Let's not get lost in the dark blue
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
But darling if we do, just find me and I'll find you
Rain settles into Meadowreach like something deliberate rather than incidental, a steady silver veil that blurs the rolling hills of King’s End into soft, indistinct shapes beyond the fence. It soaks into the earth with a patience that feels almost pointed, nothing like the warm, forgiving rains of Torchline that Remi has grown used to during Leafchange; this chill presses in under his collar, crawls down the back of his neck, and makes the air feel heavier than it has any right to be. He crouches low beside Ronin, partially shifted, one massive wing unfurled and angled carefully so its breadth shields the dampest stretch of ground near the fragile sprout and its twin buds, the feathers darkened at the tips where the rain persists in testing his coverage.
He'd normally mutter something about the ridiculousness of the rain, but Remi keeps the thought to himself, folding it instead into the quiet current of the Attuned bond where Ronin’s tension hums sharp and bright as drawn wire. He doesn’t need to look to know how tightly his husband is wound; he can feel it in the minute fluctuations of breath, in the way Ronin’s focus narrows until the world beyond the picket fence might as well not exist, in the rigid line of vigilance that has always been both his greatest strength and his most exhausting burden.
Remi shifts a fraction closer, careful not to jostle the umbrella or disturb the soil, and angles his wing a touch further so the worst of the rain is diverted from the tender stems. Then he nudges Ronin gently with his shoulder, the contact warm despite the damp, and turns his face just enough to catch those intent blue eyes with a crooked, fond smile. "You know," he murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet amusement, "I can keep watch if you’d rather go and chase off another herd of Highland Cows."
He'd normally mutter something about the ridiculousness of the rain, but Remi keeps the thought to himself, folding it instead into the quiet current of the Attuned bond where Ronin’s tension hums sharp and bright as drawn wire. He doesn’t need to look to know how tightly his husband is wound; he can feel it in the minute fluctuations of breath, in the way Ronin’s focus narrows until the world beyond the picket fence might as well not exist, in the rigid line of vigilance that has always been both his greatest strength and his most exhausting burden.
Remi shifts a fraction closer, careful not to jostle the umbrella or disturb the soil, and angles his wing a touch further so the worst of the rain is diverted from the tender stems. Then he nudges Ronin gently with his shoulder, the contact warm despite the damp, and turns his face just enough to catch those intent blue eyes with a crooked, fond smile. "You know," he murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet amusement, "I can keep watch if you’d rather go and chase off another herd of Highland Cows."
the bastion
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.
