Faolan takes Bridei as Lancelot hands him over, fitting his arms around him to secure him as the little dragon settles against his chest. He's not sure what to make of this. Of any of this, really, but especially the part where Lancelot knows his past, has heard him play and sing, a song he had written about Lancelot himself no less. The other man seems to be taking it in stride, however, as he always seems to do. Is even joking about it a little, and Faolan struggles to determine whether he finds that reassuring or frustrating. Perhaps both, in truth.

"No charge," Faolan reassures the other man, quietly. "No money, anyway. It would feel wrong, considering most of it would be practice. I do not want a mindless audience, however. If there should be something I play that you like, something you do not care as much for, I would welcome your opinion. I know... Thousands of songs, somewhere in my head, and could compose thousands more along the same vein of each. You do not need to suffer a piece on my account. That is what I ask of you, in return. Your opinion. Nothing more."