hero of an epoch

Veiled in Black

Ro had been prepared to take on the investigation of Issyk on her own, as she was with most things. If no one could trust Nine because of his affiliation with the empire, no matter how he’s claimed to have given up his loyalty, she couldn’t blame them. But she wanted to give him a fair chance. The destruction caused by the “javelins of light,” as he had called them, was far too devastating for them to confront head on, and should the empire find their base… everything they had been working for would be gone in a flash of light. To attack the weapon at its source was their only option, and Nine their only lead. But they couldn’t exactly plunge straight into the heart of the empire on his word alone. They needed more information.

And if Ethlyn was still alive and not in the hands of the empire, then there was a chance she could be in Issyk - either on the run or… No, Ro refused to believe that.

Owain volunteering to accompany her was both an honor and a surprise, and that he would assemble a small crew to investigate - even more so. She cannot offer him enough of her gratitude, but thank-yous remain firmly under her tongue, and she follows behind him in silence.

That is, until screams erupt from somewhere in the city. Kris and Est run ahead to try to pinpoint a source, or at least a direction, but Ro stays behind with Owain. She glances up at him.

“What do you think that was?”

Next: @poweroverflowing​

Caution is cast aside as a shriek pierces the white noise of Issyk’s crowds. It cuts through the night air like a blade, turning Owain’s ear to the source and forcing concern on his face. “Imperial activity, I’d bet,” is Ro’s answer, “Hurry! A hero is never idle; we might be able to stop them in time!” 

And so, off he runs! Footwork is made much faster so that Owain moves with haste, dodging through people in the street like branches in bramble. One hand rests on Missiletainn, the other on Parallel Missiletainn, and both are ready to unsheathe. Should the threat present itself as he rapidly approaches it, he’d be able to feed them blunted steel or buckshots of lead. He is goaded on by the need to act, to potentially stop another life or precious item from being claimed by that dastardly empire. Even if he is meant to be in disguise, there is likely something he can do while retaining anonymity. Strike from the shadows, move fast and hard enough to not be noticed, pose as a simple vigilante trying to adjudicate the situation--his options are plenty. 

There are a few shops Owain passes in his rush, but he pays them no mind. They might have been sources of information earlier, but now he cares not to investigate them. That’ll come later. He’s searching for imperial uniforms, swaths of troops, and any out-of-place equipment. Of course, Owain doesn’t know that Malo’s forces are also in disguise, nor that the scream was not their fault for once.

“Imperial ships...”

A hushed whisper flows from commander Owain’s lips as the motley crew he’d assembled arrives in Issyk. He can see it, off in the distance, in spite of the darkness surrounding them. His finger is pointed to the mountains, eyes troubled and shoulders heavy. There’s a part of him, deep in the back of his mind, that wonders who or what could be on there. Maybe, just maybe, they would have that thing on them...

“Stay close,” he warns, “we don’t know if they could be crawling around the city. If the need to split up presents itself to you, take a partner and don’t get separated. We’re all to be heroes by the end of this adventure, and I don’t want to lose any of you in the first chapter.” 

The night air is warm and heavy, so much so that sweat forms over Owain’s forehead. Or maybe that’s his nerves, signaling him to be wary of the imperial threat. Whatever the case may be, he rolls up his sleeves and looks to the blinding display of lights in the city. They’re so bright and overwhelming, yet their luminescence barely seems to touch the surrounding terrain. It’s like a void of black swallows what isn’t touched by the city’s lights, and combined with the heat in the air, they almost act as a collective sun for the bustling nightlife.

To make matters worse (or better, depending on who you ask) the crowds of people flocking about are like moths to the lights’ flame. They’re everywhere. They buzz about and obscure the vision of Issyk’s many mercantile buildings. Shops and vendors are hard to truly make out until one walks in close, so Owain resolves within himself to move swift and true.

He begins to push through the crowd, turning his gaze back to his allies every now and then to ensure they haven’t lost anyone. They eventually arrive at a crossroads--facing the space between two buildings. Both look old, dark, and unused, and the alley even more so. If Owain squints hard enough, he can make out the features of a factory and a warehouse. Not of much use, he figures. If they were in Rhedrise though, a factory would’ve certainly caught his eye.

But where to now? They can go through the alley, continue straight through the crowd, head south to change paths--whatever their heart desires, really. Abruptly, Dark stops. He turns to his allies (at least, the ones that decided to stick around this long) and looks at them expectantly. “Hark! A fork lies before us... Knowing it could very well affect our destiny, which path shall we take?” 

