in consequence, and so on

Mikhail had seen a lot of ungroomed, unkept people in his short time living on and around Alrest. He had seen people with green teeth, and orange stains, and purple bruises (many of those, so many). He had seen hair short and long, straight and curly, thick and thin, brittle and greasy. Usually, it wasn't particularly clean, and not always due to lack of resources.

His current traveling companions, by contrast, were exceedingly well-groomed, even when they were dirty from the day's travels. Lora's rat tail was far from ratty. Haze's braids were never uneven. Jin, Mikhail was sure, never even had to touch his hair to keep it perfect.

(Perhaps after Lora and Haze had gotten done periodically pawing through it. Perhaps, however, they left it better than they found it, at such times.)

It wasn't a question of poverty, and lording this over that. Lora and her family were simply people whose flaws didn't expose themselves to you on the surface, and when they proved to be remarkably good people all round, it went to show that while beauty can be merely skin-deep, it can also shine out from within, causing what you see by dint of what you can only hear and feel.

So Mikhail felt safe around these people. He felt safe enough around Addam as well, whose hair was often tousled but whose boisterous princely personality would at all hours be desperately damned if it wasn't shining clear through. Addam's ward, Milton, had a grin as wide as the day was long, and every freckle put you more and more at ease. Put Mik, any. And Mik, for once, didn't mind being put, by and with Milton.

Mythra was more perfect even than Jin and Haze (in a sort of objective sense; of course Mikhail liked Jin best), tipping forward into a strange new realm of human flaws and neurodivergences never before seen. If nothing else were coming down the pike to prove that appearances aren't everything, there certainly was the Aegis, to show it.

But then it came to Minoth. Minoth, who appeared out of nowhere. Minoth, who must have had some kind of ulterior motives, no? Minoth, who looked like every suspect character Mikhail had ever learned to gauge for harm. Minoth, who wasn't planned upon and apparently didn't need to be.

Mikhail didn't like Minoth. He told Milton as much, and Milton yawned in that carefree way of his and said that it was the lot of the young folk not to be told anything, according to those who might still be kids but were on paper at least a little bit older (and just how old was that Ardainian emperor, again?).

Mikhail didn't need to be told that. He'd already had more than his fair share of witness to screaming matches that ended with chairs flying and doors breaking and people fleeing and, at the end of it, the lonely boy hiding in the closet being told that he'd a new master, now, and hadn't he better get used to it?

It was the lot of young folk, thus far, to be used. And so, Mikhail didn't very much like Minoth, who talked like he was an open secret but walked like he was quite firmly closed.

Except for that bang. Except for that single lock of ashy brown hair that dangled and swung and danced every time Minoth spun on his heel and posed his guns like they were roses to fling, the beat of a song that hurt too much to sing.

Mikhail wasn't yet old enough to irritatedly shove a hand back through his own combed-back bangs and make sure all were in order. By the time he was, he had seen just exactly the same abuses Minoth had, arrived to the same place by a much differently-paced route.

Minoth had walked outside the boundaries; perhaps by accident, and perhaps on purpose. Minoth had tethered himself back in by way of Addam, who went easy, and let him.

And if Mikhail had to pick one of 4058's heroes to tie himself back to, well, he'd pick the prince who did everything chest-first and was just a little bit too quick and clean to be any normal human. Anyone would do; he'd sworn that. Nothing like continuing a little bit of tradition, though.

"My ancestor, the great Addam Origo-" the prince of today (Torna, Tantal) would start, and Mikhail would cut Zeke off with a flick of his finger to the right side of his forehead.

"I met him. He wasn't that great."

Nothing can ever happen twice.

"I dare say I'd call you great, though, huh, Ozychlyrus ?"

The use of given name, here, lay second to insult. Zeke adjusted his posture and fired back, "Trying to win the Zekenator with backhanded compliments? Pah!"

Addam was humble. Zeke is not humble.

Minoth was humble. Mikhail...is not.

It all came back to that jaunty, crunchy bang. That bit of asymmetry (such as what dangled from Mik's left hip) that simultaneously betrayed and belied the calming storm within.

Maybe it made those who wanted to assume - and not only always maliciously so! some were just grasping for a barometer of any kind - think of the bearer as a bit of an offhand shyster, the flavor of trying to be dangerous and ending up so in a dangerous way.

"Just a bit of inconsequential admiration for those who've crossed between the poles, my prince."