[RQ] down on copperline

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

The Gilded Market hums around him in that particular way only a place full of creation can; heat and noise layered into something almost alive, the steady rhythm of hammers striking metal threading through the air alongside the sharper hiss of quenching baths and the low murmur of bartered ideas. It’s a different sort of chaos than Torchline’s port, more deliberate, more contained, though no less vibrant for it, and Remi finds himself sitting within it with the quiet stillness of someone who doesn’t quite belong to the noise, but knows how to move through it all the same.

He has claimed a workbench near one of the larger forges, the kind that can withstand the particular demands of what he’s making, and though the guild provides more than enough tools, there are still pieces of himself in the setup; small adjustments, subtle placements, the quiet insistence of habit shaping space into something more familiar. A heavy pot rests within the forge’s heart, its contents glowing a molten orange that leans toward white at its hottest points, volcanic stone and metal alike reduced to something malleable, something willing to be remade. The heat rolls off it in steady waves, enough to prickle at his skin, though he hardly seems to notice.

What he does notice, in the spaces between movements, is absence. It lingers in the way his shoulders sit a touch more forward than they might otherwise, in the way his fingers pause briefly against the half-formed saddle tree before continuing their work, as if memory alone might bridge the distance between here and the Northaven. He can almost feel the weight of one of the twins tucked against his chest, the soft, unsteady rhythm of new life breathing against him, and for a moment his hand stills entirely, thumb brushing absently along the curve of the wood as though it might have been a small back beneath his palm instead.

A breath leaves him, quiet and measured, and his free hand lifts to drag through his curls, pushing them back from his face before he leans in again, refocusing.

The saddle tree in his lap is already an intricate thing, its structure far from ordinary woodwork. Thin channels have been carved with deliberate precision along its frame, each one designed to hold the magic he’s threading into it now. Rather than brute force, Remi works with a careful patience, fingers guiding rather than pressing, coaxing the enchantment into place as though it were something alive that needed convincing rather than command. The intent is simple in theory—adaptability, a shifting form that will mould itself to whatever creature bears it—but the execution requires a balance that leaves little room for error. Too rigid, and it will fail its purpose; too fluid, and it will lack the stability Colt will need.

He adjusts the angle of a small metal brace, holding it steady as the magic settles into the carved lines, the material responding with a faint shimmer that disappears almost as soon as it appears. It’s subtle work, the sort that demands attention rather than spectacle, and it suits him far more than the roaring forge at his side, though that, too, waits for him.

The cannonballs will require something harsher. His gaze flicks briefly toward the molten mixture, watching the slow churn of liquified stone and metal as it folds into itself, heavy and dangerous in a way that feels at odds with the quieter creation resting in his hands. There’s a tension in that contrast—between destruction and utility, between what he builds to protect and what he builds that will inevitably be used to harm—and it settles somewhere deep in his chest, not sharp enough to disrupt him, but present all the same.

---

5. Complete a thread having the materials from 4 created into cannonballs by a member of the Gilded Market. 4 Must be completed first.

The Bastion

COLT

Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day

A chilled bottle of champagne knocks against the worktable as Colt sets it down. Condensation rolls rapidly down the smooth edge, hesitating only briefly at the label before plummeting to pool at the base. ”We’re celebrating,” she informs him by way of greeting, two glasses that are a far cry from flutes joining the arrangement. ”I heard that you have two lovely boys.” It’s spoken with the gentle pride of someone who is holding the success of someone else, one who well deserves it.

She props her elbows up on the back of the table, leaning in just a touch, his expertly made wig shifting down over her shoulders with the angle. ”And I, am moving.” One is surely more worthy than the other, even with how oversimplified hers is. Behind her, a toe crosses over behind a heel, her comfort sprawling out with an undeserved familiarity, but one she takes anyway.

