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
Remi’s answering chuckle is soft and low and he dips his head in agreement because yes, of course Ronin has chased everything with hooves and poor judgment clear past New Haven by now; there’s likely not a cow left in King’s End foolish enough to test him in this weather. He leans subtly into the squeeze at his shoulder, then shakes his head at the suggestion of a break, curls damp against his temple as rain continues its patient assault on his feathers. "I don’t have any nerves in the feathers themselves," he says lightly. "I can’t even feel it." That is true enough, though the wing beneath the plumage is another matter entirely; muscle and bone register the creeping cold where the downpour insists on seeping through, but the discomfort is distant and manageable, a small price for sheltering what matters.
Remi glances back to the sprout and its twin buds, rain threading silver lines between them and the world beyond the fence, and draws a steady breath. "I suppose we can just wait and—" The rest dissolves before it properly forms, because one of the buds shifts in a way that is far too deliberate to be dismissed as the weather’s mischief.
Remi stills entirely, seaglass green eyes sharpening as the bond crackles with a sudden surge of adrenaline that tastes bright and metallic against the steady hum of Ronin’s vigilance. His wing tightens reflexively over the vulnerable ground, as though instinct alone might shield the moment from interruption, and he flicks a quick glance to his husband before returning his focus to the trembling bud. "Do you think that is just the wind," he murmurs under his breath, voice no louder than the rain itself, "or.."
Remi glances back to the sprout and its twin buds, rain threading silver lines between them and the world beyond the fence, and draws a steady breath. "I suppose we can just wait and—" The rest dissolves before it properly forms, because one of the buds shifts in a way that is far too deliberate to be dismissed as the weather’s mischief.
Remi stills entirely, seaglass green eyes sharpening as the bond crackles with a sudden surge of adrenaline that tastes bright and metallic against the steady hum of Ronin’s vigilance. His wing tightens reflexively over the vulnerable ground, as though instinct alone might shield the moment from interruption, and he flicks a quick glance to his husband before returning his focus to the trembling bud. "Do you think that is just the wind," he murmurs under his breath, voice no louder than the rain itself, "or.."
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.
