"Happy birthday, Owain!" Grima said, slipping out from behind a pillar to stop Owain in his tracks. Her bright and warm smile was difficult to keep on her face but she did her very best. She had her arms kept behind her back as well. "Here. I've got a gift for you. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."
Regardless of his response Grima leaves a gift in his hands. Inside the box is a book of poetry. Though the book seems almost impossibly old, the pages fragile and frayed but there were clear attempts to preserve it.
"I found this during my travels before arriving at the academy. They're poems that seem to be from a fabled lost city. What do you think?" Grima watched him closely, an interested look in her eye. The truth was that book was from Grima's own personal collection. She had little problem giving it away if it helped earn trust. Perhaps Owain could decipher the ancient language inside. If nothing, it gave him something to do.
//via birthday asks; still accepting!
"Hark! The arrival of the famed tactician rouses my mystic blood! It surges forth like a frigid geyser, spraying evil with my heroic powers!"
In other words, he's excited.
Or at least, that's the story he'll be going with. He strikes a pose for the Fell Dragon--both arms laid across his chest in opposite directions, hands splayed open, and back arched for dramatic effect--but deep down, he's wary. He wonders if she ever got to use her gift. That faulty pen and magic ink were sure to inconvenience her, and depending on just how much she used them, he could have put a significant dent in her schemes.
So he assumes, in secret, that she is seeking revenge.
"For me?" he continues, nodding along and closing his eyes as instructed, "You know how to honor your heroes well! With this great boon, nigh an army may stop me in my quest!"
But when she motions to hand him the book, he peeks. Just a crack, his eyes peer open. The slits are hardly distinguishable from actually having shut his eyelids, but they make a world of difference in terms of what he can see. Dark takes note of the tome--how it isn't laced with spikes or poison, how it's just... Ordinary. It's strange.
When Grima explains it, he tries to act surprised.
"Oh? A... Lost city, eh? That's, uh, riveting..." He turns the cover first, inspecting for any signs of a sigil or magic snare designed to lop off his arm. But either his magical perception is lacking, or there is no real danger, for Dark cannot sense anything. Stranger. A fist covers a cough as he turns it back around, before that spare hand moves to rifle through the pages.
"Huh. I can't quite read it. Though I believe I've seen the text before..." Ancient Valmese? Or maybe the first rulers of Regna Ferox. His face contorts in confusion, unable to pinpoint which historical period it all belongs to. Owain turns page after page, looking for something of interest (Maybe a diagram? Maybe a secret note containing the Fell Dragon's plans?) but he finds only words. Such is the content of a poetry novel, after all.
"Ah... AHEM! Making heads or tails of this cryptic writing is the bread and butter of an eldritch scholar such as myself. Rest assured, Robin," he speaks that name with a bit of venom, "I shall have the code cracked in a fraction of a second. There is nothing my enigmatic mind cannot solve!"
It slams shut and enters the protection of his underarm. As Dark turns to be on with his day, he shoots Grima one last look, waving her off as though they were friends again, "You have my thanks for this holy gift! I shan't forget it."