The leader tries reaching out a hand to his subordinate, but her sudden reaction has him retracting. He shakes his head, something inside him gladdened to hear that there exists great bonds formed between his companions. He’s not mad or upset with her now, even if he wishes she had come clean sooner. “Ah, love. How it motivates us to act! When it comes to spurring on the heroic spirit, there’s nothing quite like it.” 

A smile shakes off all the worry and unease on his face prior, understanding of why Ro had acted so hastily. “Though you seem quick to point out she is an ally of us, too, you neglect our say in the matter.” The palm that had reached for her earlier balls into a fist and is forcefully brought to his chest: a symbol of duty. “Nobody gets left behind in the Oberon Dark resistance! You wait right here, and I’ll assemble a small team of trusted heroes to aid you on your search. When we work as one, not even the empire can stand against us!”

And off he goes, making good on his word and seeking out the aid of those that still have the heart to offer it. A select few names come to mind--ones that Owain knows would accompany him on this quest. If he brings word of Ro’s plan to them, perhaps an excursion squad could brave the markets of Issyk together, and bring back something worth their effort.

“Huh, that was... Surprisingly easy.” 

Owain shrugs, dropping the act and returning to his normal stance. His head tilts slightly to the side as bewilderment makes its way onto his face--a finger coming up to scratch the back of his head. He expected more. He thought he’d have to get into a great big screaming fit and force his powers to work on the man--potentially employing further interrogation tactics--but no, things go smoothly. 

“Um, thanks for being so cooperative? With both of us...” The enflamed spirit in him dies out as quickly as it was lit, now giving room for awkwardness to wash over him. His eyes dart around the room, regretting Nine’s harsh treatment. The man didn’t even put up a fight against his antics, and for that Owain believes he is truly genuine. And what of that part about Est beating him to the punch? Has he become a sloppy leader already? Or is there some mysterious force dictating his every move that stalled his approach? He’d never know for sure...

“I’ll, uh, see what I can do about letting you have more freedom around here. Sorry about the suspicion.” 

Tracing Lines Across the Sand

The rebellion leader is not Commander Minerva, who listens to her ramblings obligingly. He is neither Palla nor Catria, who offer her compliments when their youngest sister works to deserve them. Est need not subsist on the validation of others, she need not go seeking scraps of reassurance, but she does. She knows no other way. She will smile and regale the commander with tales of her daring deeds; throw herself, body and mind, onto the battlefield, hoping to hear the praise her sisters call in the wake of her lance.

Neither commander nor sisters are here, and the prideful fluttering of her heart slows as admiration fades to caution. It is no slight against her — even Est considered the possibility of a trap; it’s the sensible thought, really — but she can’t help but feel it anyway. Smile temporarily fading, the mapmaker bounces restlessly on the tips of her feet, nodding.

She must prove it, then. Est can do that. “You got it, boss!” A hand snaps to her head in salute as she grins again. “And if they do decide to show up, I’ll run those no - good imperial fiends off if it’s the last thing I do!”

Est sobers as the rest of her instructions are delivered: get troops from the barracks and find a Lucina in cargo to stock up on supplies. All of that sounds like something she can do without trouble, hardly any different than patrol preparations back home. Of course, that ignores the absence of her pegasus and her sisters, like the ghosts of limbs she hadn’t known were so badly needed until they were gone.

She’s been managing with ghost limbs for months now. What was a little more?

“I require a…splendiferous armament of unlimited potential,” Est repeats, stumbling a little over the words. A bit of a mouthful to ask for supplies, wasn’t it? But an order was an order, no matter what, and she’s gotten good at playing the part of a dutiful soldier. “Got it! I won’t let you down, I promise.”

Est sure does make interacting with her an easy job. Here Owain was, ready to have to convince her that using his distinct purple prose would be the only way she could really prove that he sent her, but she seems to understand right away. For that, he’d nod in approval, arms now leaving the table to ambiently adjust something at her desk. He isn’t the cleanest cook in the kitchen, but even he has higher standards than this.

“Yes, exactly that. For your generous service, I shall guarantee you a spot in the eternal pantheon of Oberon Dark! You’ll be remembered for an eon--that much I can promise you.” 

