remi
At the mention of Flora, Remi's little raccoon head twists around in a full, sharp doglike swivel, masked face staring up at Kaisel with the most baffled expression a trash panda can muster. His whiskers splay forward, one ear flicks; the look is pure what are you talking about, delivered with the blank, slightly offended innocence only a round woodland creature can achieve.
He holds the stare for a long, silent beat—long enough to imply he is genuinely trying to parse whatever comparison Kai thinks he’s making—before the limits of raccoon attention span win decisively. His nose twitches. His head turns. The mystery of Flora fades instantly from his tiny mind.
Then the collar jingles.
Remi whips around so fast his tail poofs with momentum. His entire little body vibrates with sudden excitement, a hopeful chirring sound bursting out of him, only to halt instantly when he sees it’s just Kaisel shaking the tags. Remi gives himself a tiny shake, re-fluffing his dignity, and marches onward with a determined little waddle, nose lowered in a pantomime of tracking that is—if one knows anything about raccoons—completely fake. He sniffs with great drama, pauses to examine a suspicious leaf, snuffles at a patch of roots with all the seriousness of a bloodhound on a scent, then nods gravely to himself as if confirming deeply important canine clues.
He absolutely has no idea where he’s going, but he keeps going anyway.
He holds the stare for a long, silent beat—long enough to imply he is genuinely trying to parse whatever comparison Kai thinks he’s making—before the limits of raccoon attention span win decisively. His nose twitches. His head turns. The mystery of Flora fades instantly from his tiny mind.
Then the collar jingles.
Remi whips around so fast his tail poofs with momentum. His entire little body vibrates with sudden excitement, a hopeful chirring sound bursting out of him, only to halt instantly when he sees it’s just Kaisel shaking the tags. Remi gives himself a tiny shake, re-fluffing his dignity, and marches onward with a determined little waddle, nose lowered in a pantomime of tracking that is—if one knows anything about raccoons—completely fake. He sniffs with great drama, pauses to examine a suspicious leaf, snuffles at a patch of roots with all the seriousness of a bloodhound on a scent, then nods gravely to himself as if confirming deeply important canine clues.
He absolutely has no idea where he’s going, but he keeps going anyway.
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.