Eager eyes have already swept across the work he’s got in hand, including the curious roil of shiny soup, but her gaze greedily returns to the base of her commission. ”That’s turning out real nice,” she remarks, voice hushing into something awed. ”You always do such fantastic work, although I don’t know how you have the patience.” Colt does best when she is fighting something, and while undoubtedly Remi has had some quarrels already with work, his is one usually self-made. Colt fights herself plenty without needing it to be her job.

It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

Remi’s attention lifts at the soft knock of glass against wood, his gaze flicking first to the bottle, then to Colt, one brow arching before the other follows in quiet surprise. The condensation tracing its way down the champagne catches the light in a way that feels almost indulgent against the grit and heat of the forge, and it draws from him a soft, boyish huff of a laugh that he doesn’t quite try to hide.

"That’s very kind of you," he says, the warmth in his voice settling easily into the space between them as he dips his head in a small nod of thanks, one hand still braced lightly against the saddle tree. "They were... quite the surprise. To us, at least." The corner of his mouth lifts a fraction more as he draws his hand briefly through his curls, the gesture smoothing back heat-damp strands as memory catches up with him. "Mateo and Flora had it all worked out well before we did, so luckily we were not entirely blindsided."

At her next admission, his attention sharpens, curiosity settling into the lift of his brows as he glances over his shoulder properly this time, turning just enough to face her without abandoning his place at the bench. "Oh?" he prompts, the single syllable carrying an open invitation for her to elaborate. "That is nearly just as big of a change."

The forge crackles beside him, and the shift in its tone draws him back just long enough to reach out and make a small adjustment, the heat responding with a subtle change that he seems to feel more than hear. The molten mixture settles into a steadier churn, and only then does he gesture lightly toward the saddle resting between them, his fingers hovering rather than touching.

"I took the liberty of adjusting the seat and the fenders as well," he adds, his gaze flicking briefly to her before settling back on the piece. "So not only will it fit any mount, but it should adapt to any rider, too." His thumb brushes once along the edge of the saddle tree, a small, absent motion, before his hand falls away again. "I hope that is alright."

The Bastion

COLT

Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day

If she always got such a greeting for carting around some drink she'd make a habit of doing it more often, but then not everyone is half the man Remi is. Utterly pleased with herself, her smile stretches out rapid and long, and she dips her head deeply as if she has indeed done him the greatest service. Given how little she has to her name right now, that's not too far off the mark.

Laughter creeps into the corners of her eyes as she works the cork free, her head inclined towards him and his words. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest," she hums, pressure giving in to the insistence of her thumb, the champagne popping open. "They're quite sharp, and that is always how it goes with children and their parents, isn't it?" She wouldn't know, personally, but at a certain point you teach them less than they teach you. It's the same with all manner of parenting and young. Perhaps that's why she struggles to learn certain things still.

Pouring the sparkling drink into their ramshackle glasses, she extends one to him with a nod. "Mmhmm, especially considering why and where." As good a fish story as any, she reckons. "Everything burned down last season, on my ranch." She doesn't brace to say it like she used to, not because it weighs less on her or it's any easier, but there's something to saying it enough by this point that it's worn a trail through her heart. She's also made too many moves forward at this point to pretend there's anything worth looking back at. "Everything," she stresses with a flick of her gaze from the rise of bubbles to him. She keeps hold of him as she lifts her glass to her lips, drinking slowly.

It helps to not let herself lie down in the ashes, to keep her mind full of possibilities instead of memories. Easier said than done, based on her habits, but she's been keeping busy enough as late to tire body and mind each night, leaving no room for ghosts to linger as they once did so freely. There is no routine left for her these days, which makes her hard to track, and equally as hard for sour thoughts to sneak up and find her. "I'm going to try and turn Hak Etme into someplace worth living, hole up there instead." It's not an idea anymore, not a dream. It's hardly done, but it's in motion, and it seems it'll either carry her or bury her.

