( 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]

[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.