remi
Remi remains exactly where he is, a small, damp sentinel planted in the middle of the half-path, tail curled neatly around his paws, posture composed with the faintly smug poise of someone who has absolutely done his part. He doesn’t move when Kaisel hisses his name into the murderous greenery, he simply waits—silent, patient, dripping—until Kaisel parts the foliage and spots him.
As soon as Kaisel bends, Remi lifts the collar higher, offering it between both paws like a raccoon presenting tribute to some jungle god. His masked face brightens with unmistakable pride. At the question Remi’s nose wrinkles in an exaggerated little scrunch, whiskers twitching with a clear message: yes, he can smell things, but rain and rot and bone-flowers and skinks make for a very crowded menu. He is a raccoon, not a hound.
Still, he makes an effort for Kaisel’s sake.
He lifts both paws, presses them dramatically to his chest like preparing for a performance, and then pantomimes a deep inhale—head tipping back, nose wobbling, whiskers trembling with theatrical precision—it is entirely unclear whether this actually improves his scenting ability or whether he is simply leaning into the drama of the moment. Then, with the collar handed off and his duty complete, Remi gives a decisive little nod and trots forward into the underbrush with renewed determination. His tail bobs with each step, the picture of a plump, soggy adventurer committed to his mission, even if he’s still better built for finding snacks than lost dogs.
As soon as Kaisel bends, Remi lifts the collar higher, offering it between both paws like a raccoon presenting tribute to some jungle god. His masked face brightens with unmistakable pride. At the question Remi’s nose wrinkles in an exaggerated little scrunch, whiskers twitching with a clear message: yes, he can smell things, but rain and rot and bone-flowers and skinks make for a very crowded menu. He is a raccoon, not a hound.
Still, he makes an effort for Kaisel’s sake.
He lifts both paws, presses them dramatically to his chest like preparing for a performance, and then pantomimes a deep inhale—head tipping back, nose wobbling, whiskers trembling with theatrical precision—it is entirely unclear whether this actually improves his scenting ability or whether he is simply leaning into the drama of the moment. Then, with the collar handed off and his duty complete, Remi gives a decisive little nod and trots forward into the underbrush with renewed determination. His tail bobs with each step, the picture of a plump, soggy adventurer committed to his mission, even if he’s still better built for finding snacks than lost dogs.
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.
