let's not get lost in the dark blue
The Greatwood hums with life around him, leaves whispering with the touch of an unseen breeze, the thick scent of damp earth and growing things wrapping around his senses. Remi walks with his wings tucked in tightly, their broad span a quiet weight against his back. Despite the soft rustle of foliage underfoot, his steps are soundless, absorbed into the endless hush of the forest that he'd called his home once upon a time.
He's here on a task—one given by Mort himself—but his heart isn't in it, not fully. There's an edge of quiet desperation threading through his actions as he scans the ground, the winding paths, the underbrush, hoping—stupidly, desperately—that maybe he’ll just find the flower outright. Maybe Vi will take pity on him. Maybe something, for once, will just be easy.
But no. No rose petals catch his eye, no miracle blooms in his path. Just dappled sunlight, the shifting sway of the canopy, and the ever-present ache in his chest.
Sighing, Remi shifts his attention to the village as he nears its heart. For a moment, he nearly misses Maea. Not because she isn’t noticeable—gods, if anything, the pale glow of her hair against the lush green makes her stand out—but because she’s hardly taller than the fae themselves. A small figure slumped onto a bench, burdened by something unseen.
Adjusting his wings slightly, he approaches, his steps quiet as ever. "Maea?" She was one of the last people he'd thought to find here, but then again it wasn't as though he was the only one seeking one of Vi's rare roses these days.
He's here on a task—one given by Mort himself—but his heart isn't in it, not fully. There's an edge of quiet desperation threading through his actions as he scans the ground, the winding paths, the underbrush, hoping—stupidly, desperately—that maybe he’ll just find the flower outright. Maybe Vi will take pity on him. Maybe something, for once, will just be easy.
But no. No rose petals catch his eye, no miracle blooms in his path. Just dappled sunlight, the shifting sway of the canopy, and the ever-present ache in his chest.
Sighing, Remi shifts his attention to the village as he nears its heart. For a moment, he nearly misses Maea. Not because she isn’t noticeable—gods, if anything, the pale glow of her hair against the lush green makes her stand out—but because she’s hardly taller than the fae themselves. A small figure slumped onto a bench, burdened by something unseen.
Adjusting his wings slightly, he approaches, his steps quiet as ever. "Maea?" She was one of the last people he'd thought to find here, but then again it wasn't as though he was the only one seeking one of Vi's rare roses these days.
But darling if we do, just find me, and I'll find you
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.