Finally done with finicking around in this space, Owain decides to leave the rest to Est, and turns in the direction of the room’s entrance. “Well then, like the wyvern of great Michalis, I shall take off--and you should too. We’ll meet again when you have something to share.” He takes one step, then two, nearly exiting but stopping to offer one final word,

“Until then, keep yourself safe.”

stockpiled

It is almost adorable, to watch the way Owain holds the weapon as though it is truly something divine. Fascinating as this new technology may be, he holds a standard issue empire gun pulled from the hands of some low ranking guard.

But then this is Owain, whose favored sword is hardly any more than a stick.

“I’m glad you think so.” Spoken as his speech pauses. Hands dust off on her thighs, and Lucina goes to push the crate back out of their way. “It’s the best I’ve gotten so far.”

The necessities of war were far more pressing than all of the shiny weapons, and the rebellion’s coffers weren’t exactly overflowing. What Owain holds now was pulled directly from the hands of an empire grunt. That’s the best they can manage.

He speaks again, and Lucina blinks twice before sighing. A name. Naga. She had always admired that ability of his plainly because it was one she didn’t share.

Lucina stares at the gun for a long moment as though it will give her an answer. “If it’s your weapon in this world, then perhaps something like my own?” A helpless glance toward her cousin — this was his territory, not her own — but he shows no sign of budging. “Uh… we can call it Parallel Missletainn, then.”

A grimace. Definitely not up to Owain standards, but an effort was made.

“…just be sure to aim away from yourself, alright?”

“Parallel Falchion and Parallel Missiletainn... Yes, I can see it!” An explosion of excitement bursts from him now, driving Owain to ball his fist and bounce on his toes. His smile is back in full effect, twice as wide as it is energetic. “My my most beloved weapon, reborn in this fantastical world! It’s perfect!”

The man nearly jumps for joy, amazed and honored at owning an arm named by his cousin. In a way, it would be fitting that this basic imperial shotgun be called Missiletainn, for like the sword of the same name, it possesses no unique qualities. But Owain would make it special, through rigorous roleplay and attaching sentiment to it. It shall become a prized possession, loved even more for the fact that it is a gift from Lucina. 

“With we two harboring parallel weapons of different worlds, I’d laugh at the empire’s attempts to stop us. Falchion and Missiletainn, two sacred relics of synchronized might... May they stand together against the face of tyranny!”

For all her efforts, Lucina receives a hearty pat on the back. She certainly had it before, but on this day she earned respect and admiration from her leader. When Owain finally feels he’s finished with over-the-top gestures, he rests the large thing against his shoulder. He’ll carry it like that out of the room, but will find a holster for it later.

“Well then, I’ll be off now. You keep up the good work, and continue to come up with special names just like that. It’ll do wonders for morale!”

With everything (which was a lot) now being said and done, Dark turns on his heel. The afterglow of his interaction keeps him warm as he begins walking off now, to find Nine and hear his story for himself. The footsteps Lucina had heard from his approach now play their sound in reverse. Slowly, they begin to fade into the background, and the quiet of the cargo bay resumes once more. 

stockpiled

And, again, Owain’s nonsense eases her mood. It is just a comfort, to see him be so himself no matter the situation. The softest of smiles pulls at her lips.

“I would appreciate that greatly,” for as much as she admires his creativity, Lucina herself doesn’t share an ounce of it. “How else would I be able to come up with names even half as brilliant as your own?”

No comment is made upon his suspect or the state of the investigation. The less she says the better, and the less she has to lie the easier it will be on her conscious. She fishes further into the box, fingers skimming over row after row of artillery and silently logging the numbers. 

Owain’s presence at her flank goes unquestioned, and there is a moment of silence before – ah. “I had figured you would ask that.”

A number is scribbled on her list and then pen tucked behind her ear, allowing her to flip through a few of the pages. Eyes skim over her own messy handwriting until, finally, they stop. Lucina hands the clipboard to Owain and turns to face the wall of containers behind her.

It doesn’t take long to locate her goal – a more rectangular box with 7M-4 written crudely on each side in red paint. Lucina pulls it free, grunting as the weight settles on her arms, and then sets it on the ground before them. 

“I know it won’t make a difference,” a sigh as she squats to pry the lid off, “but I’ll remind you to be careful regardless. This isn’t exactly a sword.”

Hands slip into the straw that serves as cushion, settling beneath either end of the weapon in question. Lucina unearths the gun and rises, holding it out for Owain’s inspection.

