These are the last blues we're ever gonna have
The market is alive with the pulse of Flowerbirth—warm, humid air thick with the scent of salt and citrus, voices rising and falling in an easy rhythm as merchants call out their wares. Brightly coloured stalls are stacked high with baskets of fresh fruit, glistening fish packed in crushed ice, and bolts of fabric dyed in hues that match the sea. It’s familiar, steady, the kind of predictable chaos that keeps Remi grounded despite the way his heart hammers in his chest every second that he's away from Ronin.
But today the usual hum of the market feels more like background noise. His attention is divided, hands moving on instinct as he selects a few ripe mangoes, a bundle of fresh herbs, and a wedge of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. He murmurs quick thanks to the vendors as he exchanges payment, his sea-glass gaze flickering up every so often, scanning the crowd. Sunjata had been vague in his letter—urgent, but not explicit—and while that in itself wasn’t unusual, it left a coil of tension wound tight beween Remi’s ribs. He didn’t like being away from Ronin longer than necessary, not now, not with grief still gnawing at the edges of his husband’s every breath. If this was something important, though, something that warranted a private meeting, then it was better to get it done as quickly as possible.
Adjusting the strap of the woven bag over his shoulder, Remi moves toward a stall selling fresh bread, the scent warm and inviting. His fingers drum absently against the wooden counter as he makes his selection, but his eyes are on the crowd, scanning for a familiar, too-tall figure amid the press of people.
But today the usual hum of the market feels more like background noise. His attention is divided, hands moving on instinct as he selects a few ripe mangoes, a bundle of fresh herbs, and a wedge of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. He murmurs quick thanks to the vendors as he exchanges payment, his sea-glass gaze flickering up every so often, scanning the crowd. Sunjata had been vague in his letter—urgent, but not explicit—and while that in itself wasn’t unusual, it left a coil of tension wound tight beween Remi’s ribs. He didn’t like being away from Ronin longer than necessary, not now, not with grief still gnawing at the edges of his husband’s every breath. If this was something important, though, something that warranted a private meeting, then it was better to get it done as quickly as possible.
Adjusting the strap of the woven bag over his shoulder, Remi moves toward a stall selling fresh bread, the scent warm and inviting. His fingers drum absently against the wooden counter as he makes his selection, but his eyes are on the crowd, scanning for a familiar, too-tall figure amid the press of people.
the glow of the cities below lead us back to the places that we never should have left
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
