The carnival is in town! Nothing like a little truancy and fried treats of your choice to spend away an entire afternoon… And giant, stuffed plushes and shiny prizes catch your eye. “Play a game?” The booth attendant holds out a rickety toy bow. How hard could it be? [Grants Bow +1]
Staring at the attendant, Owain blinked a few times, before gazing at his comrade, as the myrmidon held out an appendage.
“The dark swordsman doesn’t usuall-”
Touching the bow that was handed to him, Owain staggered as his grasp held onto the toy, shaking.
“N-NGH! I f-feel it! A connection is being made between my sword hand and this weapon of mass destruction..! is this..- yes! the mythical bow?! Faelnaut!? It must be… the way it resonates with my bubbling heroes’ blood! I FEEL IT’S RAGE!”
Finally, he stopped shaking.
“Tame it, sword hand! Tame it without tearing this carnival asunder–!”
Then, a sound effect from his mouth. “SHWOOOM!! BJAAWWW!!!..”
“My.. bow hand lays calm, it has temporarily calmed this item of legend.. come, Inigo of Indigo skies! We must partake in aiming at the targets of villainous intent, or this world may be destroyed!
…also, i’m totally gonna get more points than you.”
If regret were a physical state, Inigo experiences it in this moment. So maybe he challenged Owain to a bow contest and maybe their pride now lies on a bowstring. They’ve bickered about who’s the better swordsman for a lifetime. (It costs him to admit it, but Inigo admires the hell out of Owain’s confidence with a sword. The blond loves swords as much as Inigo does—perhaps more.)
Since they can’t settle this with the blade, toy bows work just as well. Brown eyes roll heavenward at the antics of his companion. Naga freaking dragon, it’s a damn children’s plaything. Not some weapon of legend they study in class. Honestly, what even goes on inside that head of his? Does he seriously sit down and think about this stuff? Or is it more like an impulse he never learned to control?
Fingers of his right hand tap against his left bicep. As far as intimidation tactics go, it lacks a certain…panache. Little truly frightens him these days. Sort of. Corner of his mouth quirks up at the name; he can’t help it. Inigo of the Indigo Skies. What a lovely title—one Owain rightly deserves all the credit for.
“Yeah, right! May I remind you that I actually have any practice with a bow?” Dancer scoffs. “Since I’m such a gentleman, I’ll let you have the first shot.”
A glare. A friendly one, if a glare could be friendly. “Oh yeah? You’re so nice, Inigo. I’ll have you know I’ve been training with Setsuna to improve my mastery! So, take that!” It didn’t mean he was any good, but still. He had spirit, that had to count for something, right? He prepared himself, holding the bow in the position he’d learned. His form was a bit stiff, but it worked.
One eye closed. “Focus. I shall not allow this emissary of the clouds to face those with his feet firmly planted upon the earth, not without retribution!” …Sure, Owain.
The small toy arrow shot forward, it was sharp enough to sting, but it wouldn’t actually damage anyone if they got hit due to Owain’s lack of skill. Either way, He hit the end area of the target, the second outer ring. Which was two points. It went up from one to ten if (one hit the bullseye.)
“And so, the fell bowman has destroyed the dark general’s troops with a strike of his mighty arrow of chaotic justice!”
The ‘weapon’ was next held out to Inigo. “I bestow this upon you, my friend.”
“Of course I’m nice!” Inigo retorts, choosing to ignore the sarcasm dripping from Owain’s tone. The booth attendant appears disinterested, waiting with crossed arms for the blonde to fire the toy bow.
Pink head tilts. Owain has the form down all right, but he’s a little awkward, like he’s still not used to adjusting his fighting stance. Inigo nearly scoffs. He should have known there would be a speech preceding the shot. Naga, does he just never tire of hearing himself talk?
The bow string releases with a snap, sending the arrow flying towards the target. Inigo watches, impressed, as it thunks into the target. Two points is worth something with a bow that looks like it might break at any second.
