"You're going to explain. Now."

"Why you think me capable of giving you satisfactory answers, I've no idea. It's not a habit of mine to commune with flighty gods on the regular, just so we're clear."

"Ari. Rosario. He's your friend."

Olwen tips his raised hand from side to side, a so-so gesture that makes Echo want to rake his nails across Olwen's skin, preferably viciously enough to scar.

"Rather than a friend... it's more like we're used to being thrown together, especially here in the village. We're acquaintances by circumstance, not design; truthfully, Ari isn't someone I'd willingly seek out. Those eyes of his..."

It should be a comfort to hear that Echo isn't alone in his resentment of Rosario's void-like stare (or even the gaze he'd worn while... possessed by Seren, gods, that's going to take some getting used to, and possibly a stiff drink). And yet his rage bubbles in his chest and spills over into his bloodstream, boiling the contents of his veins and willing him into action, to demand answers and wrest information from whatever source happens across his path. That Olwen is either unwilling to part with whatever knowledge he has regarding Seren's unprecedented arrival or truly ignorant... it only stokes the flames of Echo's barely restrained inner violence.

Apparently ignoring his rapidly dampening mood, Olwen slaps a hand down on the rough-hewn surface of the bar and calls for two ales from the barkeep tending to a customer a few stools down from the pair. Olwen had dragged Echo into The Hung Moon while he'd still been processing the ramifications of his encounter with Seren, claiming after the fact that a little alcohol never hurt anyone, and really, wasn't he craving a drink at this point? They'd left Rosario to the local doctor, who'd been called without their say-so, and Olwen hadn't looked back once. Perhaps they're not friends, then; Olwen had certainly seemed wary of Ari even before the whole body-snatching affair.

Still. He should know something of importance... shouldn't he?

The barkeep deposits two mugs of lukewarm ale in front of Echo and Olwen with a nod (directed more at Olwen than Echo, unsurprisingly), before veering into what Echo presumes to be the storage room, as it sits adjacent to the main area of the bar and is curtained off by thick velvet cloth. Olwen wraps both hands around the mug and throws back the ale with a vigor Echo wouldn't have guessed from him. Is he more rattled than he's letting on, or does he simply have a penchant for alcoholism that Echo would have had no way of being aware of? Either way, his drink vanishes far quicker than Echo's, and from the way he's now eyeing the basically untouched drink, he's contemplating the merits of swiping it from Echo's relaxed grip.

Echo, out of spite, swallows half the mug in one go.

It nearly chokes him, some of the liquid rushing down his windpipe rather than the normal route, but to sputter and gag before Olwen would be to admit defeat; so Echo forces himself to relax, to breathe, and after a few worrisome moments, he's alright. Mostly.

He side-eyes Olwen, daring him to pass judgement; but Olwen's attention has drifted, his eyes dark with his thoughts and, if Echos' reading him correctly, relatively unseeing. He's watching murky brown droplets of ale slither down the sides of his mug, absently shaking them from his fingers. Echo furrows his brow, curious what caused him to retreat into himself like that. The far-away look in his eyes says it was something significant.

Seeing no better alternative, Echo drains the rest of his mug and slides it out of reach, doing the same to Olwen's after a moment's thought. The action spurs no response from the man; he merely folds his hands together, rests his chin against his interlocked fingers, his gaze fixed on the wall of brightly-colored bottles ahead of him.

Several minutes pass.

Echo's patience is wearing thin. If they've nothing else to do here, they should return to Olwen's home. Inigo may have insight on why Seren chose to appear in such a fantastic manner, and even if he doesn't, Echo doesn't want to stay in his village longer than he has to. Logically, he knows that Seren is not confined to this small world, that his sphere of influence encompasses at least the whole of the country, but he's snagged on the thought that somehow, miraculously, he'll feel more at ease when he's surrounded by the warm wooden walls of Inigo's home. 

Gods. Seren. Seren, an actual fucking god, stuffed into the body of a black-eyed man and brimming with such unnatural light... Echo clenches his hands into fists, adamantly denies their shaking. His heart hasn't calmed in the slightest, rattling round in his ribcage as though it's looking to escape. He mind oh-so helpfully replays those moments over and over again whenever he so much as blinks -- the fire on his skin from Ari's touch, the mesmerizing effect of Seren's eyes, the ghost of a god's fingers on his cheek. He's grateful that Olwen had the wherewithal to rear back then, to avoid coming into physical contact with Seren, because Echo surely wouldn't have been able to save himself.

Looking into Seren's star-speckled eyes... Echo had felt death tapping fingers down his spine.

You're making it worse.

Much as he'd like to, he can't deny that he's letting his thoughts get the better of him. Heaving a sharp, weighted sigh, Echo shoots another withering look in Olwen's direction before swiveling on his stool, seeking something, anything to distract him. The tavern is rowdy, which he supposes isn't out of the ordinary, even for underpopulated towns like Celestia. A fight's broken out in the far corner, looking like a scuffle between drunken warriors; Echo dismisses that instantly, uninterested in the outcome of an unfair match. There's a chant rising from somewhere near the center of the tavern, though with the words slurred and rushed, Echo can't tell what's been said; he guesses it's either related to a drinking game or something else equally unpleasant, and moves on. Nearer to the door, and directly in Echo's line of sight, is a girl -- a woman, more like -- performing for a small yet sober crowd of mixed company. Men and women alike sit or stand around the woman as she strums out an unfamiliar melody on her guitar; the wood of the instrument looks beat to hell even from this distance, and absently, Echo can't help but wonder how long she's had it. Family heirloom? Did she save every coin as a child to buy it?

