REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Remi nods without hesitation. "All right," he says simply, warmth threading through the words. "A wig it is." He straightens from the table and moves with quiet purpose, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what he needs. A few drawers open and close, the soft clink of tools and bottles punctuating the guild's distant hum, before he returns with a modest spread of watercolour paints and a shallow dish of clean water. The care he takes in arranging them is deliberate, unhurried, as though this is not a stopgap solution at all, but something worthy of proper attention.
"I would rather not guess," he admits with a small, apologetic smile in her direction, rolling one sleeve a touch higher before he begins. He dips the brush, tests a stroke, then starts mixing pigments together in patient increments, pale gold softened with ash, warmed with honey, cooled again until it feels right beneath his eye. One shade becomes several, layered rather than singular, and he paints them out onto a thick pad of paper, building depth with lighter streaks threaded through darker ones so the colour has movement instead of lying flat.
As he works, he adds shape as well as tone, sketching in length, a suggestion of curl, the way light would catch and break across it rather than settle. It is thoughtful, almost intimate work, creation guided as much by listening as by skill. After a moment, Remi pauses and tilts his head, holding the pad up so Colt can see it properly. His curls cling damply to his brow, a line of sweat tracing his temple, but his focus remains intent and gentle as he looks between the painted blonde and her face.
"Is this close to what it was before?"
"I would rather not guess," he admits with a small, apologetic smile in her direction, rolling one sleeve a touch higher before he begins. He dips the brush, tests a stroke, then starts mixing pigments together in patient increments, pale gold softened with ash, warmed with honey, cooled again until it feels right beneath his eye. One shade becomes several, layered rather than singular, and he paints them out onto a thick pad of paper, building depth with lighter streaks threaded through darker ones so the colour has movement instead of lying flat.
As he works, he adds shape as well as tone, sketching in length, a suggestion of curl, the way light would catch and break across it rather than settle. It is thoughtful, almost intimate work, creation guided as much by listening as by skill. After a moment, Remi pauses and tilts his head, holding the pad up so Colt can see it properly. His curls cling damply to his brow, a line of sweat tracing his temple, but his focus remains intent and gentle as he looks between the painted blonde and her face.
"Is this close to what it was before?"
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.
