██ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ /♕/ ;;

On a base level, Owen is ᴋɪɴᴅ and ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴏᴜs. He does his best to help people out whenever he can, goes even further to maintain the laws in place (if it's even possible for him to do so). With his kindness, he can be ʀᴜᴛʜʟᴇss at times, doing whatever is necessary to reach what he would consider a good end.
Nothing can really stop him from doing something once he's set his mind upon it – ᴅᴇᴛᴇʀᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, this man leaks it from every pore.

He might make for a good politician, if it wasn't for his ɴᴀɪᴇᴠɪᴛʏ. Sometimes he has a hard time telling if a person has good intentions or not, because he's always trying to see the good within people. Oh, and his ʜᴏɴᴇsᴛʏ. Unless the situation absolutely requires him to, he'll never tell a lie.

Unexpectedly to some, he's quite sᴀssʏ, and has the potential for extreme sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴍ. To Owen, there's always something to be said about something, and if people don't appreciate that then he simply doesn't care. Holding his tongue just isn't something that he knows how to do.

██ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs /♕/ ;;

+Knows his way with a sword.
+Great magic resistance.
+Fairly analytical.
-Terrible cook.
-Possibly incapable of using magic for himself.
-Easy to fool. Sometimes.

██ ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ /♕/ ;;

Born to two witches known throughout Parpivora for their arcane skill, all that heard of Owens birth expected him too to be capable of great and mysterious feats – carving rifts into eldritch realms unknown, raising up the sea to reveal what lay beneath, locking up storms in bottles and taking pieces out of the sky, all of the fantastical things his mothers could do. To hold both the elegance of a son from noble birth in one fist and the majesty of the untamed in the other, that was the type of future thought to be laid out for him.

However, years flew by. Owen had already reached 10 years and hadn't yet shown any sign of being able to tap into the ether. There seemed to be a strange disconnect between him and the greater magical energies in the air, he was incapable of reaching them. Really, it seemed like magic in general just rejected Owen – when he contracted colds and scrapes, to the despair of his mothers not even their great magic was capable of curing the ails of their son. Naturally, this had him feeling positively terrible – what was the point of having such accomplished parents if he wasn't accomplished himself? Wasn't he just an embarrassment, a blight on an age old legacy of spell casters? What was wrong with him? Magic flowed so well for everyone else, why wasn't he capable of using it at all?

Haunted by his own insecurities and the general air of disappointment he felt laid over the hearts and eyes of people that knew of his 'failures', much of those early days were spent in a haze of loneliness and self hatred. All he could bring himself to do was read. Everything and anything from old, dust begotten tombs to fairy tales for children, if it had words then it was fair game. He threw himself into his studies, pursuing knowledge in other things aside from magic. Along with reading, he also started to selflessly help people. There wasn't that much that could be done without magic, so he strove to assist in other ways, like resolving disputes between his peers, or even advising some adults on problems that needed a more innocent eye.

Owen was well on his way to becoming a teacher, or even a senator, but then he discovered it one afternoon while down in the basement, looking for new reading material. It was wrapped up in a sheet. Just lying there on an old chest, the hilt of it peeking up from the old rag.

Like the stories he'd read so voraciously about knights and kings chosen by the gods, it was a beautiful sword. It beckoned to him, begged him to pick it up and give it a swing or two.

And swing it he did. The forgotten heirloom fit his self perfectly, that is to say, Owen could swing it like he'd been swinging it forever. For years he doggedly trained with the blade, honing the craft all for the purpose of well, finding his purpose. Caught up in it as he was, he didn't slack on his studies either – there were still things he wanted to know, to learn about the great world he'd been brought into. Adventure, to put it simply, was what he began to crave.

So he left home at the young age of 17, armed with nothing but his sword, a few books, and courage.

Now at the age of 19, with a bit of worldly knowledge under his belt, he doesn't quite know what he wants to do with himself.