"Oh! Well hello there, very tall dark and handsome. What can I call you~?" From Kiran to Micah, please!
Micah's large form towered over the other, but when he saw the laurel, the wings, the eyes and that hair, he felt so far beneath him he might as well have been the smaller. His gauntlets creaked, crystals forming on them in shimmery hues.
He could not be real. He was dead for long enough to be dust. And yet here was the perfect vision of him, a statue that he had studied and been held to for so many years that every line of that face was so perfectly etched into his face as it had been the stone. Kiran is smaller than he remembers.
What he says returns to him, and horror anew cascades across his face. "....Do not speak to me in that manner. Bite your tongue, Lafwyn of the Waning Dusk."