#fellpurpose

Alright, now who's THIS clown? Does anyone in this day and age really still say "hoy"? He doesn't look like an old fogey, hell, he looks younger than Griss, but maybe he's like Veyle or Zephia and older than he looks...?

Or maybe he's just a weirdo.

HM. he slowly turns the glass of water in hand, studying it carefully before thrusting it into the other's face. "i wonder!" odin muses, "from whence does this liquid spring forth? does it come from a sanctified well, or does it merely flow from the common tap, enchanted by an accursed tome or ill-omened relic? imagine if, that drip-drip-dripping we perceive as water...was actually the tears of immortal souls, paying penance for sins most dire."

Already, the monk is pinching his brow.

He is not being paid enough for all of. This.

The corners of his mouth downturned in distaste, the monk gingerly pushes the glass of water away. Away from his face. Away from his clothes. Away from the whole of him, preferably redirected in a different direction altogether.

Odin is in the midst of giving him a whole new plethora of trust issues, you see.

And also a headache.

"It shall be from the tears of yours truly we'll be sourcing the remainder of tonight's fare if you. do not. S t o p." Really, Azama might have been bored to tears just moments ago, but now he wishes he'd never taken those moments for granted. He has regrets, yes. Many regrets.

He does not function well with regrets. Life is too short, ephemeral, to be weighed down with concerns o'er the present. This, too, will pass, he reminds himself, and yet...

Perhaps the evening might yet be salvaged...?

"Actually, Mister Odin Dark," lol. what kind of a name. "Do you see that [miss over there by the wall]? I have it on good authority that she is in the know, if you know what I mean? She may well part with her secrets concerning this curious liquid of yours-" it's water, w h y can't Odin just call it water "-if you approach her with the right incentive, that is."

the outfit isn't half bad, odin thinks, albeit lacking the intricacies of his own costume. there's an effortlessly sinister charm that he appreciates about the stranger's look — the shredded shirt alone reminds him of his own, uh, sheer number.

whoever this man is has a flair for theatrics. he's sure of it.

he approaches with an emboldened swagger, a proud grin adorning his countenance. but as he draws close, it suddenly occurs to him that this person just might be infringing on a certain fell hero's signature look.

odin confronts the tattooed, metal-clad man, his silence broken only by a loud chuckle. "i see you are a true peer, a fellow spelunker in the darkest of abysses. it would seem as though you and i...are cut from the same enigmatic cloth." a hand slowly creeps across his face, fingers spreading in dramatic fashion as his voice swells. "but as you know, there can only be ONE midnight sentinel. we'll have to resolve this in the only manner known to our kind: I, ODIN DARK, challenge thee to a Clandestine Clash: the Shadowed Duel of Destiny!! what say you...?"

This guy decked out in black and gold had sauntered up to Griss, floor-length cape billowing dramatically out behind him, like he'd had something to say. Something else to say, anyway, and so from the column he'd been leaning against, Griss had simply stared at him, champagne glass in hand.

A second longer and he would've asked the guy if he wanted him to make that goofy smile on his face permanent (Griss for "can I help you?"), but he beats him to it. Loudly. Boldly. Theatrically. With the flourish of hands and cape. Griss blinks.

"A fellow who in the what now?"

The first thing that comes to mind is a snowbird he'd seen shimmying for a lady back in the forests of Elusia.

"Clandestine... shadowed..." Griss repeats half-dazed, trying to find any word in the deluge that makes sense. He blinks again and shakes his head, but this time a grin stretches across his lips. Champagne sloshes out of his glass and splatters across the floor as he throws his arms out in welcome, like a secret code finally passed between sworn brothers.

HOY THERE, NILES! WHAT IF WE....🥺👉👈 rekindled our raging flames of friendship

let it burn for all eternity!!