While he fiddles with fire she shifts, gliding off the table, drink still in hand, and curling around to the edge of the saddle in making. She leans down to properly inspect it's details and curves, glancing up when he explains with a splay of his hands. "More than alright," she commends as she rises back to full height, her expression brightening, grateful for his keen hands and thoughtful approach to what he touches. "That's even better'n what I hoped for. It'll mean a lot. I don't have enough supplies left, so I need what I got to be versatile."

Lifting her attention over the saddle tree to the melting pot, her brows lift. "Multi-tasking it looks like?" Unless he also meant to pour that over the saddle, in which case she might end up having some opinions after all. "Or maybe you just do everything in twos now."

It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

The sharp pop of the cork earns another soft sound of amusement from Remi, something low and easy in his chest as though the small celebration has slipped neatly into the rhythm of the forge without disrupting it. He inclines his head with a kind of good-natured surrender, one corner of his mouth lifting as he accepts the truth of it without much resistance. "Mm, I am quite sure all of my children are far more clever than I am," he says, the admission light but not insincere, his fingers brushing briefly through his curls again before he reaches out to take the glass she offers.

The weight of it settles into his hand, cool against skin still warmed by the forge, and as she begins her explanation his brows lift slightly, the shape of it already familiar; the way she dangles a statement just enough to invite curiosity before delivering the truth beneath it. He nods once, a quiet encouragement for her to continue, his attention settling fully on her now. When she that everything burned, everything's gone, his movement stills almost imperceptibly, the glass hovering just shy of his lips. There’s no sharp intake of breath, no immediate reach to close the distance between them, only a subtle shift in the way he holds himself, as though he’s listening not just to the words but to the spaces around them, to the path they’ve worn through her already.

He tips his head slightly, thoughtful rather than reactive, and only then does he take a slow sip of the champagne, letting it linger for a moment before lowering the glass again. "You know," he begins, his voice gentler now, but steady, "Ronin and I have had to start over... gods, more than a handful of times." His thumb traces idly along the rim of the glass as he speaks, not quite looking away from her but not pinning her in place with it either. "Hard as it is, there can be parts of it that feel..almost cathartic. Stripping things back to nothing, and choosing again what’s worth building."

A small smile follows, warmer now, touched through with something quietly fond. "He will be sad to hear it, though," Remi adds, the humour returning in a soft, familiar thread. "There was a time he would take his dragon shift out into the dunes and turn the sand into glass when he was particularly angry." The image seems to settle comfortably in him, and he lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound carrying more affection than anything else.

Her approval of the saddle draws his attention back, and he inclines his head again, this time with a flicker of something a touch more satisfied, though he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly over his shoulder toward the forge, the molten mixture rolling steadily within its confines, before he glances back to her, something a little more playful lighting his expression. "Ah, you should leave the dad jokes to me ," he says before lifting his glass slightly in a small, teasing gesture before letting it fall again, his free hand moving to make a minor adjustment to the heat, the flames responding with a subtle shift.

"Torchline is in the middle of completing an RQ," he continues, nodding faintly toward the churning metal. "I am making cannonballs for a magical cannon that will be set along the docks."

The Bastion

COLT

Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day

She thought the glimmer of an apology, that subtle flickering of remorse trying to rise on her behalf, was the worst thing anyone could give her. She’d been wrong. Hearing him soften into understanding, watching the way he gathers, careful and deliberate, to trace the shape of it without making it plain, that does her in more readily than anything before. It’s nothing he does incorrectly, quite the opposite. He doesn’t brush past it, as she has tried to do time and again. He doesn’t fumble with it, as so many tilted frowns and sympathies have done. He presses in on the space around it, known and steady, and it flows down into the new angle of weight. It’s too built up still to have dispersed fully, and that might always be true, resurfacing years from now with some unexpected trigger. Less a sign of failure than love, and grief nothing more than its continuation, and for that she’s certain there’s no possible end.

