[the video comes on to a view of the collapsed roof in the museum.
it's from a different angle than people outside the museum have seen before, but it's clear that the group working to dig a path through the pile has made significant progress. francel's feet come into view a few moments later, as he walks from behind the tablet towards the rubble in front of it.
but he's trying to walk on his injured ankle — really walk on it, with no limping or cane involved — and so it's probably not much of a surprise when his leg fails to support his weight, and he collapses and falls onto the floor. francel must be in a considerable amount of pain — but he just laughs, long and loud and almost pleasant, as he lolls his head against the cold stone floor and runs one gloved hand through his hair. his hat has fallen off his head; it blocks part of the camera on one side.
static cuts into the video feed periodically. not that it matters. francel wouldn't be making much sense even if he weren't being interrupted.] Can you hear it? Can you hear it, friends? The turning of the gears, the passage of time, the dead and gone a̷̧̱̱̬̣͍͎̬ͥ̾̀l̴̤̭͉̮͕̽͝l̶̛̠̺̹͓̫̮̰̞ͬ̌̅̿͡ ̧̡̘̓͆̌ͨ̽̑̂͟ą͕̗͚̤̣̳̃͌ͣ̚r̤̯̭̣͔̩̻͔͋̃ͣ̋ö̜́̉̈̐̆̇̕͡u̩̖̻͙̟͉ͦͥ̆̎͜͠ṇ̟͐͂̾̈͑̉͐̚͢͜ḋ̶̴̺̝̩̱̭͖̯̫̏̊̅͝ ̭̭͙͌̓̾̎͟m̘̿̓͋̎̎̐̄e͇͉͉̺͍ͤ̄ͩ̃̚ —
— w͉̮̲̞̜̔ͬ͗̏͢͡e̯͉̪̥͕̩ͫ̊ͫ̿̕̕ͅ are dependent on Halone. She is our wisdom, our righteousness, our sanctification, our redemption. She has given me strength where no one else could. And where is She now? Dead and dying! And I have not the strength to save Her, for I was never one of Her chosen, I was merely Her pawn, Her puppet, Her patron saint of failure and falsehood and wͩ̾҉͈̱̘̻̘̟̞͔̻͘o̷̩̩̍̋̂̇̀r̴ͮ͆̑ͬ҉̜̬̜ṱ͈͈̦̓ͦ͡͠h̡͓͇ͭͮ͘l̶̳̘͎̫͈̰̯͙ͥͧ̉͑e̶̥̭͈̲̘ͭͣͤ̄̚s̛̝͙̹͓̪̦ͮ́͆̚s̸̝̰̰̖̣̩̮ͤͪ̍ͪ̍͢ ̲̖̯͍̯̱͂͜f̟̬͕̤̤͍̜̊ͧ̌ͨ̄ͫͯͅi̓̋̓ͩ҉̖͇̖͇̦̫̮̕ḷ̡̢̝̠̋ͨͥt̟̙̦͑̓͂̊̀ͫͮͭẖ̨̰̦̼ͫ͌ —
[then he sobers up, and declares, with startling clarity:]But the old gods are dead. And long live the new.
[francel must see something that his viewers don't, because his expression softens as he seemingly welcomes some invisible companion to his side; his arms wrap contentedly around the void in front of him, and he smiles as his right hand moves back and forth, petting the air.]Hello there, my old friend. And what are you doing here, with your face so gaunt and your mouth sewn shut? Did they tire of your prattling at last? You must know — you
must know that only I would listen so patiently. Anyone else would scream to see you thus, but only I, my friend, only I...
[his head turns as he addresses some other apparition:]Stephanivien, ah, Stephanivien — was it you who made this town? Did you do this for my sake? To send your brother to an endless dream, a nightmare made tolerable only by the presence of one angel, and thus quietly his quietus make! And here I thought you had forgotten me, after all these years — these namedays past and the trinkets you gave to them and not me, to them and not me. Thank you, Stephanivien; I thank you for these dreams. Good night, good night, good night.
[lying on his side, laughing wildly, with his hand perched in mid-air as if resting upon some unseen friend, francel reaches out to his tablet, and ends the transmission.]