It's not so much her music (talented, but she's no master, clearly) that captivates him as it is the simple, inherent mystery of why she plays it. Echo's interest in strangers sometimes extends beyond cursory curiosity -- or, well, that's his impression, anyway, seeing as he can't recall if this is normal for him. Olwen and Inigo didn't stir the same sort of fascination in him because of the circumstances through which they met; this woman, however, he's detached from, can view from afar without risking an incident, and he gladly does so, idly speculating on her origins as he allows her music to drown out the erratic thumping of his heartbeat.

He's still spinning a story for her in his head when a hand slips around to cradle the back of his neck, tugging him to face Olwen, who's since (apparently) freed himself from his quizzical stupor. Blinking, Echo banishes thoughts of the musician, metaphorical hackles raising at the expression painted over Olwen's features. Mischief too pure for his age mixed with a shade of determination Echo hadn't thought him capable of. His grip on Echo's neck tightens almost imperceptibly, drawing Echo in another inch so that they're faces are barely more than a few breaths apart.

Echo scowls; Olwen's feral grin widens fractionally.

"I've come to a decision."

Through gritted teeth, Echo asks, "And what would that be?"

"I'll act as your Guardian."

That derails Echo's train of thought so suddenly he has to sit back, nails clawing into the chipped wood of the bar, narrowed eyes widening to moon-like proportions. Guardian? From the tone of Olwen's voice (and his flirtatious passings), he doubts this has anything to with becoming a parental figure for Echo; and since Olwen's been strangely invested in Echo's role as Seren's champion, before even knowing a thing about him, it stands to reason that the so-called Games are involved.

Fuck.

"What the fuck is that." Echo can't bring himself to add any inflection to his course, flat question, doesn't see the need for it when Olwen looks to be itching to spill everything to him anyway (after a suitable period of dramatic suspense), and he doesn't disappoint.

"A Guardian," Olwen says, leaning forward into Echo's space despite his returning scowl, as if he's some stealthy conspirator desperate to bring another in on his secrets, "is the person who journeys with the Champion to the site of the Games, to ensure that the Champion arrives safe and sound. Can't have our warriors dying before they're meant to, obviously, or there'd be no point in the Games at all. And the gods just won't have that. They're protectors."

"And you," Echo replies after a moment, words dripping with a venom that feels all-too at home on his acidic tongue, "are going to be my protector?" He doesn't ask from what; he's being led to his death either way, and knowing of the dangers present before these Games won't do him any good given his present state of mind. He's no way to defend himself---at least nothing that springs to the forefront of his mind. Echo's fingers curl deeper into the wood. "Why."

Flat again. Monotone, clipped of all emotion.

"If I said it's because I've grown fond of you--" Echo's piercing glare must get his message across, because Olwen rolls his eyes and leaves that sentence be. "Traditionally," he says, uncharacteristically serious, "the person who first encounters the Champion takes up the role of Guardian. As you might imagine, that's led to several ill-equipped Guardians getting the short end of the stick and up and dying long before the Games began. I'm offering to be your Guardian because, even though my father can more than take care of himself, he doesn't have what it takes to protect you, Echo. He's soft-hearted, can barely let loose his bow to hunt on most days. You'll perish under his care, I've no doubt about that."

"...do I have to accept your proposal?"

"As in, do I need your verbal consent? Can't say for sure, as most Champions don't choose their Guardian. Like I said. Fate usually does the choosing for them. Luckily for you, though, I make a habit of defying Fate whenever possible. In any case, I'd like an answer--keep in my, though, that whatever you say, I'm not allowing you to go off adventuring with my father."

Echo had no intentions of dragging Inigo into this, whatever Olwen may think of him. But even Echo can't say whether or not that decision is a selfish one. Having Inigo's company would be infinitely less aggravating than Olwen's, but at the same time... that fatherly look of Inigo's grates on Echo's nerves too finely for him to handle it maturely for very long. Better to ignore Olwen's brazen attempts to "court" him (and Echo suspects Olwen hasn't actually set his sights on him; rather Echo's the closest thing he's had to a target these past couple days, and thus he became an unwitting outlet) than lash out at Inigo unthinkingly.

"Deal."

"So obedient," Olwen purrs, tapping a hand to Echo's cheek before he can dart back out of reach. Echo still makes a show of scrubbing Olwen's lingering touch from his skin, though the man shows no signs of being offended, much to his displeasure. "I'm glad for that. Truly."

Olwen stands, scattering a handful of coins on the bar with a pointed nod at the barkeep. Then he's shouldering his way through the crowd, and Echo's no choice but to jump up after him and scurry to catch up. Only, Olwen suddenly turns, catching a startled Echo by the shoulders (in what is becoming an unwanted pattern).

"Mm, I wasn't going to say anything, but... That girl? The one you were ogling a while ago?" Olwen's face splits in an overly cheery smile. "She's taken. Not worth pursuing. Just thought I'd give you some friendly advice, kid."

Echo, brows raised and lips pursed, doesn't bother correcting Olwen (he didn't ogle, for gods' sake), though he does raise himself onto his toes to peer above the heads of the nearby rabble, and sure enough he spots the musician curled into the side of a young man, who gently strokes her hair and whispers something into her ear that sets her giggling into her hands. It's a heartwarming sight for anyone who weak to such things; irritatingly, Echo feels himself smiling at the couple.

"Good for her," is all he says before pushing past a still-grinning Olwen to practically fall out into the wintry air.

He's not an idiot. Olwen's trying to get a rise out of him for whatever reason, likely solely for entertainment purposes. Well, he won't give him the satisfaction of reacting.

"She's a beaut, though, you have good eyes, Echo."
"Good enough to know you're going to die alone."

"What a charmer you are."