[He can be seen now curled up in a chair, his usual ramrod straight posture abandoned in favor of a defensive hunch. if he's aware he's being recorded, he gives no sign of it. In front of him, just barely within frame, is a vaguely humanoid shape made up of blue-white light. He stares intently at it, and it gradually gains more and more definition.
The end result is a very tall man with waist-length silver hair and bronze skin, who might've been anywhere from forty to sixty. For a moment, the illusion holds, perfect and still. Then, abruptly, it loses a few inches and the face seems to grow younger, the hair turning wheat blond, growing shorter and gaining a curl. Vanyel grimaces, and with a wave of his hand, the illusion is dispelled.
[He starts on a new one, a wiry older woman with a long silver braid and Vanyel's same silver eyes, dressed in Heraldic Whites. But she's barely complete before she starts changing, gaining a farmer's tan and more masculine features, shooting up to match Vanyel in height, hair going short and curly and blond. He waves his hand again, and this time it's a faster, more violent gestures. Then he starts over once more.
A child, a brown-haired girl maybe nine years old - but he's barely even begun before her hair starts to curl and turn. So dispels the illusion entirely and drops his head into his hands.] Gods-damnit. [The word is only just audible, muffled as it is, and there's something in his tone - weariness, and something like grief, but hollow. Like he's already grieved all he can over this particular ghost from his past, and has nothing left to give it now.]