REMI
the bastion
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
Remi hums softly in acknowledgement of Colt's offer, already easing back into the rhythm of his work, though the truth of it is clear enough in the way his hands move with quiet efficiency; there is not much for her to do here, and he does not pretend otherwise. When she speaks again, though, something else in her tone draws him up short. He straightens a little, brows lifting into his curls as his attention shifts fully back to her, curiosity brightening his seaglass gaze.
"Oh?" he murmurs, the single syllable warm and lightly amused, before his eyes narrow just a touch as she anticipates herself. There is a playful edge to his look now, fond rather than suspicious. "More fun, you say."
At the mention of the rodeo, a low chuckle slips from him almost without permission, breathy and surprised, as his hands continue their careful work. The wig is nearly complete now, structure settled, fibres responding beautifully to the magic threaded through them, falling into place as though they have always known where they belong. "We have actually been staying in Meadowreach," he says, tone conversational, before tilting his head and amending it with a soft huff of laughter. "Well. Squatting is probably a more honest word for it."
He shakes his head faintly, smile lingering as he considers. "If it is only for a few hours," he adds, glancing up at her then, fingers still smoothing the final details into place, "I think we could risk it." There is a pause after that, brief but intentional, his gaze holding hers as though weighing whether to say the next part now or not at all. In the end, he chooses honesty, offered simply. "We have...taken advantage of the baby patch," he explains gently, the words careful but unmistakably pleased. "So we are expecting." The admission is quiet, almost understated, but the warmth beneath it is unmistakable, settling into the space between them as the last threads of the wig fall into place under his hands.
"Oh?" he murmurs, the single syllable warm and lightly amused, before his eyes narrow just a touch as she anticipates herself. There is a playful edge to his look now, fond rather than suspicious. "More fun, you say."
At the mention of the rodeo, a low chuckle slips from him almost without permission, breathy and surprised, as his hands continue their careful work. The wig is nearly complete now, structure settled, fibres responding beautifully to the magic threaded through them, falling into place as though they have always known where they belong. "We have actually been staying in Meadowreach," he says, tone conversational, before tilting his head and amending it with a soft huff of laughter. "Well. Squatting is probably a more honest word for it."
He shakes his head faintly, smile lingering as he considers. "If it is only for a few hours," he adds, glancing up at her then, fingers still smoothing the final details into place, "I think we could risk it." There is a pause after that, brief but intentional, his gaze holding hers as though weighing whether to say the next part now or not at all. In the end, he chooses honesty, offered simply. "We have...taken advantage of the baby patch," he explains gently, the words careful but unmistakably pleased. "So we are expecting." The admission is quiet, almost understated, but the warmth beneath it is unmistakable, settling into the space between them as the last threads of the wig fall into place under his hands.
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.
