REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
The heat settles heavy in the guildhall, thick with the mingled scents of metal, dye, oil, and old magic, the kind of warmth that clings rather than passes. Remi stands bent over the worktable with his attention narrowed to the piece in front of him, careful hands steady as he works through a request Flora has sent his way, something that requires patience rather than force. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms marked faintly with old scars and newer smudges of charcoal, and the LongHeat humidity of the Grounds has pressed his curls flat against his head, sweat tracing a slow path from his hairline down his brow before he can swipe it away with the back of his wrist.
Creation quiets him in a way little else does. The market noise fades to a low hum at the edge of his awareness, voices and footfalls blurring together as his focus tightens, the world reduced to balance and intent and the subtle hum of power waiting to be shaped. So when his name cuts through it, soft but insistent, it startles him enough that his shoulders jolt before he can stop them. He straightens quickly, blinking once, then again, seaglass eyes lifting to find the source. Recognition follows a half-second later, chased closely by confusion that he does his best to smooth away as his gaze flicks, quite deliberately, anywhere but the wig perched precariously beneath Colt’s hood.
A polite smile finds its way onto his mouth instead, gentle and unassuming, as though nothing about the moment has caught him off guard at all. One hand lifts to rake through his damp curls, more habit than necessity, grounding himself before he speaks. "Hello, Colt," he says, the travelling tongue softening the edges of her name without mangling it. "Is...there something I can do for you?"
Creation quiets him in a way little else does. The market noise fades to a low hum at the edge of his awareness, voices and footfalls blurring together as his focus tightens, the world reduced to balance and intent and the subtle hum of power waiting to be shaped. So when his name cuts through it, soft but insistent, it startles him enough that his shoulders jolt before he can stop them. He straightens quickly, blinking once, then again, seaglass eyes lifting to find the source. Recognition follows a half-second later, chased closely by confusion that he does his best to smooth away as his gaze flicks, quite deliberately, anywhere but the wig perched precariously beneath Colt’s hood.
A polite smile finds its way onto his mouth instead, gentle and unassuming, as though nothing about the moment has caught him off guard at all. One hand lifts to rake through his damp curls, more habit than necessity, grounding himself before he speaks. "Hello, Colt," he says, the travelling tongue softening the edges of her name without mangling it. "Is...there something I can do for you?"
And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?
if you bury them all alone?
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.
