[Very rarely does Dimitri feel truly balanced, any sense of stability having slipped from his grasp that day in Duscur, collapsing in on itself and leaving a void in his heart and mind. Even here, in the nonsensical surrealism of a dream, it eludes him completely, as though it knows (as well as him) that he’s undeserving.

But there is a quietude that overcomes him when he draws near, like he is supposed to shear away at the proximity between himself and this stranger, that resembles it more than ever before. Another step or two, and a thin veil slips between him and the rest of what life has wrought — the whispers of the dead, thoughts ravaged by anger, a storm behind his eyes, now gone distant.

He looks at this strange young man, who appears unlike anyone he’s seen before, and he’s granted a sort of clarity that he cannot help but chase after — to be curious about.

Dimitri hasn’t scared him away with his fumbling sense of humor, at least. At this, he offers Oz a grin that reaches the corners of his eyes, bright and sincere, a degree of princely restraint hemmed away.]

I see. Just Oz. I already told you my name, but a proper introduction is in order. [He presses his free hand to his chest, barely inclining his head.]

My name is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. And this— [That same hand then sweeps at the empty space between them, indicating their surroundings.] —is Garreg Mach, as I stated. It’s a military academy of sorts where I’m from, but... well. Obviously some things are not quite right here.

[Eyes lift to the gaping hole in the ceiling, where the stars glitter, alien-bright. Something plucked from a dream, indeed.]