remi
Rain slicks down Remi’s chambray shirt in a way that makes the fabric cling and darken, though he hardly seems to notice. The weather is simply another texture in the world, another sensation brushing across his skin as mildly as wind or sunlight. His curls have already lost their shape, flattened into damp waves that cling to his forehead until he lifts a hand and rakes his fingers through them, leaving them even less tidy than before. The gesture is automatic, unbothered, a touch amused by the futility of trying to keep anything dry on a day like this.
The Bastion stands easy in the wet sand and skeletal undergrowth, posture loose and patient in a way that suggests this assignment is no stranger than any other. Lost dog, deadly island, carnivorous flora; such combinations stopped registering on his internal scale of oddity years ago. Kaisel’s energy circles beside him, sharp-edged and restless, while Remi’s remains steady, neither weighed nor lifted by the drama around them.
When Kaisel asks about flying, Remi glances upward, then through the dense underbrush, then back at the soldier with a small tilt of his head that rolls from one side to the other. "I could fly," he agrees, voice mellow and threaded with the lilt of the travelling-tongue, "but hawks are sight predators. If the dog is still, I will only see leaves." His eyes sweep the macabre tangle of bones and roots around them—this island a creature built from dead things—and he gives a thoughtful hum that is almost fond of the challenge.
The suggestion of tentacles earns Kaisel a quiet huff of laughter. "Hyper-weeding," he repeats under his breath, the grin forming before he even fully commits to it. There’s a boyish gleam in his golden-green eyes as he adds, "I do have a shift that might help." He doesn’t elaborate; instead his brows lift in mischievous invitation, and then, with a ripple of magic subtle enough to feel like a shrug of his soul rather than a flare of power, he shrinks. Fur replaces skin. Paws replace hands. The world rises tall around him until he stands small and round and ridiculous on the bone-woven forest floor.
A raccoon blinks up at Kaisel, dark paws neatly planted, ringed tail flicking once with impish precision. For the man who stands as Torchline’s Bastion and one of Caido’s most formidable forces, it is a ridiculous shift, which is almost certainly why Ludo chose it for him. Remi seems to lean into that absurdity, whiskers twitching as he gives Kaisel an unmistakably smug chitter, amused both by himself and by whatever reaction he earns. Then he turns, waddles once, and bounds into the underbrush with surprising agility for a creature so plump, disappearing beneath the carnivorous tangle of crimson roots and bone-white vines as if the macabre forest were nothing more than an oversized playground.
The Bastion stands easy in the wet sand and skeletal undergrowth, posture loose and patient in a way that suggests this assignment is no stranger than any other. Lost dog, deadly island, carnivorous flora; such combinations stopped registering on his internal scale of oddity years ago. Kaisel’s energy circles beside him, sharp-edged and restless, while Remi’s remains steady, neither weighed nor lifted by the drama around them.
When Kaisel asks about flying, Remi glances upward, then through the dense underbrush, then back at the soldier with a small tilt of his head that rolls from one side to the other. "I could fly," he agrees, voice mellow and threaded with the lilt of the travelling-tongue, "but hawks are sight predators. If the dog is still, I will only see leaves." His eyes sweep the macabre tangle of bones and roots around them—this island a creature built from dead things—and he gives a thoughtful hum that is almost fond of the challenge.
The suggestion of tentacles earns Kaisel a quiet huff of laughter. "Hyper-weeding," he repeats under his breath, the grin forming before he even fully commits to it. There’s a boyish gleam in his golden-green eyes as he adds, "I do have a shift that might help." He doesn’t elaborate; instead his brows lift in mischievous invitation, and then, with a ripple of magic subtle enough to feel like a shrug of his soul rather than a flare of power, he shrinks. Fur replaces skin. Paws replace hands. The world rises tall around him until he stands small and round and ridiculous on the bone-woven forest floor.
A raccoon blinks up at Kaisel, dark paws neatly planted, ringed tail flicking once with impish precision. For the man who stands as Torchline’s Bastion and one of Caido’s most formidable forces, it is a ridiculous shift, which is almost certainly why Ludo chose it for him. Remi seems to lean into that absurdity, whiskers twitching as he gives Kaisel an unmistakably smug chitter, amused both by himself and by whatever reaction he earns. Then he turns, waddles once, and bounds into the underbrush with surprising agility for a creature so plump, disappearing beneath the carnivorous tangle of crimson roots and bone-white vines as if the macabre forest were nothing more than an oversized playground.
we're only human but we've got hands & hearts & noses
So stop and smell the fuckin' roses
So stop and smell the fuckin' roses
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.
