what a handsome beast you are

He's not sure whether he's awake or dreaming, genuinely. Not necessarily that a sight like this could only be the stuff of dreams, for Alrest is a place where the defiance of logic regularly ensues and asserts, but rather...

Addam's not a pragmatist. Not like Minoth. No, no, he's much closer to happy-go-lucky, and in the grand scheme of things really just a normal person, with normal fears (for the worldstate of Alrest, anyway). They all are: him, Lora, Hugo. All not quite like caricatures, and all the better for it.

When Addam gets his mind in to acting clown about something, he's quite good, bloody brilliant, at it. He can be a jokester or a stern face, and people believe him, because why shouldn't the Lord of Aletta be whatever he says? A stereotype, and very plain to see.

When Addam hasn't been the one to decide what it is that's going on, however, he gets dreadfully off-balance.

Just now, the moor is rolling underneath his feet, threatening pitch and mirth. The mud after a rain clings wetly to his pristine white clogs even now, making him wish in a new and peculiar way that he was just that little bit more rugged. More like Lora, less like Hugo. Somehow even Hugo's hardier than him...

It's sunny, though. Removed from the cut of Torna's ribs through the light, Addam has no choice but to squint. A cold sun, but it is there.

And Minoth is there, tending an Armu. Laughing, even. The sun has likely made the crown of his head warm, strands lying flat as signature spiky ponytail appears nowhere to be found. Again squinting, Addam can make out the telltale red stripe of elastic inadvisably stretched around the Flesh Eater's tanned left wrist.

(That's a point for dream logic: even though ambidextrous, Minoth has a preference for tying up his hair with dominant right side, which hand is busy stroking hide.)

What could he be saying to the poor cow? What is it about those beasts that makes Minoth so inclined to sympathize?

They do tend to get lost very often...

Oh boy.

He walks closer, grimacing at the attendant squelch.

Minoth looks up. His smile is beautiful. In every way, Addam has to admit.

"Alright there, Minoth?"

"Can't complain, Addam."

Addam gestures. "And this one?"

Minoth pats the animal's hindquarters. "Right at home."

The happiness living in absent furrows of dark brows defies cool afternoon's impersonality. If it were a dream, Addam would ask, and be woken up.

"I..." Minoth looks on, politely and patently interested. So gentle. So strong. So devoted. "May I kiss you?"

Melancholy's grin doesn't crack so much as slyly bloom; pure, nuanced reality.

"That'd suit me just fine."

So handsome. Admirable. He bore intimacy well.