In response, it wells up in the shape of tears, her next blink wet and salted. She slides her gaze away, ducking behind her glass and willing nothing more than what the air could dry. She promised herself no more, the champagne an attempt to keep that. ”Does it get easier?” she asks, the practical curiosity of someone trying to find the border of hurt, and cross it. If anyone would know it, she’s sure it would be him. Surely her loss appears insignificant in the face of everything he’s held and had torn away, though he doesn’t treat it as such.

”The starting over?” She glances back, once it feels safe enough to see him again, convinced the thickening of her voice can be passed off as she clears her throat, as if the drink’s dryness is all there is to blame. She’s not foolish enough to think it works, but for her sake, she sticks to the possibility of surviving the charade. ”Do you ever regret it?” That comes out softer, almost shy, as if she knows better than to wonder at it. Absently, her finger drums around the glass, ring faintly clicking against it.

She has rebuilt before, but this is probably her first real time starting over. She’s held on so tightly to everything behind her that the lightness now feels entirely unsettling in a way she pretends is fine, shaping it into something more romantic, like freedom. She’s turning into wind, but does it ever worry that it can’t keep a grip on anything, that it’s not enough, the way that she does?

Tried and true, she exhales from the corner of her mouth, tipping back a bigger swig of celebration, hoping it’d be enough to drown what’s trying to run over. ”I’ll be sure to save a section for him,” she remarks with a humor that is not false, even if it rolls in easy, too easy after. ”Especially if he can make anything nice out of it. I wouldn’t mind a sculpture for the front yard.” She tilts her head, mouth twitching. ”Front dune?” she tries instead, before yielding with a shrug.

Attention shifts, willing to catch on anything external like it could be a foothold. So his work draws her in, sincere with the appreciation of things she doesn’t understand, at least not the creation. It’s perhaps the last form of magic they all can share equally, the ability to turn a profession’s day-to-day into a novelty, a rarity, an excitement for someone else. Art and expertise have ever been the true power of the world. ”It sure seems like you’re having a blast,” she remarks with no hidden amusement around the rim of her glass as she brings it back to her lips, a smile biting into the edge before the alcohol turns it down.

”I appreciate you finding time to fit my request in then,” she murmurs, aware that the requirements of his region would be high on the list, and his life busy with newborns, among other things. ”I can always trust your work. The wig is still holding up perfectly.” Her own hair has begun to regrow, but not enough that she’d go without his addition yet.

It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

As the emotion crests across her features, Remi does not look away, not in the sharp, reflexive way that might suggest discomfort or pity, though neither does he hold her too firmly in his gaze. Instead, his attention softens, shifting just enough that she might feel the space to have the moment without the added weight of being watched too closely, his presence remaining steady and unflinching all the same. There is no rush in him to fill the silence, no attempt to smooth over what rises; he simply lets it exist, as it is, between them.

Her question draws a quiet breath from him, something measured and thoughtful, and when his seaglass gaze returns it does so without hesitation. "Yes," he answers simply, a small nod following as though to ground the truth of it before anything else can complicate it. His fingers settle lightly against the edge of the worktable, the glass still held loosely in his other hand. "But, for me at least...there is always a piece that stays behind." His shoulder lifts in a faint shrug, the motion unassuming. "Each time I have left somewhere, it has been easy at the start to let my mind linger there, to wander down the paths I might have taken instead, or the ones I wish I had." There is no sharpness in the admission, only a quiet acceptance, worn smooth with time. "You visit less, as the days pass. Life has a way of insisting on that. But…" another small shrug follows, softer this time, "a little part of me has always remained, in all of those places."

