remi
Balanced atop Kaisel’s pack like a damp, judgmental crown, Remi pauses his proud raccoon ride long enough to narrow his little mask-marked eyes at the commentary about his weight. A tiny grey paw reaches forward, deliberate and offended, and flicks Kaisel’s ear with all the righteous force a raccoon can muster. It’s not painful so much as deeply pointed, a fuzzy little excuse you.
If he had his voice, if he had even a sliver of his human shape, he’d absolutely inform Kaisel that he could become a kraken large enough to fold him into the sea like laundry. But trapped in this stumpy, disgruntled form, all he can do is chitter, a sharp, offended burst of noise.
But then as Kaisel tells him don't get into anything, Remi freezes. His little paws curl, his head tilts just slightly, ears lifting. There is a very specific kind of silence raccoons create when they are evaluating the moral weight of a command they fully intend to disobey. Slowly—too slowly, far too slowly—his gaze drifts to the backpack beneath him.
The backpack full of possibilities.
The backpack full of forbidden possibilities.
And before Kaisel has fully finished the sentence, Remi has already begun unzipping. He works with startling raccoon dexterity, tiny fingers prying at clips, claws working at zippers, nose shoved eagerly between folds of fabric as he rummages with the single-minded enthusiasm of a creature who was born to commit snack-related crimes. Wrappers rustle. Something crinkles. A small triumphant chitter echoes as he shoves half his head inside the bag in search of whatever treasure lies within.
If he had his voice, if he had even a sliver of his human shape, he’d absolutely inform Kaisel that he could become a kraken large enough to fold him into the sea like laundry. But trapped in this stumpy, disgruntled form, all he can do is chitter, a sharp, offended burst of noise.
But then as Kaisel tells him don't get into anything, Remi freezes. His little paws curl, his head tilts just slightly, ears lifting. There is a very specific kind of silence raccoons create when they are evaluating the moral weight of a command they fully intend to disobey. Slowly—too slowly, far too slowly—his gaze drifts to the backpack beneath him.
The backpack full of possibilities.
The backpack full of forbidden possibilities.
And before Kaisel has fully finished the sentence, Remi has already begun unzipping. He works with startling raccoon dexterity, tiny fingers prying at clips, claws working at zippers, nose shoved eagerly between folds of fabric as he rummages with the single-minded enthusiasm of a creature who was born to commit snack-related crimes. Wrappers rustle. Something crinkles. A small triumphant chitter echoes as he shoves half his head inside the bag in search of whatever treasure lies within.
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.
