[ooc; Yooo! we probably can't have this canon bc Hythlodaeus will be solvunn but im down for doing this for funsies if you are!]
[There is a man, a tall man, within the hatefully furnished little room Fandaniel is brought to. The man is indeed attired in the same manner as he. He wears a roughspun blanket and precious little else- seemingly attempting to both cover himself to the ankle, as well as pull the aforementioned blanket over his head.
In a sense, the attempt is successful. His face is mostly obscured, save for the bridge of his nose downward. Nothing, however, had been provided to him to bind his hair. And perhaps tellingly, should anything remain in Fandaniel which might recognize the man that he had once known, no doubt one of the voices that had begged him to stop, long locks of lilac spill over one shoulder- untied, loose- wet and cold, soaking through the blanket which covered him.
Hythlodaeus, however, does not recognize him. He should be one of the very few people that would. That in itself is tragedy. The ability to perceive the soul as colour, to recognize it, to identify it as the very same soul (despite such extensive damage darkening it, distorting it, all but destroying it) that once belonged to a man he knew quite well is lost to him.
It is for that reason- the failure to recognize- he speaks. Perhaps, instead, Fandaniel may recognize him. Perhaps he may not. Still, he speaks.]
...Ah. I regret to say your summoning came but moments after the last time our jailer deigned to hand out provisions.
[The man shifts, just slightly. And...]
What was handed out isn't quite [not bland.] to my taste. You're welcome to it, but I'll ask that you not think ill of me should you feel the same.
1: barracks;
[There is a man, a tall man, within the hatefully furnished little room Fandaniel is brought to. The man is indeed attired in the same manner as he. He wears a roughspun blanket and precious little else- seemingly attempting to both cover himself to the ankle, as well as pull the aforementioned blanket over his head.
In a sense, the attempt is successful. His face is mostly obscured, save for the bridge of his nose downward. Nothing, however, had been provided to him to bind his hair. And perhaps tellingly, should anything remain in Fandaniel which might recognize the man that he had once known, no doubt one of the voices that had begged him to stop, long locks of lilac spill over one shoulder- untied, loose- wet and cold, soaking through the blanket which covered him.
Hythlodaeus, however, does not recognize him.
He should be one of the very few people that would. That in itself is tragedy. The ability to perceive the soul as colour, to recognize it, to identify it as the very same soul (despite such extensive damage darkening it, distorting it, all but destroying it) that once belonged to a man he knew quite well is lost to him.
It is for that reason- the failure to recognize- he speaks.
Perhaps, instead, Fandaniel may recognize him. Perhaps he may not.
Still, he speaks.]
...Ah. I regret to say your summoning came but moments after the last time our jailer deigned to hand out provisions.
[The man shifts, just slightly. And...]
What was handed out isn't quite [not bland.] to my taste. You're welcome to it, but I'll ask that you not think ill of me should you feel the same.