Mikheil is a broad-shouldered human man with the compact strength of someone accustomed to carrying sacks, buckets, and sleeping children rather than training for tournaments. He moves with a careful, almost domestic quiet, placing each foot as if the floor might be occupied by a sleeping animal. His dark hair curls tightly at the temples and is usually tied with a faded blue thread. His hands are rough, square, and permanently scented with bay leaf, lamp oil, and iron. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice that he rarely looks directly at whoever is speaking. Instead, his eyes travel to door hinges, unattended cups, roof beams, and the hands of everyone in the room. The unexpected contradiction is that this wary observer blushes violently when praised, then becomes almost painfully earnest about denying that he did anything brave.