REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Remi’s mouth curves into a faint, self-conscious smile as he glances back down at the page, one shoulder lifting in a modest shrug. "It has been years since I painted properly," he admits, tone easy and unembellished, as though confessing to something mildly out of practice rather than anything precious. "It was always a hobby. One I do not make much time for anymore, for some reason."
He adjusts the painting without fuss as Colt offers her correction, nodding once as the note settles into place. The brush dips again, pigment darkened and softened, blended carefully into the existing tones so the shift feels lived-in rather than abrupt, like sunlight interrupted rather than erased. His focus remains steady, comfortable in the quiet precision of the work, until her fingers brush his bare forearm.
The contact draws a breath from him that catches just slightly, not in discomfort, but in surprise at the sudden rush beneath the surface. Gratitude comes first, warm and sincere, followed closely by the taut edge of anxiety that brought her here at all, the strain of heat and self-consciousness and the brittle effort of holding herself together long enough to ask for help. It settles against him like overlapping washes of colour, and for a heartbeat he simply lets it register, grounding himself before responding.
Remi looks up then, meeting her eyes with an expression that does not pry but does not shy away either. He reaches out and covers her hand gently with his own, the contact deliberate, reassuring, and allows his calm to flow back through the connection, cool and steady as water spreading across paper, easing tension without trying to erase it. "You are very welcome," he says softly, the words sincere and unadorned.
When he withdraws, it is unhurried, careful not to make the moment feel abrupt, and he rises once more to gather what he will need. From nearby shelves and drawers he pulls lengths of fine fibre—silk-threaded wefts enchanted for breathability—alongside a small loom designed for detail work, a spool of binding wire that hums faintly with holding magic, and a tin of setting resin that will keep everything secure without weight or heat. He adds a narrow case of carving tools, delicate enough for shaping illusion and structure alike, and a folded length of gauze enchanted to anchor comfortably against skin.
He sets everything out with practiced order, sleeves still rolled, curls damp against his brow, already shifting from planning into making and begins.
He adjusts the painting without fuss as Colt offers her correction, nodding once as the note settles into place. The brush dips again, pigment darkened and softened, blended carefully into the existing tones so the shift feels lived-in rather than abrupt, like sunlight interrupted rather than erased. His focus remains steady, comfortable in the quiet precision of the work, until her fingers brush his bare forearm.
The contact draws a breath from him that catches just slightly, not in discomfort, but in surprise at the sudden rush beneath the surface. Gratitude comes first, warm and sincere, followed closely by the taut edge of anxiety that brought her here at all, the strain of heat and self-consciousness and the brittle effort of holding herself together long enough to ask for help. It settles against him like overlapping washes of colour, and for a heartbeat he simply lets it register, grounding himself before responding.
Remi looks up then, meeting her eyes with an expression that does not pry but does not shy away either. He reaches out and covers her hand gently with his own, the contact deliberate, reassuring, and allows his calm to flow back through the connection, cool and steady as water spreading across paper, easing tension without trying to erase it. "You are very welcome," he says softly, the words sincere and unadorned.
When he withdraws, it is unhurried, careful not to make the moment feel abrupt, and he rises once more to gather what he will need. From nearby shelves and drawers he pulls lengths of fine fibre—silk-threaded wefts enchanted for breathability—alongside a small loom designed for detail work, a spool of binding wire that hums faintly with holding magic, and a tin of setting resin that will keep everything secure without weight or heat. He adds a narrow case of carving tools, delicate enough for shaping illusion and structure alike, and a folded length of gauze enchanted to anchor comfortably against skin.
He sets everything out with practiced order, sleeves still rolled, curls damp against his brow, already shifting from planning into making and begins.
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.