“You’re our leader. It is only right that you also hold the most expensive empire weapon I’ve gotten my hands on so far.” 

“Ah, yes! Now this is what I’m talking about!” 

Owain marvels at the craftsmanship of the weapon. Of his weapon. His gaze scans its form, drawn to its large size and intricate design. A four-barreled shotgun, standard of the empire, but incredibly rare among the rebellion. Its main body, stock, and grip attachment are a factory white, while the barrel and chamber release are bleak-black. Housing the trigger is its handheld grip, much in the style of a pistol and wrapped in a brown, textured material. Rather than the attachment being near the forearm of the weapon, it’s secured close to the end of the barrel--reducing the intense kickback of its quadruple burst if held properly.

It changes hands, and when it ends up in Owain’s, his fascination only amplifies. Gloves fingers smooth over the surface of its barrels, before sprawling around the rest of its body and coming to hold it in its natural position. He is silent throughout the entire process, but his mind runs rampant with imagination. In the cargo bay he may just be holding his shotgun--one arm lengthened to grasp its grip--but in his mind he is standing in the haze of battle, smoke billowing around him as he rises above a mountain of defeated foes. 

It checks out. Finally, Dark breaks the silence, “Your eye for weaponry never ceases to amaze, Lucina! This is truly a tool fit for kings, a vortex of might and awe! When I hold it, I feel as though not even the outer reaches of the universe are without my grasp... It beckons the cosmic flares residing within my heroic soul! Such a legendary piece of, er, legend, can only be fit to be called...”

“Actually, why don’t you name this one?”

The rising climax of his speech comes to an abrupt halt--the squinting face he’d been making easing up and returning to complete normal. Owain had been climbing a mountainside with how he prepared the dramatic reveal of the arm’s name, but right as he reaches the top, he stops to let Lucina finish the job. Even the great, proclaiming tone that rang from his words stops as he asks his question, allowing it to sound inquisitive as it should. As if none of that just happened, he turns to his cousin expecting an answer. 

//continued from here

“Oho! Nifty indeed!” Owain exclaims, after having followed Est to the table, “As the Chosen One of War and Strategy, my holy senses urge me to explore further...” He appears impressed now, with eyelids shut, lips pulled into a smirk, and the bridge between thumb and index holding up his chin. But he is also thinking; pondering this twist of fortune. Much of the intel he’d already gone over was nebulous at best, but Est has suddenly presented to him a clear and defined advantage that could be capitalized on. It’s hard to shake the thought that this could be a trap laid by the empire: especially with word of a mole going around. For all he knows, that place could’ve been cleared out with the intention of their mapmaker finding it, so that it might be armed to the teeth when they return.

His finger leaves his chin and taps on the marked spot. Owain’s mind has been made--choosing to trust his gut. “...But Wisdom goads me to act with caution. If you have some stamina and twice the courage, I shall ask that you run regular patrols in the area. Make sure those empire fiends don’t come back before we decide to move in!” 

Yes, that would work. Owain still very much intends to explore the area, but the safety of those close to him must take priority. The last thing he’d ever want is for another to give up their life for him, in a scenario where he could have done more himself. 

His hands come to rest on both corners of the table now, body slumping forward some. Running the idea through his mind a few more times solidifies it as the right one, and he nods to show his orders are absolute here. “Take whatever troops you need from the barracks; tell them the thrall of adventure is too powerful to ignore. And head to cargo, too. Ask for a woman named Lucina, then tell her you require a splendiferous armament of unlimited potential! She’ll know I sent you, and shall keep you stocked for the journey.”

stockpiled

Out of the corner of her eye, Lucina watches the other’s little show. She fights back a grimace as the weapon is handled so carelessly, the only thing sparing Owain from a lecture on weapon safety being her confidence in the gun’s empty chamber.

She knows what he is going to ask her for and prays silently that she is wrong, popping the lid of another crate and busying herself with the same process as before.

“And you are far more qualified for weapon naming than I,” a hum as she parts the straw that cushions the layers of supply that line the container, “but I have confidence in your capabilities to lead.”

Confidence in his trust, too. The thought twists her gut.

“I’ve heard the whispers too, the arguments,” a frown pulls at her lips, “accusations.”

Not that any have been directed at her, not yet. As much as suspiscion had overtaken the base, it had yet to find a tangible direction. Fingers point blindly, but the murmurs of ‘mole’ raise the hairs on her neck.

