remi
Remi pushes deeper into the tangle of roots and rib-white stone, his little raccoon body swaying with a rounded, determined gait that somehow manages to be both earnest and faintly ridiculous. The rain has softened the island’s harsher smells, turning the scentscape into swirls of wet earth, rot, and vegetation that feels far too interested in digesting him. Still, he keeps searching—; nose pressed nearly to the ground, paws sifting through leaves, whiskers bristling as he follows the faintest thread of something canine.
A sudden tug of scent stops him cold. Leather. Salt. Dog.
Remi dives into a low thicket, shoving aside slick leaves with both paws, and there, a flash of worn brown, half-buried in mud and tangled against a crimson root. A collar. He chitters in triumph, loud and insistent, only to pause mid-noise with a sudden, raccoonish realization that...hmm. Kaisel has heard him chitter nonstop for the last twenty minutes. This probably sounds exactly like all the other chittering he’s done while cursing lizards and roots and the general indignity of being small.
He makes a frustrated little squeak at himself, then clamps the collar between his paws and backs out of the bush with a graceless wiggle of his ass. Once free, he trots briskly toward the nearest semblance of a path—really just a stretch of slightly less murderous foliage—and plants himself right in the middle of it.
Rain beads along his fur. His tail curls around his feet. He sits up on his haunches, holding the muddy collar between both front paws like some tiny, triumphant relic-bearer or the sort of thing you see in a video game when there's a clear quest item you're meant to take.
A sudden tug of scent stops him cold. Leather. Salt. Dog.
Remi dives into a low thicket, shoving aside slick leaves with both paws, and there, a flash of worn brown, half-buried in mud and tangled against a crimson root. A collar. He chitters in triumph, loud and insistent, only to pause mid-noise with a sudden, raccoonish realization that...hmm. Kaisel has heard him chitter nonstop for the last twenty minutes. This probably sounds exactly like all the other chittering he’s done while cursing lizards and roots and the general indignity of being small.
He makes a frustrated little squeak at himself, then clamps the collar between his paws and backs out of the bush with a graceless wiggle of his ass. Once free, he trots briskly toward the nearest semblance of a path—really just a stretch of slightly less murderous foliage—and plants himself right in the middle of it.
Rain beads along his fur. His tail curls around his feet. He sits up on his haunches, holding the muddy collar between both front paws like some tiny, triumphant relic-bearer or the sort of thing you see in a video game when there's a clear quest item you're meant to take.
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.