When she asks if he regrets it, his gaze does not shift, and what rests there is neither heavy nor evasive, but something steadier, more honest for its lack of adornment. He inclines his head once, the answer given without hesitation. "Yes," he says, and though the word is simple, it carries its own weight. "Some of them, I do." The moment does not linger overly long in the heaviness of it, not because he avoids it, but because he allows it to settle where it belongs, neither pushed away nor drawn out further than it needs to be. At the mention of Ronin, a softer sound escapes him, something brighter this time, threaded with fondness that comes easily despite everything else.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting as he tilts his head slightly, mischief glinting faintly in his expression. "Ever since he ruled Stormbreak, he has been quietly convinced the world would benefit from a rather large statue of himself. There was even some discussion of it being entirely in the nude." The grin that follows is warmer, edged with amusement. "Though I suppose it would make quite the landmark."

He casts Colt a dry look at her pun, one that carries the humour forward without pressing it too hard, before turning back toward the forge. The molten mixture has reached its readiness, and without ceremony he sets his glass aside, reaching instead for the heavy pot. Where it might have taken several sets of hands to manage, he lifts it alone, the motion controlled and precise as he carries it the short distance to a row of moulds. The liquid metal pours in a slow, glowing stream, each cavity filling with quiet purpose, the heat radiating outward in waves that curl against his skin without drawing so much as a flinch.

Only once the last mould has been filled does he set the pot back into place, adjusting it with a small movement before turning once more toward Colt, his expression settling again into something easy. His gaze flicks briefly to her hair, and a quiet chuckle follows, softer now, but no less genuine. "It still looks good," he says, the compliment offered without fanfare, as though it were simply another small truth to be acknowledged alongside all the others.

The Bastion

COLT

Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day

Although he doesn’t ask her too in any manner of his response, she still does her best to hide the open display of something still trying to heal. Even she isn’t sure which she prefers, the open indifference, suggesting there’s no shame to crying, that it’s as ordinary and as acceptable as any other expression. Or the quiet privacy afforded by turning away, to let someone fall apart and pick themselves back up on their own time, without the pressure of a gaze and all the unsaid things that sit behind it. Her answer would change on any given day, maybe a few times in the same one. Today, now, she’s grateful that he just sits with it alongside her, patient in a way so few are. He’s about the equivalent of Caido’s tissue though, having soaked up and listened to many a tear fall.

The chance to let it breathe for a moment allows her to push it back down, like the grief just needed a new lungful of air before descending for another span of time where she could imagine she’s over it and fine. Sniffling once, a betrayal of composure, she keys in on what he says instead of what she feels, and tries not to let the two blend too closely. ”Do you feel the space where all those pieces were, or do they fill in with something new?” She genuinely doesn’t know. Is the loss like a limb, or a cut? Is he missing part of himself, or is he made into something more than he ever would have been in one spot? Maybe it could be both.

Her head tilts up when he answers her with a truth she can appreciate. One she expected, even. Her gaze leaves him to trail the edge of thoughts, ever floating somewhere above. ”I could always start over in King’s End. Or somewhere more established.” She’s talking to him, although it hardly seems it, this conversation one she’s said aloud plenty, as if reasoning it out with fate. ”Might be smarter. Might regret it less.” She glances back towards him suddenly, mouth pursed over breath, it’s steady inhaled taken before she continues. ”Might regret it more, too.” That’s where it’s a gamble, even if she never meant to place any bets.

A shrug then, removing the weight like it’s always been a choice. ”Guess I’ll find out.” She’d not be trying to do both, of that she’s certain. Really, has already set her path, and it doesn’t seem worth glancing back anymore, not unless she always intends to hold knives at their tip.

She slides into the humor easy. She wants it to be. ”Although I’m sure he deserves it,” she hums, lips twitching as her head tilts, angling the way things settle inside her with the motion. ”I rather had in mind something more…artistic.” Remi might find Ronin’s nude body to be a piece of art, but Colt could do without such a cockadoodle do every morning.. ”A horse maybe. Could be his dragon form even.” Her laugh flutters light and simple again, as if there’d never been a hiccup. ”Maybe he crafts his likeness and carts it home to you. I’ll suggest that next I see him.”

