let's not get lost in the dark blue
Remi exhales a slow breath as they step off the main path, his fingers briefly brushing the air as if reaching for something unseen. "Take us to the Guardian’s Treehouse," he murmurs, not to Maea, but to the Greatwood itself. He doesn’t know if the trees remember him—if the roots and the leaves, the very breath of this place, still consider him one of their own. He was their protector once. Their defender and guardian, and he hopes if nothing else the woods will speed their trip toward the treehouse.
He doesn’t expect an answer, not in words, but the forest shifts around them, the dappled light filtering through the canopy seeming to tilt in a new direction, the winding paths straightening ever so slightly, leading them forward. As they walk, the air thickens with memory. The wood feels the same as it always has, and yet—when the towering treehouse finally comes into view, Remi feels something settle in his chest. It is overgrown, of course. The vines have crept in, weaving through the railings, curling around the pillars, but the structure itself remains solid, steadfast against the years. The ramp leading up to the wrap-around porch is still sturdy, though some of the planks have worn smooth with time and exposure.
"You have absolutely no need to thank me, Maea. What sort of a man would I be to let you continue to live in a tent and keep this to myself?" Shooting her a wry look over his shoulder, the Bastion holds up his other hand. "Actually, don't answer that," he chuckles, leading them on until they reach their destination.
Stepping forward, Remi runs his fingers along the railing as he guides Maea up the steps. Inside, the space is simple but still undeniably touched by him. Even where nature has started to reclaim the corners, his presence lingers in the fine details—the carvings in the wood, subtle and intricate, shifting like waves and feathers and stars along the beams. The windows are large, letting in shafts of golden light, illuminating the faint etchings of names, of tiny sigils, of something left behind.
The supplies remain. A few blankets folded in a chest, shelves lined with carefully stacked jars, dried herbs hanging near the window. It is not just a place, but a piece of something once lived in, once loved.
He doesn’t expect an answer, not in words, but the forest shifts around them, the dappled light filtering through the canopy seeming to tilt in a new direction, the winding paths straightening ever so slightly, leading them forward. As they walk, the air thickens with memory. The wood feels the same as it always has, and yet—when the towering treehouse finally comes into view, Remi feels something settle in his chest. It is overgrown, of course. The vines have crept in, weaving through the railings, curling around the pillars, but the structure itself remains solid, steadfast against the years. The ramp leading up to the wrap-around porch is still sturdy, though some of the planks have worn smooth with time and exposure.
"You have absolutely no need to thank me, Maea. What sort of a man would I be to let you continue to live in a tent and keep this to myself?" Shooting her a wry look over his shoulder, the Bastion holds up his other hand. "Actually, don't answer that," he chuckles, leading them on until they reach their destination.
Stepping forward, Remi runs his fingers along the railing as he guides Maea up the steps. Inside, the space is simple but still undeniably touched by him. Even where nature has started to reclaim the corners, his presence lingers in the fine details—the carvings in the wood, subtle and intricate, shifting like waves and feathers and stars along the beams. The windows are large, letting in shafts of golden light, illuminating the faint etchings of names, of tiny sigils, of something left behind.
The supplies remain. A few blankets folded in a chest, shelves lined with carefully stacked jars, dried herbs hanging near the window. It is not just a place, but a piece of something once lived in, once loved.
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.
