He's definitely overly warm to touch, focus a little fuzzy as he flits his eyes up and then away again. Faolan's hand feels pleasantly cool in contrast, and he closes his eyes for a second before rallying to try and answer the question.

"I'm not sure," he admits after a moment, "I don't..."

And here he hesitates again, a little cagey as he tries to work out how to word his theory.

"I am no expert, but I think this might not be a... natural headache. Not one my GP could help with, at least."

He winces a little, feeling considerably awkward about admitting a weakness to Faolan, wets at his lips nervously before trying to cover.

"It may go away -- perhaps it is tied to... well, the new talent the Night Council granted me. If I grow used to it then it may well go away?"

Although Lancelot doesn't think so, and he's a terrible liar truth be told. He has suspicions, no doubt his lack of real belief in what he says shows in his face.