It may have started with some hint of agreement -- yes, this? likely this! -- when it came to the bread, that half-idea of grass-nut things, and....
He set that aside, quite willingly following along this new train of thought. It brought up other memories of his own, however faint those now were: he'd mentioned before, briefly, that much had been lost to him, to time... names, faces, voices... but the feelings, those were there. The sense of what it was like to have others surrounding him, a loving family, a whole community... that much, he could find, in agreement to Foulques's, of his mother.... A faint curiosity, toward the idea of religion -- it was just not something Chell seemed to be familiar with, as presented -- and a quiet, at what followed, one with a somewhat hidden sense of sorrow and loss of his own... something about that was familiar, as well. Chell's had mostly been longer, drawn out, a slower loss, rather than something so shockingly massive all at once, but he understood, all the same.
The fire and smoke and rubble... he was deliberately refusing what memory of his own that tied to, rather than letting it join as well. It wouldn't help anything. The more dramatic loss, thankfully muffled under centuries of deliberate aversion....
He shook his head a little as Foulques spoke again; it was like apologizing for wincing or crying out, when putting pressure on an injured leg, as he saw it. It was barely a second or so after, that Chell offered a thought of his own in consolation, carefully focused....
Foulques might well have caught the echoes of the situations and context around it, though such implications weren't Chell's intent here: that Chell knew, and knew well, as definitely as he knew that stone was hard and water was wet, that that last moment held a kind of rest. That was the notion he offered this time... however secondhand it might actually have been, in reality -- thirdhand? how did one count the passing of experiences, like this? -- it was a feeling that was clear and soft, something reinforced time and again, despite what had led to it... something that was sometimes barely a blink, or perhaps a long moment, as all else failed, and probably longer to the one it belonged to... that last whisper.... Whatever had happened, he was certain that there had been that, as well, a last bit of peace.
It wasn't the most conventional way to offer condolences, certainly....
(in case anyone's stalking: things got a lil dark there. >_>)
He set that aside, quite willingly following along this new train of thought. It brought up other memories of his own, however faint those now were: he'd mentioned before, briefly, that much had been lost to him, to time... names, faces, voices... but the feelings, those were there. The sense of what it was like to have others surrounding him, a loving family, a whole community... that much, he could find, in agreement to Foulques's, of his mother.... A faint curiosity, toward the idea of religion -- it was just not something Chell seemed to be familiar with, as presented -- and a quiet, at what followed, one with a somewhat hidden sense of sorrow and loss of his own... something about that was familiar, as well. Chell's had mostly been longer, drawn out, a slower loss, rather than something so shockingly massive all at once, but he understood, all the same.
The fire and smoke and rubble... he was deliberately refusing what memory of his own that tied to, rather than letting it join as well. It wouldn't help anything. The more dramatic loss, thankfully muffled under centuries of deliberate aversion....
He shook his head a little as Foulques spoke again; it was like apologizing for wincing or crying out, when putting pressure on an injured leg, as he saw it. It was barely a second or so after, that Chell offered a thought of his own in consolation, carefully focused....
Foulques might well have caught the echoes of the situations and context around it, though such implications weren't Chell's intent here: that Chell knew, and knew well, as definitely as he knew that stone was hard and water was wet, that that last moment held a kind of rest. That was the notion he offered this time... however secondhand it might actually have been, in reality -- thirdhand? how did one count the passing of experiences, like this? -- it was a feeling that was clear and soft, something reinforced time and again, despite what had led to it... something that was sometimes barely a blink, or perhaps a long moment, as all else failed, and probably longer to the one it belonged to... that last whisper.... Whatever had happened, he was certain that there had been that, as well, a last bit of peace.
It wasn't the most conventional way to offer condolences, certainly....