remi
At Kaisel’s shouted delight, Remi pauses just long enough to stand up on his hind legs and plant his little paws on his rounded middle, chittering in a way that is very clearly offended dignity. Trash panda, honestly. He turns his masked face toward Kaisel and makes a show of patting the fur at his chest as if to say: excuse you, i'm a highly respectable forest professional. A moment later he lifts one paw and waggles it dismissively, theatrically magnanimous about the insult, before dropping back down to all fours, before vanishing into the undergrowth.
Down here the island feels different. Bone and root twist together beneath his paws, the air damp and heavy with the mineral-sweet reek of decay and the sharp, green tang of living things that would happily digest him if given the chance. As a man he doesn't really think about the strangeness of such places. As a raccoon, he feels it in the way every hair along his spine stands a little higher, senses sharpening to a point.
He moves quickly, far more surefooted than his plump shape suggests, slipping between crimson roots and skeletal protrusions with the practised ease of something built for rummaging. His nose works constantly, whiskers trembling as he tests every new scent: salt, iron, wet earth, the oily musk of strange blossoms, the old ghost of blood that clings to the island’s teeth. And somewhere under it all, he hopes, dog.
Remi makes noise on purpose; little bursts of chatter and clicking sounds, the soft scrabble of claws on bone, the rustle of disturbed foliage. A creature as small and pampered as Mrs. Thompson’s dog is almost certainly the type to bark at anything it thinks it can bully. So he leans into that, becoming the most annoyingly noticeable thing in the underbrush that is not actively trying to eat him.
He rustles leaves, darts across small openings where he is easy to spot, pauses on low, jutting ribs of bone to rear up and chitter at nothing in particular, tail flicking like a challenge. The call of it runs through him like a game: here I am, come and get me. If the dog is close, if it still has enough bravado left in its tiny body, then maybe, just maybe, the ridiculous little raccoon will be enough of a target to draw it out.
Down here the island feels different. Bone and root twist together beneath his paws, the air damp and heavy with the mineral-sweet reek of decay and the sharp, green tang of living things that would happily digest him if given the chance. As a man he doesn't really think about the strangeness of such places. As a raccoon, he feels it in the way every hair along his spine stands a little higher, senses sharpening to a point.
He moves quickly, far more surefooted than his plump shape suggests, slipping between crimson roots and skeletal protrusions with the practised ease of something built for rummaging. His nose works constantly, whiskers trembling as he tests every new scent: salt, iron, wet earth, the oily musk of strange blossoms, the old ghost of blood that clings to the island’s teeth. And somewhere under it all, he hopes, dog.
Remi makes noise on purpose; little bursts of chatter and clicking sounds, the soft scrabble of claws on bone, the rustle of disturbed foliage. A creature as small and pampered as Mrs. Thompson’s dog is almost certainly the type to bark at anything it thinks it can bully. So he leans into that, becoming the most annoyingly noticeable thing in the underbrush that is not actively trying to eat him.
He rustles leaves, darts across small openings where he is easy to spot, pauses on low, jutting ribs of bone to rear up and chitter at nothing in particular, tail flicking like a challenge. The call of it runs through him like a game: here I am, come and get me. If the dog is close, if it still has enough bravado left in its tiny body, then maybe, just maybe, the ridiculous little raccoon will be enough of a target to draw it out.
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.
