#bardglory

Francis watches the bard with a careful eye and a hardened mouth. It is an image of themself they do not admire, but it is there all the same, like regret or a particularly bad hangover. They do not trust Armel. It is as simple, and as difficult, as that. They do not understand them, neither their talents nor their motivations. They find them unsettling; a danger, even. Though it has been years to the date, Francis remembers it clearly: Armel, waltzing into the temple, lute tucked under his arm, and leaving with three men who had abandoned their faith in Undeath entirely.

What kind of man has the power to do that? The voice of Undeath whispered it into Francis’ ear one evening in the Temple, and the thought has not left them since.

Francis does not think it a coincidence that a man engulfed in flames descends upon the Emperor at the same time as Armel sings his song. No, not a coincidence at all.

When the smoke clears-- as much as it can-- and Francis begins their walk back to the Sanctum, they find Armel, surely by fate rather than mere coincidence. They mean to walk past, but Undeath stops them in their tracks. 

Ask.

They turn on one heel, and the bard lifts his head.

“It’s a beautiful song,” Francis says into the air. It’s not a lie, as much as it may sound like one. “The one you debuted today.” They fold their fingers together, and rest them below their stomach. “The Undying has given you a gift.”