faterecanted | [Voice]

[Voice]

[The first thing that appears in the journal is a big, thick ink smudge, sort of like it's been fingerpainted by large, clumsy hands -- because it has.]

[A few moments later, when it becomes clear it just isn't going to happen, Van speaks. His voice is a rough, dry croak. Either he hasn't spoken in weeks... or he's overused it to the point of ruin.]

Tear. ...Tear.

[A bit later still, when he realizes he's drifting off and he does not want to pass out--]

What day is it? [Not that the answer will mean anything to him, thrice-damned nonsense calendar.]

(OOC: Reluctant first aid reserved for Tear, but feel free to answer him. He'll talk, he just won't accept help from anyone else.)

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[...it's too smudged to have been picked up by the journal's automatic translator, but Ion can still recognize those characters. He almost answers-- and then he hears the voice. It may have been weak, but it was still unmistakably Van. And he sounded hurt. Despite everything Van's caused on Auldrant, it wasn't as though Ion was going to just ignore a person who was in pain.]

It's been the new year for about a week now... [And despite having more or less surmised an answer--] Are you all right?

Nothing to concern you, Fon Master. [Says the man with a voice like he just gargled nails and shredded sandpaper.]

[Yeah, Ion's not buying it. Especially given the what-is-so-obviously a call for help from Tear. Is that concern in his voice? Maybe a little. It's not that he cares about Van, but he certainly sympathizes with being dropped off in the snow by the malnosso to freeze to death.]

If you're unable bring yourself to a clinic, I doubt Tear will be able to carry you there herself. For your own sake, you should be truthful.

I don't require a clinic. I simply have business with my sister.

[Two First Aids, a few bandages, and someone to wipe the ink off his face, and he'll be fine. Really.

...Really.

Actually his main problem is that, being in possession of a massive concussion, he's not entirely sure where he, uh. Lives. The party only wishes they could bash him on the head this hard.]

Business that required a public page written in messy handwriting?

[If Ion were anyone else, that might have sounded like an attempt at being sassy.]

Would you prefer a formal invitation, Ion?

[...He almost never calls the Fon Replica by name. And he certainly never addresses him so... comfortably.]

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