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[witherstalk]

Brigham & Dáithí Lavellan

( Working for the church while your family dies, you take what they give you, and you keep it inside. )

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[theodies]

The tide of Venatori and Red Templar has slowed, finally. Brigham judges, then, that he might use the last of his mana, and have time enough for a draught of lyrium should his spells be needed again urgently.

His grip on the Herald is gentle, strong just enough to support him. Hazel eyes flicker to find Daithi's, momentarily searching them for something— only to look away again. Magic, surely familiar by now, warms the hand that comes to settle against his cheek; a heal and a reassuring touch besides. Brigham lifts his gaze once more. "I am sorry, Your Worship," he murmurs soft, and sincere.

[witherstalk]

Daithi raises his gaze as Brigham speaks. — averts his attention, watching the man's robes, instead. He hums in answer. Then: "how's your mana?" he asks, avoiding the subject. Behind them, their companions use the lull to tend each other as well.

[theodies]

He watches Daithi for a moment, quiet too and thoughtful. His hand lingers for a moment perhaps longer than necessary, magic fading. His voice is gentle when he answers; "It will recover." It is exhausted for the moment, much like he suspects the Herald's is, and their other mage companions. The healer glances to the others; they will require tending, too, once they have a moment, but their need is not dire. Brigham's attentions remain then, perhaps selfishly, with the Herald. "How are your hurts?" he asks, soft.