“As confident as I am that you do not need my advice, my own play would likely be to try and keep the peace while you come to your own conclusions.”

Eyes meet, and that expression of his threatens to chip miserably at her resolve. Guilt bites at her heart, tightens her throat.

A shake of her head. “Your faith should be in yourself. You are our leader for a reason, Oberon. Trust yourself above all.” Above me.

Try to keep the peace and follow his heart... now that’s some food for thought. It’s certainly enough to put an end to the disturbance he’d been portraying. He no longer feels the stress of his responsibilities, but is absorbed in ruminating on Lucina’s advice. A finger rests on his chin, then a nod is given to show his understanding. It’ll take some time for him to sort out, but she’s right. He’s a leader now, and he can’t come crying to Lucina any time he actually has to lead. 

“Thank you for your kindness. If weapon management ever becomes an issue, you have my permission to enter my holy sanctuary! (Er, my office.) I’ll get to work writing out only the most powerful of names in a notebook, and allow only you to gaze upon their glory for inspiration! But do be careful with it if you choose to seek its power. My life’s hardest work will have been poured into it, all for your benefit.” 

Back onto his feet he hops, raising a pumped up fist. It’s now that he truly pays attention to his cousin, and to all the work she’s been doing. These newfangled guns, were they called? are a marvel to one from their era. Owain doesn’t quite understand how they work, but from what he’d seen on security cameras and in the training grounds, all one has to do is pull their finger against a switch to spray out high-velocity projectiles. Must be some sort of magic. But anyways, the tasks Lucina had busied herself with finally become apparent to him, and the small tinge of guilt from holding her up so long settles in. 

“Well then, I must be off soon, to gather intelligence about that mole. That Nine sounds to be a prime suspect, so I’ll use my all-seeing eye” which he definitely does not have “to ascertain the truth from him first.” A smile now, renewed with the hope that he can get to the bottom of the empire’s recent strike. Footsteps grow closer to Lucina until her commander is peering over her shoulder, seemingly looking through the stack of merchandise she’d been counting. 

stockpiled

Inventory. Routine. Lucina frowns down at a list, names and numbers blurring together. It is signed with her name, a testament to her work in having written it, but trying to remember when she had done so makes her head throb.

Fingers flip open a crate, labeled with 12B-2 in red. Her eyes flit from list to ammunition, counting, frowning when the numbers misalign. The list is forgotten in favor of reaching in to the crate and procuring a container, flipping it every which way in search of a label.

The hard plastic is brought to her nose – empire made, she knows by the feel alone – and Lucina squints even harder. An engraving catches her eye, and fingers fumble for that list once more to figure exactly which item she is counting.

A voice startles her, the call of her name shooting her head upwards and nearly sacrificing the objects in her hands as eyes land upon her cousin.

Their leader. Why did it have to be him?

She does not greet him with his name, unsure of exactly which he is using, and instead opts for a curt nod as he makes his approach. Cerulean watches as he brushes the top of a neighboring crate, and then his face as he begins to speak.

Few I’d trust more than you. Her gaze drops, turning instantly back to the task at hand as she listens to his order. It is wholly unsurprising, and a bit of the tension in her shoulders loosens as his speech loses its formality and becomes so familiarly Owain.

“Of course,” a glance to him and something like a smile before it returns to the crate. The container in her hand is set back in its place, and silently she counts. Fifty six. Lucina reaches to scribble a check mark beside that name on her list.

“I have quite the expectation to live up to,” the lid settles back in place, “but then I suppose you do too. You were a great choice for a leader.”

Owain laughs, “HA HA!” and reaches into a container with its lid half-ajar to produce a simple pocket pistol. It’s about as stock and standard as they come, factory made and fresh off the press. He spins it by the trigger on his curled finger, showing no regard for his (or Lucina’s) well being even if the safety is on. “Right? I could think of no role more fitting for Owain--er, Oberon--Dark! Fortune smiled upon me this day, gifting me with the one true purpose I was born for!” 

His smile widens at that, gladdened to be a bigger part of this story. The firearm comes to a stop in his hand now, so that he might hold it and strike a pose. Arm out, pointing the barrel at the wall, hand over his face, wink in his eye. It helps him fill the massive shoes he’d been given, and he trusts that his cousin would support him in his antics. Though, for someone with so much work to do, Owain sure does waste an awful lot of time. 

