Owain: Ahh, such dulcet tones! The melancholy melody flows like a river, washing the spirit clean!
Brady: Uh, thanks?
Owain: It is the divine breath of the muse-gods that fills your mortal frame, Brady!
Brady: Stop. You're embarrassin' me. I got an image to keep here.
Owain: Heh, don't be so modest. I do not offer words of idle praise, friend. No, by lauding you. I've branded your soul with one of the six highest honors!
Brady: I got no clue what you're sayin'... But this might be the first time your usual malarkey ain't made me wanna slug ya.
Owain: You're welcome! And wow, you're pretty good at violin, huh?
Brady: Heh. Forgot you sound like an eight-year-old when talkin' normally.
Owain: You should have joined a symphony or something instead of an army!
Brady: How many symphonies you see fightin' Risen?
Owain: Still, I think it'd be a much better fit. Probably pays better too!
Brady: Look, I'm here because I wanna be, all right?!
Owain: It just seems like a waste, considering your potential.
Brady: Hey, I can't help that I'm an awful fighter...
Owain: That's not what I meant. You're a fine fighter, but I think you'd be a world-class musician!
Brady: Yeah, well, I don't need to be. Not now, anyway. This war's more important.
Owain: Well, at least you won't have to worry about making ends meet after this is all over.
Brady: Maybe. And what about you? What's your plan once the war's over?
Owain: M-me? Er... Huh. Honestly...I have no clue.
Brady: Why not try and be a poet? A guy what with your, uh...fancy take on words could really go places, yeah? Plus, then I could just hire you to write my lyrics!
Owain: Poetry, huh? Hmm... Yeah, actually, I could see that! Owain the Wordsmith! It's got a ring to it, eh?
Brady: Heh. I'm kinda surprised you went for it that quick-like.
Owain: Hark! On this day is born the voice of a thousand fallen angels! Adore me, muse of muses, whose honeyed words sweeten even life's bitterest truths!

—Owain leaves—

Brady: Good grief, I'm gonna end up regrettin' this, ain't I...