Titus Andronicus

As Blades go, Minoth's not particularly fantastical. It's been said more than once, and it'll be said many more times again. He basically looks just like a human, as does Jin, except for the just-a-bit-too-oddly-bright glow of his eyes, keened and hungry, wilder than a wolf. His armor is clothing, simple leather and studs, except for the twin circles on his back that flash hot and volatile, like windows to the soul or maybe just eyes half again through the back of his head.

They don't all have to be crazy. They don't all have to be wild. Maybe it's an evolutionary thing. Maybe it's yet to be blamed on the Praetorium, and an overexertion of Judician study.

When he's with Addam, however, Minoth feels fantastical. He can sense his senses testing, tightening and sharpening, besting themselves up in a bitter feedback loop. The difference between ether-driven affinities blue and gold, he'd never known. Never had the chance. Never known he might want to.

But it's here, now.

Legs stretched out to their ends of length, jacket rippling over beating heart in chest. Dual guns glowing, gilded, pose; dual knives flipped all the way around to out and fanned. Hair long and lustrous, set loose and free, tied up by that red string of fate (with one lock, as ever, jumping its way free). The banners on his back flow more gratuitously than they ever have, ribbons of justice and compassion to suit the warrior in his everest-soled boots and gleaming gauntlet gloves.

Minoth might be famously pensive, but he's never kept his eyes closed through this much choreography, for this much ceremony and circumstance all adorned with pomp. The transformation takes him, bears him under hold, suspends gravity that he might tilt upside down without a beast in the slaying to make up for it.

Addam had thought Minoth beautiful just as unremarkable (ha) as he was. This, however, has him entranced, transfixed, fictitious.

He's real, though - and magic to the touch.