Straightening a touch as he gets into the trenches of his work, craning to see around him and watch. She knows better than to offer help with no strength to it, so she does the best thing she can and stays out of his way, providing no distractions. It’s fascinating, watching him so casually work with the weight and the heat.

When he finishes, her eyes are alight with the wonder of it. Blinking away the wide frame of them as she runs a free hand through the wig hair. It teases through her fingers easy and falls back in small strands against her shoulder. Sipping at the liquid celebration once more, she swings the topic away from herself, aware that they’ve barely scratched the surface of his reasons for the drink. ”Well, I’ve talked far too much about myself. Tell me about your boys. What’re their names?”

It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

Remi’s shoulders rise and fall in a quiet breath as he returns his attention to the saddle, his hands resuming their careful work along the tooling with the same steady precision as before, though there is a softness to his focus now, shaped by the conversation rather than interrupted by it. He does not rush to answer her, not out of reluctance, but because the truth of it settles slowly, like something that has been lived rather than decided.

"Some days I feel them more than others," he says at last, his voice gentle but unvarnished, the honesty in it left exactly as it is. His thumb traces along the edge of the leather before pressing lightly into place."But no..they do not really fill in." There is no attempt to soften it further, no dressing it into something easier to hold, and perhaps that is the kindness in it; the refusal to offer comfort that would not last. "You simply..learn the shape of it."

He exhales quietly through his nose, the faintest hint of a smile returning as he glances up at her again, one brow lifting just slightly. "They do say something about regretting the big swings you did not take, rather than the safe choices you did," he adds, the words carrying the shape of a well-worn thought, though not an empty one. "I know that it sounds like the sort of thing people say to make themselves feel better, but.."” a small shrug follows, easy and unforced, "I think there is some truth in it."

The forge draws him back again, and he steps away just long enough to tend to the moulds, lifting the pot once more with that same effortless strength, the molten mixture pouring in smooth, glowing arcs as he fills what remains. The heat flares briefly, then settles, and as he sets the pot back into place, her suggestion pulls a quiet laugh from him. "Well, technically he is naked in his dragon form," Remi says, glancing over his shoulder with a crooked, boyish grin that sits easily on him, lightening the air without forcing it. "So I suppose that will do."

He turns back to the saddle then, finishing the last of the adjustments with a few final, deliberate movements, before her question shifts something in him entirely. The change is immediate, unmistakable; not louder, not grander, but warmer, brighter, as though something within him has opened without hesitation. "We were torn, at first," he says, the smile settling more fully now, unguarded in a way few things manage. "Between the names Carlo and Calan." The names rest differently in his mouth, one softened by the travelling tongue, the other shaped more musically; one name clearly better suited to his accent, and one to Ronin's. "So having twins made that decision quite simple."

There is a soft breath of something like quiet wonder as he sets his tools aside, his hands resting briefly against the edge of the table. "So far," he continues, his brows lifting slightly, humour threading easily through the affection, "unless they are pressed right up against one another, all they seem to do is cry." The corner of his mouth tugs upward again, something dry but fond in the expression. "And if you are tempted to say it is because they are twins.." His gaze flicks back to her, playful now, though still warm. "I do not remember Flora and Enzo ever being like this." The difference of course being that Remi hadn't been the one to raise them.

The Bastion

COLT

Always comes back around to simple things
A song you know from the past coming on
A drink in your glass at the end of the day

Bubbles rise slowly, decorating the glass in her hand in little, edible sequins. She watches them climb, because that’s an easier thing to focus on than the truth Remi sets loose. She had asked, but she regrets it now, because despite herself, some small part had hoped he’d tell her something new. Not a lie, but a secret she never knew about before. That yes, there is some way to recover yourself, be made whole again, and she just had been doing it wrong all this time. ”Mm,” is all she manages before finishing her glass in one quick motion. ”I hope the shape settles soon.”

