Of Tall Tales and Tragedies

This Owain guy really did talk too much, but that didn’t matter because he loved every bit of what he was hearing! Sure, he looked decidedly too young to be “grizzled”, but his voice was compelling, commanding—it spoke of volumes of experience that Caspar in all his youthful summer-child naivete could only dream of attaining by the time he was Owain’s age (and he didn’t look all that much older than him either). To have him impart even a fraction of that experience unto him, that he might one day become a hero worthy of legend—!

(The silly smile on Owain’s face as he bowed should have been his first clue that all of this was too good to be true. But alas, as times Gullible was Caspar’s middle name; and it did not help that the Ylissean was stoking the fires of his not-so-secret dreams.)

“Wow, Ylisse sounds just like the places I’ve heard and read about in stories!” the young Eagle exclaimed. “I thought they had to be based off of something! Wait, so does that mean someone from Fódlan has been to Ylisse before?” he pondered aloud, voice trailing off in wonder. Promptly, his voice peaked up in excitement once more as he realized: “Then that means—some of the places in those stories could be real! Maybe you’d even know ‘em too! If I showed you one of my books, could you tell me more about some of the places there?” he asked. “Pleeease?”

Owain dissuaded him in an instant, but that if he was in any way discomfited by how readily the boy believed him, he didn’t seem to show it. “All in due time, my friend,” he assured. “But first! I will have you know that my techniques have aided in the slaying of dragons! But this is no minor task, and it takes an army of supporters behind the hero’s back to aid in its smiting. However… we should first start with what any secret technique needs as a prerequisite: a proper partner! Tell me, Caspar von Bergliez… what weapons do you use? Do any of them… have names?”

Part…ner? Oh—his weapon? Caspar glanced down at his shabby little axe with some shame, for however shiny and new it was, as yet undented by even the most slender of hay-leaves, it was still Garreg Mach standard issue, and thus so very boring compared to Owain’s magnificent blade. “I… usually use axes like this one—or gauntlets too! But they’re all just your typical iron and steel weapon—I’ve never even thought of giving them names…” He trailed off at that, abashed: Could that already disqualify him from walking the hero’s path?

No! Say it isn’t so! In a last-ditch effort to restore the Ylissean’s faith in him, he shot his gaze straight up into the other’s eyes. A sudden fire burned in those robin hues—Caspar was beginning to buy this hook, line, and sinker. “Tell me, Sir Owain!” he cried out. “What dread power lurks within a name? What name have you bestowed upon your blade to make it legend?”

“Well, my apprentice, I must express my doubt that this land has seen Ylisse’s fair shores... there are eons of history in the continent of my birth, but I had never heard of Fodlan until shortly before I embarked upon a journey that spanned oceans to arrive here.” It actually had been something of an ordeal, but it really wasn’t like he wasn’t used to incredibly long journeys. “Fodlan’s books likely could not broach the times of sweet majesty and the ages of seemingly impenetrable darkness of Ylisse... but perhaps if you ask questions, I can help you to reach these summits in your mind.”

Upon Caspar’s admission that he had not named his weapon, Owain merely nodded in mock sadness. “Do not worry, my apprentice -- you are far from alone in this. Many of the unfortunate souls that I have met during my wanderings are tragically uneducated upon the spirits of their weapons. But I can help you to change your path! You can treat your weapon’s soul with all of the august majesty that it deserves! It is never too late to grant a weapon a name, for it comes from true appreciation and care for the work hanging at your side.”

She releases a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the bandit falls to the ground. Mist only stares at him for another second or two—to make sure he wouldn’t get up and attempt another attack—only turning her attention back to the swordsman once it appeared that the raider was down for the count.

He starts bellowing again, theatrical and fearless as he tried to warn the others away… and, honestly, if Mist had been one of those raiders, she probably would have taken the chance to run. Even with how weird he was being, it was painfully apparent that Owain knew his way around a fight. 

Her eyes briefly flicker down to the fallen bodies around him, and she holds back a shudder. Silly as he might be, he certainly had no qualms in killing a man.

In the corner of her eye, she spots a sudden movement. Mist tenses up and tightens her grip on her sword, ready to retaliate if she needed. Thankfully, the bandit she injured before was just taking that chance to run away. She felt bad for those wounds, but when she thought of what he and his friends intended to do with the village…

…it was a bit easier to feel more justified in her acts of defense.

Owain’s voice cuts through her thoughts, and she starts, turning to him with wide, confused eyes. “H-huh? Uh—right! I’m ready. Absolutely. It’s… time to shine.” She takes a deep breath, bracing herself for the incoming wave of raiders. She could do this. She could do this. 

She would do this.

With a cry, Mist slashes her sword through air, sending a razor sharp blast of wind towards a few of the bandits. It cuts through and pushes some of them back, but doesn’t do much in halting the group’s advance.

Even if his attempt to use his act to scare the bandits off hadn’t quite worked, it did at least seem to have had another positive effect: it brought Mist out of her reverie, which was looking... honestly, pretty necessary now because those bandits were still coming in, and boy there were quite a few of them in that second wave, weren’t there? This could get really tricky, and he frowned for just a moment, before the bandits got close enough to see it.

He was ultimately surprised, though, by her pulling out a Wind Sword and sending blasts of magic in the bandits’ directions -- and actually doing some damage, too! Perhaps, he supposed, he shouldn’t have been that surprised, as there were rather petite but deadly women in the armies back home, too. ...She was dealing maybe not quite enough to drive them off, though. Perhaps, Owain theorized, she was new to using that type of weapon, as they were after all students here, even if Owain didn’t normally acknowledge that too heavily beyond what he had to. No matter, though! Surely, if he had managed to deal with the first wave of the bandits on his own, he could deal with a somewhat larger one while being actively assisted, and these guys WERE just bandits, after all.

