Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon
Her eyes don't meet his at first, flicking down to the work he's in the middle of instead, curious. She's no artisan, but she can certainly admire what they can accomplish. She's never peeked behind the table to see it in assembly though, much the same way most people don't look behind the burger on their plate, and it's amazing how many tools and setups she doesn't recognize. It's an entirely different style of life here.
The sound of her name, musical as it is to boot, lifts her attention back up towards the craftsman instead of just the craft. "Gods, I sure hope so," she mutters in response, voice thin with a sigh that seems built in these days whenever her mouth opens. Glancing around, she leans in a touch closer, voice dropping. "I was robbed of all my hair," she informs him, the lie passing through without a flinch on her part. She's had some time to consider her story, and claiming some midnight camping theft seems better than getting so stupidly drunk she volunteered it.
"I can't be bald Remi," she stresses. Her hands, still inside her sweatshirt, thrust out with the force of that conviction. "All the wigs are awful though. They slide around and they're unbearably warm." She shakes her head, the end of her current dark wig flapping back and forth with the movement, the feeling partially phantom. "So, I came here, hoping someone could make something better. A little something extra to make it stick and breathe better." A hand departs it's fabric den and reaches up to slide her glasses off, the force of her gaze pressing in on him with an earnest desperation. "Remi, please, can you do anything?"
The sound of her name, musical as it is to boot, lifts her attention back up towards the craftsman instead of just the craft. "Gods, I sure hope so," she mutters in response, voice thin with a sigh that seems built in these days whenever her mouth opens. Glancing around, she leans in a touch closer, voice dropping. "I was robbed of all my hair," she informs him, the lie passing through without a flinch on her part. She's had some time to consider her story, and claiming some midnight camping theft seems better than getting so stupidly drunk she volunteered it.
"I can't be bald Remi," she stresses. Her hands, still inside her sweatshirt, thrust out with the force of that conviction. "All the wigs are awful though. They slide around and they're unbearably warm." She shakes her head, the end of her current dark wig flapping back and forth with the movement, the feeling partially phantom. "So, I came here, hoping someone could make something better. A little something extra to make it stick and breathe better." A hand departs it's fabric den and reaches up to slide her glasses off, the force of her gaze pressing in on him with an earnest desperation. "Remi, please, can you do anything?"
Colt
Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