"lucina. " there's a notable lack of theatrics today — his mother would be proud. " do you have a minute? i have something for you." owain reveals a carefully crafted book concealed behind his back, meticulously bound and wrapped with painstaking care. as children, they'd shared a love of myths and legends. distant memories of huddling beneath blankets and pouring over long-forgotten histories together, whispering and giggling as they wove tales of their own and dreamt of their futures as a renowned exalt and legendary prince. in time's eyes, they are nothing more than footprints on the sand. here one minute, and gone the next. but perhaps this way, their legacy endures. the gift is handed to her — the epic of their lives, which owain has penned for nights on end. it remains incomplete for now (which he supposes is for the best. together, they'll write their own endings). " happiest of birthdays, cousin. may you be blessed with many more. "

She will always have a minute for him.

"This..."

Lucina blinks down at the volume in his hands as though she can't quite decipher what she is looking at, or perhaps is trying to convince herself that it is real. She takes it into her own slowly, carefully, the way one might handle the most fragile of porcelain.

And it is, to her. All of her life she had spent in shadows of legends, of kings and heroes woven into history. It had been her dream to be among them once, to someday be chronicled as a legendary Exalt. It was a dream she had long ago surrendered, watched crumble with the very world around her.

Until now, in this moment. Even if the pages beneath her fingers will only ever be read by herself and Owain, even if she is forgotten to time the way fate had wished for her, for a moment she has become what she had always hoped.

Ask Meme from Here!

Elise can’t help but immediately break out into giggles. She’s always entertained by how Odin can manage to say the simplest things in the most complicated way. It’s fun. She’s glad he still does it, even here. 

Though at this point it would probably be really weird to hear him talk normally.

in a flourish befitting a grand performance, he unsheathes the weapon secured at his side. as the blade emerges, its steel, polished to a flawless mirror-like sheen, reflects the surrounding light with a seemingly ethereal glow. along its surface, symbols reminiscent of ancient runes are intricately etched into the metal, their cryptic meaning shrouded in mystery known only to those brave enough to grasp the hilt and command its power. (or y'know. for those willing to ask).

"on this hallowed day, i do bequeath unto you, morgan, this blade of legendary renown! its power knows no earthly limit, for it cleaves through the very fabric of existence itself. to you, it shall pledge its eternal fealty, a bond forged in the crucible of destiny, a covenant SWORN by the stars! may it serve you faithfully in the noble pursuit of vanquishing your fell enemies, rending their ranks asunder with the FURY of a THOUSAND STARS! i only ask that you give it a name befitting its majesty. a title that echoes through the annals of time like THUNDER in the night."

as is, or at least what felt like tradition now, morgan had to halt his steady pace to classes. at least this time it was a friend, or rather- his destined ally-versary who beckoned his attention. the lad quelled the thumping in his chest before turning to meet owain, face to face (or- honestly chest to face). "uh- did i... miss another class again?" a desperate reach for something that was not the obvious, if only because he wants to hear the other say it. if he doesn't, then there was no harm done, no hopes to be crushed, absolutely no hard feelings at all. after all, it had been a long time.

while there was never a time morgan could recall a birthday being forgotten amongst them, an emptiness he couldn't describe overtook him regardless. something too familiar, a cold hand on his shoulder, and yet... it made no sense? ever since he had awoken and found his mother again, there had been no man left behind, not even him. still, something told him that maybe pondering the why's was not such a good idea. he had nothing to worry about, right? after all, owain was now pulling out a massive sword secured at his hip. giving morgan a good look over the weapon before shoving it in his face, words flowing a mile a minute.

had it been anyone else, the tactician might have misunderstood, but not even several years apart could dull his sense of the man. this was a gift plain and simple, a birthday present, a show of their friendship if there ever was one. the weapon was shiny and extravagant, the kind of thing only owain would give with pride. it's swagger was beyond him, but he accepted the gift with a smile regardless. it was the gift that kept on giving, a sword to use, and a promise that they could relive old times. "thank you, o...odin! i hope you know your coin is wasted on gifts for me, but i'll accept her nonetheless."

there had been nothing to worry about, after all, and really- had there ever been? they never let him down, ever. "you know how bad i am with names, though... unless you want me to name it operation fancy stick, i suggest we name it together. deal?"