REMI
the alchemist
What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold
if there's nothing that they hold
The knock lands sharp against the quiet of the Northaven, and the reaction is immediate and absolute; two voices rising in unison from somewhere deeper within the houseboat, thin and furious and utterly insistent. It cuts through the air like a struck chord, fragile peace shattered into something far more familiar. There’s the sound of movement almost at once—something set down a little too quickly, the soft drag of footsteps, a muted murmur that doesn’t quite reach words—and then the door opens just enough for Remi to lean his head out into the light.
He looks...tired. Not in any dramatic or unravelled way, but in the softened, lived-in sense of it; curls a touch more unruly than usual, eyes a little heavier at the edges, the line of his mouth gentler for it. The housecoat he wears hangs loosely, hastily tied, as though the act of dressing had been more obligation than intention. Still, when he sees Sohalia, there’s no frustration in his expression, no flicker of annoyance at the timing, only a quiet sort of acceptance, the kind that has already learned that silence is fleeting and rarely worth guarding.
"Hello, Sohalia," he says, his voice low, warm despite the exhaustion threading through it. One hand lifts briefly to push his curls back from his forehead, a gesture more reflex than thought, before dropping again to the doorframe as the cries behind him sharpen, followed by the sound of Ronin gently cooing.
A breath huffs softly from him—not quite a laugh, but close enough to carry the shape of one—and he glances back over his shoulder for the briefest moment, listening, gauging, before returning his attention to her.
He looks...tired. Not in any dramatic or unravelled way, but in the softened, lived-in sense of it; curls a touch more unruly than usual, eyes a little heavier at the edges, the line of his mouth gentler for it. The housecoat he wears hangs loosely, hastily tied, as though the act of dressing had been more obligation than intention. Still, when he sees Sohalia, there’s no frustration in his expression, no flicker of annoyance at the timing, only a quiet sort of acceptance, the kind that has already learned that silence is fleeting and rarely worth guarding.
"Hello, Sohalia," he says, his voice low, warm despite the exhaustion threading through it. One hand lifts briefly to push his curls back from his forehead, a gesture more reflex than thought, before dropping again to the doorframe as the cries behind him sharpen, followed by the sound of Ronin gently cooing.
A breath huffs softly from him—not quite a laugh, but close enough to carry the shape of one—and he glances back over his shoulder for the briefest moment, listening, gauging, before returning his attention to her.
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.