He accepts the toy weapon, picking up an arrow and twirling it around his fingers. “Good try, Owain. Scoot; it’s time to watch the master.” Dancer waves Owain out of the way, stepping easily onto the little x marked a foot or so from the booth. He nocks the arrow, shoulders relaxed, knees just slightly bent—it’s a habit he’ll never be able to break.
One eye closes, the prickly feathers of the arrow brushing his cheek. The crooked arrow flies on his exhale. He lowers the bow, grinning as it strikes the sixth ring of the target.
“See? Gotta relax, Owain. Not spend time saying a speech every time you fire a bow.” He offers the bow back to his friend. “Best out of three?”
Widened eyes, initially. But they soon hide themselves as Owain scoffed, looking off into the distance, trying his hardest to look disinterested. But his mind was racing. ‘Why’s Inigo actually good at this? So his words weren’t just bravado like mine, huh? To be expected. Inigo is really good at a lot of things.’ He thought all of this, not letting it leave his lips. It’d only bloat his dear friend’s ego.
“Right.” Taking the bow was a swift endeavor, shooting it was even swifter for once. Reeling the arrow back, he fired without a word.
The fifth ring! That gave him seven points! Now he just had to hope Inigo missed his next shot.
…Most of him doubted this would happen.
“Like I said, Arrow of Chaotic Justice.” A serious look was offered to his friend. It felt smug, even if Owain had no need to be smug at this moment. The chance of him losing this was large.
He’d see what’d happen next, holding out the toy once more.
Huh. Owain actually can be silent. It’s as refreshing as it is unsettling when the toy arrow flies, the determination on his friend’s face oddly intense without a shouted phrase to accompany it. Inigo bites back a comment of his own, something along the lines of see, we’ve told you shouting ruins your concentration!
The silence, the longer it goes on, makes the dancer uncomfortable. Weight shifts from foot to foot, nerves relaxing once Owain breaks his silence. When did he say Arrow of Chaotic Justice? (Inigo will admit he sometimes tunes out whatever Owain shouts a ridiculous phrase).
Swordsman takes the offered bow. “Well done, Owain!” Smile flashes as he steps up to the booth, toy bow feeling less sturdy by the second. He pays it no mind, lining up for his next shot—
Just as Inigo pulls the string back, it snaps, striking him right across his cheek. “Dammit!” He exclaims, lowering the broken bow. Free hand flies up to his stinging cheek. “Naga, that hurts.” Turns to Owain. “Guess we’ll have to compete with real bows, eh?”
The man stood there, waiting for the other swordsman to fire his shot, when… SNAP!
Instantly, the serious look on Owain’s face shifted to concern, as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Inigo, are you alright?!” Soon enough, he looked to the person tending the stand, and comments: “What kind of merchandise do you have, here?!”
Through everything. Through all his bravado and shouting. Owain will never truly change. In the end, it’s all about the people he’s close to. If any of them are in pain, he will be there to stand by them. He promised that to himself long ago.
Sure, this was a small wound. To some it might’ve even been funny. But Owain couldn’t help but be worried all the same.
“Real bows? I’d rather not risk it.” A small smile on his face. He was glad to see Inigo was okay. If he can make a comment like that, he’s fine.
“Wouldn’t want you to accidentally get a real bowstring to the face, right?”
He pulls his fingers a couple inches away from his face, examining the skin. No blood; just an impressive bruise, more than likely. And to think, he didn’t even have to get slapped to earn it!
Mindful of splinters, Inigo deposits the broken pieces of the bow on the counter. “I’m fine. Ol’ Inigo’s had worse!” He flashes a dazzling smile for good measure even though his cheek really does hurt.
“Ah, it’s alright, Owain. Not much harm done.” Just his pride, but what else is new there. The merchant splutters out some apology, offering up both Inigo and Owain’s play fee. Dancer accepts the coin, secretly grateful to slip them back in his nearly empty coin pouch.
Inigo returns the smile. “Fair enough. Guess we’ll have to settle this the old fashioned way.” A mischievous light enters his brown eyes. “I need a sparring partner.”
