REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
The door opens with a soft creak, and standing in its frame is a man with damp curls pressed back from his forehead and a loose shirt wrinkled from where he’s clearly been lying on something recently. Oria, a mossy blur with wings and attitude, peeks out from those curls like a suspicious sprig of thyme with eyes. Remi, for all his quiet renown, looks exactly like someone who’s just stepped away from a nap and isn’t terribly bothered by it.
"Sohalia," he says, with a voice warm and lightly accented, the soft edges of the travelling tongue giving her name a lilting rhythm. "It’s good to finally meet you." His smile is gentle, genuine, and shaded with a kind of understanding that doesn’t press too hard, as if it knows better than to crowd grief.
Stepping aside, he opens the door wider. "Come in." The interior of the Northaven is cosy in that lived-in way, light filtering in through trailing vines and hanging moss, herbs drying from one of the ceiling beams. A couch that’s clearly been used for brooding (or napping) is tucked in beside a low table, and the faint scent of sea salt and something spiced lingers in the air.
"Can I get you anything?" he offers as he shuts the door behind her. "Water, tea, coffee? Or something stronger, if you’d rather it." A subtle twitch of humour softens his expression, though the sincerity doesn’t waver. He’s used to starting these things gently.that's what he said
"Sohalia," he says, with a voice warm and lightly accented, the soft edges of the travelling tongue giving her name a lilting rhythm. "It’s good to finally meet you." His smile is gentle, genuine, and shaded with a kind of understanding that doesn’t press too hard, as if it knows better than to crowd grief.
Stepping aside, he opens the door wider. "Come in." The interior of the Northaven is cosy in that lived-in way, light filtering in through trailing vines and hanging moss, herbs drying from one of the ceiling beams. A couch that’s clearly been used for brooding (or napping) is tucked in beside a low table, and the faint scent of sea salt and something spiced lingers in the air.
"Can I get you anything?" he offers as he shuts the door behind her. "Water, tea, coffee? Or something stronger, if you’d rather it." A subtle twitch of humour softens his expression, though the sincerity doesn’t waver. He’s used to starting these things gently.
And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?
if you bury them all alone?
