several coat pockets and pulls out his house key. It’s large, bronze, and a little rusted. He puts it on the table between them, and leaves his fingertips resting on it. While he does, he says,]

My magic will not bring as much relief as Aymeric’s, but it should bring some.

[haillenarte]

[any number of emotions play out on francel's face as he stares in bewilderment at the key in front of him — confusion, at first, and then a kind of tenderness, a kind of warmth. he is touched that solas would give him leave to visit, touched that anyone would like him enough, trust him enough, to invite him into their home.

what he actually says conveys none of these things:]

...You have a house?

[...his tone is so exaggerated that there can be no doubt he thought solas lived like some sort of book gremlin in a corner of the library.]

[veilfires]

[Very amusing – though not so much so that he can't manage a suitably unimpressed sigh, along with a shake of his head. Though he takes the point not poorly - he is every bit more suited to playing the vagabond.]

The Coven’s generosity, again. By necessity, I am not the wanderer I was in my world. [In his world, he had at times made his home in elaborately sprawling castles overlooking the far corners of the world. But, details.

He proceeds to look stern. It will not do for Francel to be overcome by the giggles again.]

Come – there is purpose to this. Place your hand on the key, like so.

[His own fingertips still rest there patiently. He’s used magic like this before with Alex, to good effect – it should hopefully help to relieve Monstrous symptoms again.]

[haillenarte]

[oh. like as not he's misunderstood.

obediently, francel does as he is told, though with the silently expectant air of a dog that has been told to sit. what next? a treat? probably no treat.]

[veilfires]

[No treat – but there is praise.]

Good.

[He settles into a more serene state of mind. Daily practice has meant his control of his new magic has much improved. It is not a great effort to dip into the wellspring of magic and draw it out. He explains the process, calm, certain and measured.]

Even outside of a Bond, a Witch’s magic can bring balance.

[Through his fingers he slowly pours his magic into the key, where it pools and ripples.]

Do you feel it?

[haillenarte]

...Yes.

[though it feels different, francel thinks — not unpleasantly so, but different. it is not unlike shaking either man's hand and noting subtle differences in shape, in width, in the weight of his knuckles, the surface of his skin. solas's calm, controlled magic seeps into francel like the slow trickle of a melting glacier; aymeric's magic tends to rush into francel all at once, blindly searching for something to fix.

ordinarily, he is only too happy to devour aymeric's magic with the beastly hunger of a crocodile feasting upon an offering of fish — but what solas gives is very different, and francel tries to muster equal control in his acceptance of energy.]

...This will do. I do not wish to tax you overmuch.

[veilfires]

[The pull on Francel’s end is hesitant, even timid. Without halting the flow of magic, Solas glances from the key up to Francel’s face, assessing whether that’s said out of politeness or out of some kind of unease. He guesses the former.]

I will stop if I feel taxed. If you can take relief from it, do.

[This does drain him, drip by drip – he draws nothing from it, unlike the bond he’s experienced only temporarily – but that’s no matter. Expending mana is also draining. Moreover, intellectually speaking:]

It’s interesting.

[haillenarte]

...Very well.

[francel swallows on a dry throat; his jaw sets. for now, he maintains the connection, closing his eyes and allowing solas's magic to seep into him, bringing slow relief to the headache that pounds behind his eyelids.

after some moments, a bit of color seems to return to francel's too-pale face, though he doesn't open his eyes.]

...Solas?

[ah, here comes the "can i ask you a question"...]

I've... an impertinent question to ask you. Though it's not about your hair this time. [a soft chuckle of amusement.] Still, if you'd rather not answer, I would understand...

[veilfires]

[It’s pleasant, meditative: this magic is restless when not used. There is an alien part of him that this world inserted into his core which seethes. Channeling it like this soothes it. More importantly, it’s helping Francel.

Solas is quiet and still. He pursues his lips a little crossly at the chuckle, but his answer isn’t begrudging.]

I will answer if I can.

[haillenarte]

[francel's fingers falter on the key, but he doesn't pull away. he tries to think of how best to phrase this; he comes to the conclusion that there are no good euphemisms, that it is best to be straightforward, particularly with a man like solas.]

...Were you ever a slave?

[veilfires]

You are thinking of your conversation with Iron Bull.

[Solas’ fingers do not falter; his hand is still, poised atop three fingertips in a triangle. He selects what to give of himself with the same learned, mechanical ease with which he meters out how much of his magic to give. He is keenly aware, now, that the Inquisition has an ear even here: appearances must be maintained.]

I have never set foot in the Tevinter Imperium. It is, as you have no doubt gathered, an unwelcoming place for an elf. My travels were kept to the south… [Wryly:] though those lands are unsafe for a mage.

A free elven mage is in grave danger whether he is caught by the slave hunters or the Templars – but first they have to catch him.