He simmers down a bit after the display, lowering the weapon to his hip with yet another twirl. He’d only been here a short while, but it appears as though he’s a natural with gunplay. More importantly, much of the excitement on his face recedes now, giving way to the strict tone he should be carrying himself in. A balled fist is brought up to his mouth to allow him to cough, and he speaks again--a tad worried,

“Though... I can’t help but feel like you might be more qualified for it.” Sheepishness takes over him now, moving his fingers to scratch the back of his head. “Don’t worry, this isn’t me saying I’ll be stepping down, but I thought I would ask you for some advice, Lucina.” 

The troubles and burdens of leadership are already starting to bubble to Owain’s surface. He seats himself on a box small enough to allow him, and heaves out a concerned sigh. “It just feels like I’m being pulled across great big Jugdral with all these opinions and this intel. People are asking me to do all sorts of things, even though they contradict their peers.”

Status: Passed

Skill Points Gained: 2

Activity Check > Any +1 > Allocated to sword +1

A Glorious Awakening (2487 words) > Any +1 > Allocated to sword +1

Skill Changes:

Arms are quick to cross after assaulting the blonde's door, two fingers tapping mindlessly against her bicep. When Owain finally opens the door, she exclaims, "There you are! Don't you know it's rude to keep a lady waitin'!?" Quick as ever, an arm shoots to take his and lead him out to the training grounds. She doesn't look back, those red tresses bouncing with each matching tap of her foot on cobble.

Once they've marched across the campus, Severa turns back, still grasping the others arm. Carefully reaching back, she reveals a leather-bound notebook. Strapped to it was a rather nice feather, a holder, and two small containers of ink.

"So, since it's your birthday, I figured I'd get you a notebook, which... if you open it..." she says, handing the fancy pad to her comrade.

Should he open it, he'd find a list.

Viseguard Missiletainn Gryphonsbane Edge Fell Ballista Staff of Deep Hurting Epic Threading Thrusting Waking Slash of the Deep Night Venomous Stitching Strike...

And many, many more.

"Since you've got so many names for all your moves and weapons, I figured you might need one of these. A list from everyone I could find asking about whatever names you came up with. And added a few of my own," she boasts some, a cocky smirk as she then reaches for her blade, revealing it to the other.

"And. And I'm gonna letcha name this new move I've been workin' on, just so that you can get a head start on your list, got it? So pay close attention, 'kay?" Tone light and playful, a wink is given as she readies herself.

"Huh? Who could that be? Surely I am not needed for something this early..." Owain wakes in a daze. He was drifting off moments prior, enjoy the sweet, fluffy sensation of a pleasant dream. But the aggressive knock from the woman at his door breaks that feeling, forcing his body into a jolt. He barely has the time to push past his blanket and bedsheets, much less straighten his hair out to something presentable, when her voice cuts through his once silent room.

He knows that voice.

The entrance to his humble abode is flung open, and as he suspected, Severa stands there waiting. Her scolding--something he has long since gotten used to--is allowed to fly over his head. Instead of being upset by the sharpness of her words, he's gladdened by her presence. A beam shines through on his lips, which open to speak, "Hoy there, Severa! Let me just get ready, and I'll be out to join you for whate-" But it's too late. She's already snagged his arm, and has begun dragging him out of his room.

He wonders why he expected anything else.

Severa is truly the type to march to the beat of her own drum, and for that, she has Owain's respect. As such, he keeps quiet during their trip, trusting that what she has to show him is important enough to pull him out in his pajamas.

They arrive. The blonde motions to catch his breath, having just moved at an awfully hasty pace this early in the morning, but a book is suddenly being shoved in his face. He gasps at it, looking up to Severa once, then back down at the journal again, as if asking permission to look through. But who is he kidding? He snatches the thing from her hands and cracks it wide open, silken eyes glued to each page he reads.

It isn't long before those eyes start to tear up. Recognizing each and every name contained in these pages, imagining the thought and effort put into such a gift, and the fact that Severa is trying to give him more? It all has a profound effect on poor Owain, moving him at his deepest core. So what if a little crying makes him look goofy? Or if the tears dripping from his eyes stain the corner of the current page a little. It's his birthday, and though he nearly forgot, his dearest friends worked together to bestow upon him something truly special: all under the supervision of Severa. It's an emotional moment for the guy.

