Clarity Moss
The most diligent of knights are constantly found polishing their weapons in the armory. Their greaves, their gauntlets, the spurs on the backs of their heels, all gleaming and pristine. It's what it means to be a knight of Alrest, and of the Tornan crest particularly.
Jin and Aegaeon are always there. They converse in short sentences, stableside philosophes, as the strokes of cloth and bone refine, refine, refine.
Others, like Haze and Brighid, are knights by title but in practicality keep much more attendant to their lieges. It's their garments that they launder, their hair that they pin. Rather than defending the people on quests of righteousness, they defend their appointed far beyond the call of responsibility - past duty, toward devotion.
Maybe it's a coincidence that these categories are divided by gender. Maybe it's not. If it's any consolation, Mythra, young and testy, is a fighter through and through, though largely lackadaisical, and Minoth...
Minoth is marked gallant and agile by even the most über-discerning of knights. He protects women and children. He converses with dignitaries in perfect rapport (unless there's a personal vendetta at play that foils him) and puts everyone just exactly as at ease or on edge as he deigns. His facility with daggers and with ether pistols is a single powerful instrument flown conduit through long, strong fingers that bear characteristic calluses from his more treasured hours spent with paper and pen.
(Yes, you'd believe that the odd duck would have a penchant for "authentic" quill and ink, but who has time for spills, when you're writing, writing, writing - and a masterpiece, at that?)
To be sure, Sir Minoth has a taste for fighting such as to render the pursuit a calling. If hobbies have flavors, fighting is certainly savory, except sometimes, when it's bitter-sour.
Writing is sweet. But also savory. Seasoned well, both the craft and the result bear every magnificent dimension of analogy in existence. It doesn't matter what he writes about; he's creating a story, foremost. Many of them. Each with its own wonderful charm.
But he cannot publish. He cannot share. For what would the people think, knowing that a knight derelicts himself from his post, travels and toils, to tell fables? Not worthy of the Tornan crest, he is. Not worthy of his lavish keep, he is. Let him go out and live on the streets, if that's what he so desires. If that's what he deserves.
It isn't right. It isn't done.
And Minoth does not want to live on the streets. Because Prince Addam lives in the castle, and Prince Addam is without a squire, and if Minoth could write himself a story wherein "my lord" and "my love" comingled, he could not contrive a neater circumstance.
Well. Neat in some sense of the word. But mostly, it's messy. The reason Addam doesn't have a squire is that his heritage isn't right. The reason Minoth already carries suspicion is that his heritage isn't known. At least they know where Addam came from, thereabouts. They've not the slighest about Minoth.
But...they do think he looks well in the Tornan armor, dark stars and thick, ribbed stripes. He looked well in the non-Tornan armor, too, once upon a time, but they couldn't say so, then. They can only just barely say so, now.
Minoth owns the same double-edged sword as his desired lord, when it comes to reputation. And so, if only...
Surely Addam would understand. Minoth is no pacifist, and neither is Addam. Occasionally, the prince is tasked with commanding the knights, and it's quite apparent in his uneasy yet broadly confident speech: he'll do what needs to be done, for people. Always for people.
Is Minoth not one of Addam's people?
(As if he doesn't want more than that. The singular, above all.)
Minoth might not aspire to be a diligent knight, but if he remains in the armory rather than shrinking back to his quarters, he will maintain a chance of happening across the prince - rather, the prince happening across him, oh so accidentally.
A turn of fate, it would be. Of all the things that make Minoth a wishful dreamer, one wouldn't expect "believing in signs" on the list. It's a little bit much, even for him. But, Minoth reasons, if I am a knight, and Addam is a prince, and the position is quite literally open, why shouldn't I...
Why shouldn't I?
He polishes his greaves in a fleur-de-lis pattern. Each swipe symmetrical. Two thumbs, to dot the middle with a perfect diamond. Smudge it up with the inkstain on the far edge of his left hand. Render again.
Jin and Aegaeon have both left, each casting Minoth a surreptitious eye, when he finally bores of the rag and decides to use his hair for its other convenient purpose, beyond getting in the way. Knights are also expected to maintain a consistent, seemly appearance, and Minoth's ponytail is not that, but as he's reasoned to himself, if the alternative to doing what he wants is doing what someone else wants him to do, which is all he's ever done, he might as well do what he wants. Not spite, just logic.
Through a curtain of hair, and muttered horse-breaths (plenty of embarrassing spitting noises to eject stray hair from his mouth, the works), he hears it- no, him:
"Hello?"
Any further embarrassment will not issue from the source of Minoth confusing that voice for another. It simply isn't possible, not considering how long he's been savoring its every word.
Minoth rakes his hair back as dignifiedly as possible, while still maintaining speed. "Apologies, my lord."
Addam looks royally confused. "For what? I've only just said hello."
"For, uh..." Minoth gestures, mislaid strands falling limp atop his bare crown.
(Addam's is bare too. Privately, Minoth has never liked the traditional circlet.)
"Oh, that." Addam smiles. "Not to worry. I like it."
Gulp. "You could- that is-- See more of it?"
Not even a sentence.
"Delighted."