62nd Frost, 4621
When he was finished tending to Maladan's wounds, Thomas knew what he had to attempt to do next. In theory, he could already do it. In theory, he was unknowingly doing it in minute ways all the time, nudging the emotions of the people around him to make them believe him, like him, not be angry at him. This would be just like that, but deliberate. Thomas put a hand on Maladan's shoulder, the one that didn't have any nasty looking cuts, and gave it a gentle squeeze.
He thought about what he knew about Maladan. He was a healer, an elf so presumably from Sil'Elaine originally. A principled man, skilled with both medicines and necromancy, but with a sincerely held belief to do no harm. His psyche was under immense pressure from imprisonment and periodic torture, but so far, he had not snapped. That seemed like it should be enough.
With no small amount of effort, Thomas imagined a connection forming from his brain to Maladan's. The books referred to it as a tether, but he saw it almost like a meteor, originating in his mind, streaking through the emotional distance between them before making an impact in the target's. There was a better way to think about it, he could tell. Something more intuitive, easier to grasp, and easier to use. So far, though, it had not come to him, so he thought of tying a rope to a meteorite and throwing it at Maladan's head.
The first few didn't work. He was too focused on the tether itself, and not on its intended recipient. It was like giving a soliloquy, almost; focusing on getting the words pitch perfect was tempting, but it was a pitfall, a rat-trap that befell passionate amateurs. To be a proper actor, the words had to be memorized to the point where they flowed naturally, so that acting wasn't a facade or a performance, but just an extension of the self. This was the same, but in reverse. Rather than focus on the mental motions of forming and placing a tether, he focused on Maladan: what he knew of the man, what he knew of his mental state. In that way, he let the rest of his mind form the tether without conscious help from him.
He felt the corresponding drain of energy he'd experienced time and time again, but on a much more dramatic scale, before a glowing purple cord formed between him and the unfortunate elf.
"Ah, there it is." He supposed he should compliment his Mark for its success, so he briefly looked down at his thighs. "Good show, Blobby." He made a mental note to consider if Blobby was the best name for the mark, or if it had just been convenient.
The second part he had a much easier time with. Maladan's mural was apparent to Thomas without any arcane effort. A lifetime of his particular set of occupations made reading people an occupational necessity, so he accomplished it with ease. Once what he knew of Maladan's mural appeared before him, he imagined sending happiness and an easing of pain through the purple cord. He struggled a bit with getting it to flow properly; it would go too fast one minute and too slow the next. With a bit of effort he evened out the consistency, though. And voila! A crude, ethereal intravenous transfer of happiness from some kind of plane where infinite emotional energy existed to Maladan's troubled mind.
He had to maintain his concentration to keep it steady and even, but he could talk to the man, with some effort. "I am hoping this will help make you feel a bit better, my friend. Will you tell me if it's working?"
