REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Remi rounds the curve of the beach with ten tree trunks in tow. Six are lashed together over his shoulder, their bark shedding sap across the back of his chambray shirt. The others float behind him, suspended mid-air by a tangle of tentacles that trail from the small of his back and out from beneath his shirt. Sweat darkens the fabric across his chest despite the breeze; even in Deepfrost, Torchline has a way of turning work into a sauna.
He doesn’t notice the man or the cub at first. His focus is fixed on the path ahead, on the rhythm of breath and weight, on the curve of the Miana Pool as it catches the light in its eerie stillness. Only when something gnarled and bobbing catches his eye does he pause.
A branch, half-submerged. The knot near its tip looks, unmistakably, like a cock. Remi squints and then grins. A fresh tentacle unfurls with mischievous intent, reaching to snatch the branch while he shifts to balance the rest—poorly. One log slips free with a dull thump, landing in the sand. Another follows with a splash.
He sighs.
Wiping a hand down his face, Remi finally looks up—and that’s when he sees them: A dark-haired man crouched near the Pool’s edge, scars and travel still clinging to him, and a small feline of some kind in a bright blue fin, growling at her reflection with all the menace of a soggy shark cub.
Remi straightens, tentacles retreating as if sheepish. His expression softens into something warm and a little sheepish of his own. "Ah," he says, voice thick with the travelling tongue, making the sound musical. "Didn’t mean to interrupt your..." Frowning, Remi glances from Aria to Damien and then back again. "Swimming lesson?"
He doesn’t notice the man or the cub at first. His focus is fixed on the path ahead, on the rhythm of breath and weight, on the curve of the Miana Pool as it catches the light in its eerie stillness. Only when something gnarled and bobbing catches his eye does he pause.
A branch, half-submerged. The knot near its tip looks, unmistakably, like a cock. Remi squints and then grins. A fresh tentacle unfurls with mischievous intent, reaching to snatch the branch while he shifts to balance the rest—poorly. One log slips free with a dull thump, landing in the sand. Another follows with a splash.
He sighs.
Wiping a hand down his face, Remi finally looks up—and that’s when he sees them: A dark-haired man crouched near the Pool’s edge, scars and travel still clinging to him, and a small feline of some kind in a bright blue fin, growling at her reflection with all the menace of a soggy shark cub.
Remi straightens, tentacles retreating as if sheepish. His expression softens into something warm and a little sheepish of his own. "Ah," he says, voice thick with the travelling tongue, making the sound musical. "Didn’t mean to interrupt your..." Frowning, Remi glances from Aria to Damien and then back again. "Swimming lesson?"
And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?
if you bury them all alone?
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.
