oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile
The Gilded Market hums around him in that particular way only a place full of creation can; heat and noise layered into something almost alive, the steady rhythm of hammers striking metal threading through the air alongside the sharper hiss of quenching baths and the low murmur of bartered ideas. It’s a different sort of chaos than Torchline’s port, more deliberate, more contained, though no less vibrant for it, and Remi finds himself sitting within it with the quiet stillness of someone who doesn’t quite belong to the noise, but knows how to move through it all the same.
He has claimed a workbench near one of the larger forges, the kind that can withstand the particular demands of what he’s making, and though the guild provides more than enough tools, there are still pieces of himself in the setup; small adjustments, subtle placements, the quiet insistence of habit shaping space into something more familiar. A heavy pot rests within the forge’s heart, its contents glowing a molten orange that leans toward white at its hottest points, volcanic stone and metal alike reduced to something malleable, something willing to be remade. The heat rolls off it in steady waves, enough to prickle at his skin, though he hardly seems to notice.
What he does notice, in the spaces between movements, is absence. It lingers in the way his shoulders sit a touch more forward than they might otherwise, in the way his fingers pause briefly against the half-formed saddle tree before continuing their work, as if memory alone might bridge the distance between here and the Northaven. He can almost feel the weight of one of the twins tucked against his chest, the soft, unsteady rhythm of new life breathing against him, and for a moment his hand stills entirely, thumb brushing absently along the curve of the wood as though it might have been a small back beneath his palm instead.
A breath leaves him, quiet and measured, and his free hand lifts to drag through his curls, pushing them back from his face before he leans in again, refocusing.
The saddle tree in his lap is already an intricate thing, its structure far from ordinary woodwork. Thin channels have been carved with deliberate precision along its frame, each one designed to hold the magic he’s threading into it now. Rather than brute force, Remi works with a careful patience, fingers guiding rather than pressing, coaxing the enchantment into place as though it were something alive that needed convincing rather than command. The intent is simple in theory—adaptability, a shifting form that will mould itself to whatever creature bears it—but the execution requires a balance that leaves little room for error. Too rigid, and it will fail its purpose; too fluid, and it will lack the stability Colt will need.
He adjusts the angle of a small metal brace, holding it steady as the magic settles into the carved lines, the material responding with a faint shimmer that disappears almost as soon as it appears. It’s subtle work, the sort that demands attention rather than spectacle, and it suits him far more than the roaring forge at his side, though that, too, waits for him.
The cannonballs will require something harsher. His gaze flicks briefly toward the molten mixture, watching the slow churn of liquified stone and metal as it folds into itself, heavy and dangerous in a way that feels at odds with the quieter creation resting in his hands. There’s a tension in that contrast—between destruction and utility, between what he builds to protect and what he builds that will inevitably be used to harm—and it settles somewhere deep in his chest, not sharp enough to disrupt him, but present all the same.
5. Complete a thread having the materials from 4 created into cannonballs by a member of the Gilded Market. 4 Must be completed first.
He has claimed a workbench near one of the larger forges, the kind that can withstand the particular demands of what he’s making, and though the guild provides more than enough tools, there are still pieces of himself in the setup; small adjustments, subtle placements, the quiet insistence of habit shaping space into something more familiar. A heavy pot rests within the forge’s heart, its contents glowing a molten orange that leans toward white at its hottest points, volcanic stone and metal alike reduced to something malleable, something willing to be remade. The heat rolls off it in steady waves, enough to prickle at his skin, though he hardly seems to notice.
What he does notice, in the spaces between movements, is absence. It lingers in the way his shoulders sit a touch more forward than they might otherwise, in the way his fingers pause briefly against the half-formed saddle tree before continuing their work, as if memory alone might bridge the distance between here and the Northaven. He can almost feel the weight of one of the twins tucked against his chest, the soft, unsteady rhythm of new life breathing against him, and for a moment his hand stills entirely, thumb brushing absently along the curve of the wood as though it might have been a small back beneath his palm instead.
A breath leaves him, quiet and measured, and his free hand lifts to drag through his curls, pushing them back from his face before he leans in again, refocusing.
The saddle tree in his lap is already an intricate thing, its structure far from ordinary woodwork. Thin channels have been carved with deliberate precision along its frame, each one designed to hold the magic he’s threading into it now. Rather than brute force, Remi works with a careful patience, fingers guiding rather than pressing, coaxing the enchantment into place as though it were something alive that needed convincing rather than command. The intent is simple in theory—adaptability, a shifting form that will mould itself to whatever creature bears it—but the execution requires a balance that leaves little room for error. Too rigid, and it will fail its purpose; too fluid, and it will lack the stability Colt will need.
He adjusts the angle of a small metal brace, holding it steady as the magic settles into the carved lines, the material responding with a faint shimmer that disappears almost as soon as it appears. It’s subtle work, the sort that demands attention rather than spectacle, and it suits him far more than the roaring forge at his side, though that, too, waits for him.
The cannonballs will require something harsher. His gaze flicks briefly toward the molten mixture, watching the slow churn of liquified stone and metal as it folds into itself, heavy and dangerous in a way that feels at odds with the quieter creation resting in his hands. There’s a tension in that contrast—between destruction and utility, between what he builds to protect and what he builds that will inevitably be used to harm—and it settles somewhere deep in his chest, not sharp enough to disrupt him, but present all the same.
5. Complete a thread having the materials from 4 created into cannonballs by a member of the Gilded Market. 4 Must be completed first.
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.