And so he cries, not in an over-the-top sob, but enough for his heart to be full of happiness. The book is then held in one hand, with its accessories all in the other, and Owain moves in to briefly hug his companion. He whispers an oddly normal "Thank you," before pulling away. He wants to feel confident she knows he seriously, truly appreciates her gift, and allows himself to break grandiose character in that moment. When he pulls away again, he coughs, and the theatrics resume.

"Hah! A special move?" Owain moves to seat himself just barely off the training grounds, a safe enough distance away to spectate. "As one who imbues souls through names, I shall gladly give your technique a title! But be warned: the unstoppable power that shouting one of my names while using its move will unleash would no doubt be deadly. You are to be extra cautious when employing it in battle, and should train plenty to master its roaring spirit!" Ready and waiting, the notebook is flipped to the first empty page, its pen wetted with ink so that it might record Owain's ideas.

A Glorious Awakening

Watching Owain’s thoughts process so clearly on his features stirs a familiar sadness in her chest. It’s one of those rare moments where the façade is forgotten, and it will always be painful to see it drop.

“A small victory is still a victory,” Lucina agrees, exhaling. Any step towards success then had been monumental, no matter its true size. A quiet sound leaves her, almost a laugh. “You can make all of the scenes you’d like, now.”

She lags behind as he sits, coming to stand at his flank. Eyes do not leave the horizon, watching in silence as the remaining smoke and ash of their fight fades away. Blue peaks through parting clouds, and quiet birdsong begins to pick back up.

A hand falls gently to her cousins shoulder. It’s a silent comfort, for herself more than him. She’s happy to see him again – happy to fight at his side once more without their world’s entire existence on the line.

Gazes meet and there is her Owain again, back with that seemingly inextinguishable passion of his that she has always envied. Thank Naga. She wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“Yes, let’s,” her chin dips in agreement. The hand on his shoulder slips away to be offered instead. “I’m sure there’s some way out of here.”

/fin. 

"Anyway--" He waves his hand to brush the topic away. "The reason I came to find you again was to extend an offer." Ruby eyes drop once more to the Golden Deer insignia and hesitation holds back the invitation for a moment. If the man had already declared an allegiance, then he was no longer a free-floating agent Julius could employ for his own personal benefit. Not that he had much money with which to pay even a lone swordsman, anyway, but the chance that Oberon would take the offer seemed to shrink. Nevertheless, he presses on.

"As I'm sure you might have guessed, I am a prince in my homeland. The son of the emperor, in fact. Your performance - but most importantly, your protection - in battle against our storybook foes impressed me, and I am not easily impressed. What say you to dedicating your blade to me?"

Julius' words fall on deaf ears, for the man he speaks them to--known to him as Oberon--rushes in for a hug. He cares little for who finds him real and who doesn't, instead amazed and incredibly grateful that Julius managed to survive. His wounds were near fatal in their final fight, so perhaps Odin shouldn't be so quick to squeeze him half to death. But he can't help it. He thought this man might've been a goner, even in the event that he immediately go into intensive care following the events of the Projectionist. But how he rejoices in seeing him alive and well! Well enough to keep up that brooding attitude of his, at least.

"So you draw breath!" He shouts, arms coiled round the redhead's body and showing no sign of letting go, "Surely this is a revelation from Justice! I can see it now: she spread her mighty wings and loosed a flurry of her divine feathers. Each drifted to our mortal plane and landed on you, o fearsome mage, to grant sweet life as a reward for your sacrifice! A sacrifice that was not in vain, might I add, for the rest of us were triumphant in that fight! Seriously though, it rocks to be speaking with you."

Though the hug would come to end, with Odin releasing his grip on Julius and allowing him to breathe, his joy would not. On his face remains a bright beam, in ashen eyes the spark of reunion. Recent life had been a strange pulling sensation, with Odin being dragged this way and that by the whims of circumstance, but he can rest easy knowing there are few comforts that will never leave him. The bond he shares with his teammates is undeniably one of them.

The moment of unbridled happiness passes, and now the words the prince had spoken fully register within the hero. Positivity recedes--but does not fade--leaving him with a bittersweet sensation. "Ah... Though it's really great to see you again, I must confess I hath pledged my loyalty to another: Prince Leo of Nohr." His tone now stings with regret, wishing there were two of him that could work for both royals. That's simply not the way things work, though. "And even if work with him gets boring once in a while, I quite enjoy being his retainer. (Plus he'd have my head if I tried to quit!)"