It’s a miracle the entire monastery hasn’t descended upon them in concern. Inigo expects a nurse to kick Owain out, at least, which wouldn’t be the worse thing in the world right now. It’d be a blessing, truth be told.

Hands clamp down on his shoulders again and he’s about to say something when Owain begins shaking him. “Gahh—enough, Owain!” Seems that his best friend’s earlier calm has run dry. The constant yelling is making his ears ring. No trace of tears remain in Inigo’s eyes. “Enough!” Either due to his protests or some other reason, Owain releases him. Inigo flops ungracefully back into his pillows. He raises his hands to rub at his temples, wincing as fresh waves of pain wrack through his head. Owain finally sits down with a sigh.

Oh, wonderful. Yet another lecture about something he has no knowledge of. Inigo tries to push down on his rising anger. He knows better than anyone how inscrutable Lucina can be. So you learn to hear everything she doesn’t say! he wants to yell. Ironic, truly, that he can read her better than anyone and remain so clueless as to the inner workings of her heart. And wallowing alone here means he won’t have to face any of the upcoming awkwardness he’s certain he’ll face.

“How many times do you want me to admit I messed up? I feel awful, Owain, for so many reasons. I broke my vow, embarrassed her, and got a well deserved punch to the face. Now I have to sit here and listen to you scream at me all my mistakes.” His voice is surprisingly controlled. Inigo sighs. It’s not Owain he’s angry at; it’s this whole mess of a situation. “She’ll just see everything I do as another meaningless gesture. Told you, Owain, she deserves better.”

With all of his fire and fury about Inigo’s relentless self-deprecation having only accomplished the exact same thing as all of his other responses (that is to say, causing Inigo to descend further into self-loathing), Owain deflated further -- he didn’t sit down defeatedly (because he had in fact already done that mere seconds ago), but he did slump a bit in the chair and sink his face into his palm, ignoring the glares he was actually getting from some of the church staffers in the infirmary. He just shrugged at Inigo helplessly for a moment, shook his head, and then spoke a lot more quietly. “Come on, man, I’m... I’m really not trying to get you to just admit all of your mistakes again and again. I’m trying to help you here.”

Owain gesticulated a little as he struggled to word his next thoughts, but it was more subdued than before, and one of the infirmary staff even looked away from him as he became worth a little less attention. “It’s... I mean, come on, dude, you’re not going to be like this forever, right? And you’re definitely not going to be never talking to her again, right?” Preemptively, he put up a hand, and muttered: “(Don’t answer that, you are going to talk to her again.)” He shifted his hands again, palms faced upwards in something of a gesture of bewildered frustration, “Just... wait a while until she cools off, and then apologize to her. That’s good advice, right? I just want what’s best for both of you, is all, and what’s best for you is really not... you know... this.” Bereft of words once more, he kind of just gestured vaguely at Inigo and his infirmary-bound, self-pitying state. 

This Owain Dark guy has got to be the most dramatic and out-there character Caspar has ever met (and he’d already met Cynthia, which was saying something), but with battle technique and gravitas like that, it has to be justified! The young Eagle’s eyes shone with awe and delight as the blonde preened and posed. “Secret techniques, you say?” he exclaimed. “Well, lemme at ‘em!”

… Wait. That sounded incredibly underwhelming next to everything Owain had just spewed. The boy paused a moment, sheepishly. “Uh, that is to say…” (Great; just how did this guy come up with such cool-sounding lines on the fly like that?)

A moment’s inspiration struck, and Caspar grinned, pounding a fist into his opposite hand determinedly. “Mighty traveler, I have honed my skills in the fires of trial, smote all evildoers that they may tremble at my name. Vast are my skills, but I fear they are commonplace, honed in but one field of battle.  You who have traversed the mists and mountains of distant lands—my axe hungers! Teach me your ways!”

… Whew. That was actually kind of fun! Not that he knew if he could keep it up all the time (and surely even Owain took a break from it every so often, right?). Hopefully his theatrics were enough to convince Owain to let him study under him for a while—but the boy hadn’t even introduced himself when the other had already done so in such spectacular fashion! But Caspar didn’t feel up to being dramatic again so soon; and so he settled for sticking a hand out in range of Owain’s, palm up. “The name’s Caspar, by the way!” he chirped brightly. “Caspar von Bergliez, from the Empire territory of the same name! It’s a ways southeast of here; lots of fields,” he added, by way of clarification. “Where are you from? And which technique can you show me first? Oh—can you smite dragons? That’d be so cool!”

Owain grinned. “Excellent! Truly the world must tremble at the meeting of two such mysterious and powerful heroes. A traveler from a distant land comes to meet the young and rising hero of another kingdom... surely I am as the wise mentor, grizzled veteran, he whose eyes have seen all manner of tragedy and battle, struggle and heroism... he whose has seen many villains, many monsters, and many of the fights against them!” Owain leaned over and looped an arm around Caspar’s shoulders, gesturing out widely. “You, my companion, shall be he whose destiny I reveal to you, as you become mentored into the protagonist of your own epic tale!”

He pulled back, then, and then bowed theatrically, silly smile still on his face. “As I have already stated, and with bombast -- my name is Owain. I hail from the faraway land of Ylisse, where princesses and princes and pure hearts and the battles of grand beings come to collide with travelers of the winds of time itself, and where the risen dead mix with the darkest of secret cults to create an epic that wound through the very realms!” Owain didn’t expect Caspar to believe more than like 25% of that, and probably wouldn’t have said it otherwise.