Seems either way there might end up being some regret, so in true fashion of how she handles other things in life, she figures she might as well go big, full send it. ”I think there is too,” she adds softly, something firmer finding its place on her expression. A decision made, again maybe, but reaffirmed.

The look he tossed her over his shoulder speaks to a younger man, one who’s more whole, just for a moment. Maybe that’s the secret. To find and grab hold of happiness where you can, enough so that things once considered lost, might just prove to be misplaced. A little buried, a little bent, but still present. Or at least, the negative space of them lets them flash into existence every so often. Colt can’t help the quick laugh in response, one palm held up in surrender. ”Naked dragon it is.”

Something completely easy winds through her now as she watches him glow in a way that has nothing to do with the forges nearby. Her smile stretches out, fond for the sight of someone so changed by love, for the better. ”So really, you two had twins because that was easier than making a decision?” she teases, before repeating the names to herself to ensure she keeps hold of them. ”Carlo and Calan.” Lacking any of his lilt, they still sound pleasant, and she’s pleased with the roll of them on her tongue.

As for the crying, she helpfully (?) points out, ”horses get like that sometimes. Call it buddy sour.” Although these are babies, they might be horses too. ”Are they Attuned?” Even so, she doubts he’d like the way they fix it.

It's the sound of the rain coming down
It's a call from a friend that you love
All the time you can waste
Trying to chase what you'll never need

oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile

The image earns a quiet, breath-warmed chuckle from Remi, the thought of a vast, naked dragon standing sentinel over the dunes settling somewhere between ridiculous and strangely fitting. He lets it linger for a second, the corner of his mouth lifting as though he can already hear whatever commentary would follow such a thing into existence. A softer snicker follows her teasing, his shoulders lifting in an easy shrug as he glances back toward her with a boyish sort of grin that sits lightly on him. "It does seem to have worked out rather well," he admits as though he has no intention of arguing with the outcome.

He nods as she repeats their names, the sound of them spoken back without his accent earning a faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. The mention of horses, however, draws a small furrow into his brow, his head tilting as he considers it with a seriousness that suggests he is, at least for a moment, genuinely entertaining the comparison. "Buddy sour," he repeats softly, as though testing the phrase against what he knows of them, the idea settling somewhere uncertain. At her question, he shakes his head gently. "I do not think so. If they were, we would be able to speak to them through the Attuned bond." His lips press together briefly, the thought turning over once more before he adds, with a faint lift of his brows, "Though perhaps they are simply exceptionally good at ignoring us."

Another small shrug follows, lighter this time, his tone easing back into something more certain. "I suspect they are Accepted. Enzo’s magic showed itself in small ways even when he was very young, and I have seen nothing like that from either of them. Nor with Flora, or Mateo."

He leans back slightly then, letting his gaze travel over the saddle in full, his eyes narrowing just a touch as he inspects the final details. His fingers move in small, precise adjustments—nothing structural now, only the refinement of what is already sound—before he finally stills, drawing in a quiet breath as though settling the work in his mind. "It could still use a generous amount of oil," he says, glancing up to Colt with a soft, satisfied smile beginning to form, "to make the leather properly supple, but.." He trails off, the rest left unspoken, his expression doing the work for him. It was finished.

The forge hisses faintly behind him, and that sound pulls his attention back over his shoulder, a sharper breath leaving him this time. "Ah—" His tone shifts just enough to mark the urgency. "I had better finish the cannonballs before they begin to crack." He reaches for his glass, lifting it briefly toward her in a small, deliberate toast, the warmth from earlier returning easily. "Good luck," he says, the words simple but meant, his gaze steady on Colt's. "If anyone can tame a desert, I think it would be you."

So saying, he turns back to his work, setting the glass aside as he begins to nudge the newly formed cannonballs from their moulds, smoothing away imperfections with careful, practiced hands while the last of the heat still clings to them.


~FIN

The Bastion