[ Felix glances over his shoulder at Sylvain, considering for a moment how to answer that question, or if he should answer it at all. It's been... a long day. He's had enough strange conversations with people living vastly different versions of his own reality to feel deeply unsettled now, and that's without his senses behaving strangle besides.
After a moment, he just shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. ]
Well enough.
[ He's found shelter in the hollowed-out remains of a fallen tree as large around as the dining hall where they take their meals, where nothing outside can see the low embers of his fire burning. He'd caught... a rodent, earlier, and skinned it. Something ugly with tusks that couldn't rightly be called a rat or a rabbit. It's cooked now, a little burnt, because Felix is no master chef, but it's... edible, at least.
He stoops to stir the cinders with a stick, briefly, before straightening toward Sylvain, eyeing him with a considering look, taking a step toward him.
He leans close—a little too close—before he realizes what he's doing, nostrils flaring, as if he might smell the stink of some particular battlefield on him if he tries hard enough. As if he'd even know what Ailell or Myrrdin or Gronder smelled like, particularly.]
What's the last thing you remember before this dream?
[ It's the same question Edelgard had asked him earlier, though he understands its purpose a little better now. Moment if truth. Is this his Sylvain, or another entirely? ]
no subject
After a moment, he just shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. ]
Well enough.
[ He's found shelter in the hollowed-out remains of a fallen tree as large around as the dining hall where they take their meals, where nothing outside can see the low embers of his fire burning. He'd caught... a rodent, earlier, and skinned it. Something ugly with tusks that couldn't rightly be called a rat or a rabbit. It's cooked now, a little burnt, because Felix is no master chef, but it's... edible, at least.
He stoops to stir the cinders with a stick, briefly, before straightening toward Sylvain, eyeing him with a considering look, taking a step toward him.
He leans close—a little too close—before he realizes what he's doing, nostrils flaring, as if he might smell the stink of some particular battlefield on him if he tries hard enough. As if he'd even know what Ailell or Myrrdin or Gronder smelled like, particularly.]
What's the last thing you remember before this dream?
[ It's the same question Edelgard had asked him earlier, though he understands its purpose a little better now. Moment if truth. Is this his Sylvain, or another entirely? ]