art credit: 1 → tasper, 2 → pidie
owen
Owen O’Faolain weighs one-hundred-fifty-three-point-three-three pounds and is five feet and ten-and-a-quarter inches. These measurements are precise to two significant figures, and entirely made up. The same applies to his name, although names are rarely judged by precision.
On the whole, Owen is cheerful and blithe and very rarely angered. He is gregarious and easily led off-topic and capable of expounding upon any subject at great length. He has a fondness for wine, poetry, and the entire field of mathematics, the art of probability holding an especial place in his heart. David has a fondness for vast, sprawling worlds, and an equal fondness for walking in them and reshaping and altering as he sees fit, when he sees fit. He puts Owen in mind of a distant and mildly cruel God. Owen is of the opinion that David is overly callous, and has very little concern for the terrible long-term consequences of his actions.
Owen plays the fiddle badly and speaks too fast and wears sweaters that smell like old books in attics. His favorite pattern is argyle. He is in possession of an enormous appetite. He has tried, on repeated occasions, to count his freckles, and comes up with a different number each and every time. This vexes him greatly.
Owen is of the firm belief that sudden changes are a peril to the integrity of all things. When Owen finds that his input is required, he chooses subtle methods, modest, entirely incremental, only noticeable in their aggregation. There is a precise art to these things. Therefore, David’s heavy-handed work upsets him in ways that even Owen has trouble articulating.
Owen keeps track of many things, the continuing efficiency of the network first and foremost. And though it would take a will of iron to persuade Owen into stepping back and examining the data on himself, it would not take him very long to make a single important observation on the state of things. There is a building rage, here.
