[francel walks as if on clouds. thankfully, the heavy apple in his hands — and zephirin's intoxicating presence — help to keep him anchored to the firmament, and not floating in the air. his dour mood from earlier has clearly dissipated; a thought or two strays toward emmanellain, and emmanellain's hurt expression, but petty spite keeps francel gloom-free.

he looks over his shoulder at zephirin, smiling.]

...How have you been, Ser Zephirin? Have your injuries healed? I'm afraid I have not had cause to leave the scholasticate for several weeks now...