Owain: Ahh, Brady. Perfect timing. Come here a minute.
Brady: Meh? What do you want?
Owain: What's a festival without music, am I right?
Brady: Uh, I guess? So what of it?
Owain: Then what are you waiting for, Brady? Or should I say... Grand Fiddlemeister Brady, beloved of the earth below!
Brady: Haw?!
Owain: Come! Now is the time to unveil your hidden powers of song! Make the sacred dragonsbeard sing! Play us a chorus of eternal prosperity!
Brady: Eternal what, now? What are you even talking about?
Owain: O dark and tragic day! Is my voice too soft to rouse your soul to wakefulness?! ...... Ugh. Work with me, Brady. I'm asking you to play music.
Brady: What, because they're havin' a festival, you want me to play violin?
Owain: There! Perhaps your soul's slumber is not so deep after all... Now take in hand the miraculous dragonsbeard, and—
Brady: And what's with all this dragonsbeard business? Violin strings are made from catgut, and my bowstrings are horsehair. No dragons involved, see?
Owain: Gods, you're no fun at all. It's called poetic license! I'm adding drama!
Brady: Yeah, whatever. Look, are we done? We got a battle to fight here.
Owain: Wait! Come on, play us a song!
Brady: Pass. I'm outta practice. I haven't played in weeks.
Owain: But it won't be a proper festival without music!
Brady: It won't be a proper festival with a buncha Risen walkin' around, neither!
Owain: Aww, come on! Pleeeease?!
Brady: GAH, fine! If it'll get you off my back, just...fine!
Owain: You'll do it?!
Brady: Not like I got much choice. Sheesh... All right. You wanted music — you got it. Sit down, shut up, and listen!

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...