Timon of Athens

One might not think of Minoth as an especially tactile person. One might observe his stern affect, his perennially gloved hands, his penchant for shooting from a distance, and take these traitful signs all together to demonstrate that the Flesh Eater did not particularly value being present in the flesh, when it came to interacting person to person and people to people.

But Minoth made a point to write his stories down. He dug in the dirt, and he touched creepy-crawlies. He lived to reflect on bygone eras. He even wanted to move forward, arm in arm! He was - just as much as anyone - here, real, alive.

Lora's Blades were ethereal. Hugo's Blades were ephemeral. Addam had one up and one down.

And then there was Lord Addam Origo himself, the back-clapper to beat them all. Evidentially, he relished the time spent working with his hands, sharing and sharing alike.

Addam's somber moods were rare, but when they clouded, they surely clouded. The bastard prince's chin tipped down so far it almost rested on his chest.

Mythra steered clear. Lora looked doubtful, not feeling herself quite so ever-buoyant as she had once judged Addam. For Hugo, intercession wasn't even a question.

Enter Minoth to make rights of it, then. Imagine Minoth telling his newfound-oldsound Driver to buck up and keep his eye on the northern star. Imagine Minoth telling anyone that it'd all be alright, and the Architect was always looking out for them.

Hah. As if.

Minoth wasn't even sure he could act that plucky, let alone mean it. Being that what he truly couldn't do was abide Addam's bad mood, however, he did have to do something, and he did have a mind to make it fast.

So he grabbed Addam's chin and pulled him up, eyes to eyes.

"Hey. Snap out of it." (Thus proceeded the fingers of his free hand.) "I don't give up on me. You don't give up on you."

Addam spluttered.

"Believe in us. I do."