Loren had just meant that unlike the rest of their tests, this was something they could actually prove or disprove. And it wasn’t like the Ascended felt pain, so wounding them would be emotionally hard, but physically not an inconvenience for the race. But given how Jigano and Remi were, it didn’t seem worth clarifying that point. When the alchemist admitted he hadn’t seen Ronin for a week, the summoner sucked in a sympathetic breath. ’I’m sorry, Remi.” However, it wasn’t enough to keep the other man here; Remi shifted and flew off, and Loren only noticed after he turned around and saw the alchemist was gone.
As Jigano confirmed that this was, indeed, a Spark Bird, or close enough to it that it made no difference, Loren dismissed his summon, which disappeared without a trace. At the raw emotion in the white-haired man’s voice, the Launceleyn turned to the bard, the summoner's voice firm and unwavering. ”We. We might give the Hollowed Grounds a chance this year.” This was, and always had been, a group effort: all Loren was offering was his unique expertise, since it had been made very clear to him that he couldn’t do it all on his old, as well as his stubborn refusal it seemed. And that lesson, that he needed help as much as he needed to give it, had finally stuck. At the bard’s next comment, however, the summoner just smiled sadly. ”Yes. Giving it up.” That was something Loren knew from experience.
Turning to gather his things, Loren checked his magic. It was mostly depleted, but he still had a few sparks left. ”I’m going to try and find Remi, and shove what healing I can down his throat.” It was perhaps not the best method—and it probably wouldn’t work—but the Launceleyn was annoyed at the other man’s behavior and worried for the alchemist, both his health and well-being. That always made Loren a bit short, and he’d never claimed to have the best bedside manner. ”If you need me for additional tests, send me a note or come find me.” They’d done all they could for today.
As Jigano confirmed that this was, indeed, a Spark Bird, or close enough to it that it made no difference, Loren dismissed his summon, which disappeared without a trace. At the raw emotion in the white-haired man’s voice, the Launceleyn turned to the bard, the summoner's voice firm and unwavering. ”We. We might give the Hollowed Grounds a chance this year.” This was, and always had been, a group effort: all Loren was offering was his unique expertise, since it had been made very clear to him that he couldn’t do it all on his old, as well as his stubborn refusal it seemed. And that lesson, that he needed help as much as he needed to give it, had finally stuck. At the bard’s next comment, however, the summoner just smiled sadly. ”Yes. Giving it up.” That was something Loren knew from experience.
Turning to gather his things, Loren checked his magic. It was mostly depleted, but he still had a few sparks left. ”I’m going to try and find Remi, and shove what healing I can down his throat.” It was perhaps not the best method—and it probably wouldn’t work—but the Launceleyn was annoyed at the other man’s behavior and worried for the alchemist, both his health and well-being. That always made Loren a bit short, and he’d never claimed to have the best bedside manner. ”If you need me for additional tests, send me a note or come find me.” They’d done all they could for today.