Weight settles at the edge of Owain's cot as Lucina sits, concern knitting her brows. She hadn't thought to realize he may be apart of the projectionist's little task as well. Her own wounds were few to speak of--having all been healed before the world had been returned to her--but his.

"You look terrible," no insult to her tone, only a mere observation.

Owain sits up at his cousin's arrival, sputtering out a pained cough. Was it really so obvious? He supposes it is, what with his bandages, blankets, and dedicated infirmary bed. There's only so much white magic can do, and where it fails, medical practices must be employed. In the case of the torture Owain endured (but survived, thankfully) in that book, white magic had long since failed. "Me? Hah! Never better! A few foes to extinguish is nothing in my grand adventure! Why, I'd careen back in there and face a thousand thousand more dragons if I could!"

All lies, naturally. Or rather, stretches of the truth. He isn't okay, obviously, but compared to the state of allies like Julius, he could be worse. The trials he faced were by no means easy, but again, he's fought the likes of two world-ending gods by now. He can handle it.

In spite of his beaten, broken self, he leans forward to wrap his arms around cherished Lucina. The magics of that book are still a mystery to him, but seeing her on the other side of things is starting to make him understand that this is the wheel of Fate turning once more.

//via self-indulgent prompts

"Haha! Oberon needs no assist--Ow! Ow! Ow ow ow!" Though his heroic spirit is roused by fiery combat, even the mighty Odin Dark cannot ignore his bodily pains. Strain and ache course through him as Alfonse brushes over his wound, the damage from his last battle apparently too dire to pay no mind to. Pained sighs bellow from his lungs, and Dark knows it's time to rest.

He gives up any hope of standing--any desire to hop to his feet and create a lively scene. Now would just have to be his downtime, shameful as that is. "Alright," he breathes, voice quaking, "do your worst, o hurty medical treatment! (But seriously, try to be quick with this? And don't use any of that stuff that makes my cuts sting!)"

The treatment continues, and as Alfonse might've been able to expect from Odin, he reacts much in the same manner. He jolts whenever pressed in a sour spot, sucks in air as any products are applied, winces when bandages tighten.

When it concludes, and Odin can settle down, he allows himself a moment of respite. He might've been lucky to live this day, but to have someone so willing to lend him their aid is truly a gift from Fate itself. "You have my thanks, hero," he starts, more subdued than usual, "Were it not for you, this fiendish wound could have spiraled intro something much worse." At least, that's what his mother would have said. Scoldings often came with phrases like 'It will get infected if you refuse treatment!' or 'You don't want to lose your arm, do you?' and in the moment he'd always resent them, but looking back those were signs that he was loved. And so, to have Alfonse express some of that tender care now, Odin can enjoy a nice little callback to his youth--of course, the prince is nowhere near as snippy with it.

//via self-indulgent prompts

"A tasty morsel? You flatter me, o venerated house leader! Give me that!" Crunch munch! Chomp chomp! Gobble gulp! Horf snarf slurp! Faster than the eye can see, Odin devours the meal presented to him. His teeth chew the pastry parts and juicy fruit in mere seconds, he swallows massive lumps at a time, then barely stops to take a breath before inhaling another bite. Not even the slightest consideration for table manners is shown, with Odin digging right in to shovel mouthful after mouthful of the Saghert and Cream until mere scraps remain in his bowl. Well, scraps, and whatever mess he makes. Blotches of cream and fruit juice paint not only the corners of his mouth, but spread to his cheeks and drip down onto the table. It's appalling to see; truly a dining hall nightmare.

At least Odin looks satisfied with his food.

On his face is the warm glow of delicious food. He leans back, eyes wistful and smile wide, before letting out a loud BRAAAAP! and patting his stomach. "Such confectionary bliss, such sublime sweetness! I... I can feel... Something... Something powerful... over... whelming... meeeee!"

In a sudden flash, the lax recline of Odin Dark comes to a complete stop. He jumps out of his seat and onto his feet, exclaiming all his mighty praise, "It was like an overactive volcano of flavor... Cream oozed into my mouth and became thickest lava... The crumble of the pastry like igneous rock shattering in the jaws of my titanic form! Were I not confined to the mortal realm, I would have mistaken the texture of this glorious treat for that of godly Ambrosia! Doth this recipe hath a name? If not, I shall give it one myself: