oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile
The sharp pop of the cork earns another soft sound of amusement from Remi, something low and easy in his chest as though the small celebration has slipped neatly into the rhythm of the forge without disrupting it. He inclines his head with a kind of good-natured surrender, one corner of his mouth lifting as he accepts the truth of it without much resistance. "Mm, I am quite sure all of my children are far more clever than I am," he says, the admission light but not insincere, his fingers brushing briefly through his curls again before he reaches out to take the glass she offers.
The weight of it settles into his hand, cool against skin still warmed by the forge, and as she begins her explanation his brows lift slightly, the shape of it already familiar; the way she dangles a statement just enough to invite curiosity before delivering the truth beneath it. He nods once, a quiet encouragement for her to continue, his attention settling fully on her now. When she that everything burned, everything's gone, his movement stills almost imperceptibly, the glass hovering just shy of his lips. There’s no sharp intake of breath, no immediate reach to close the distance between them, only a subtle shift in the way he holds himself, as though he’s listening not just to the words but to the spaces around them, to the path they’ve worn through her already.
He tips his head slightly, thoughtful rather than reactive, and only then does he take a slow sip of the champagne, letting it linger for a moment before lowering the glass again. "You know," he begins, his voice gentler now, but steady, "Ronin and I have had to start over... gods, more than a handful of times." His thumb traces idly along the rim of the glass as he speaks, not quite looking away from her but not pinning her in place with it either. "Hard as it is, there can be parts of it that feel..almost cathartic. Stripping things back to nothing, and choosing again what’s worth building."
A small smile follows, warmer now, touched through with something quietly fond. "He will be sad to hear it, though," Remi adds, the humour returning in a soft, familiar thread. "There was a time he would take his dragon shift out into the dunes and turn the sand into glass when he was particularly angry." The image seems to settle comfortably in him, and he lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound carrying more affection than anything else.
Her approval of the saddle draws his attention back, and he inclines his head again, this time with a flicker of something a touch more satisfied, though he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly over his shoulder toward the forge, the molten mixture rolling steadily within its confines, before he glances back to her, something a little more playful lighting his expression. "Ah, you should leave the dad jokes to me ," he says before lifting his glass slightly in a small, teasing gesture before letting it fall again, his free hand moving to make a minor adjustment to the heat, the flames responding with a subtle shift.
"Torchline is in the middle of completing an RQ," he continues, nodding faintly toward the churning metal. "I am making cannonballs for a magical cannon that will be set along the docks."
The weight of it settles into his hand, cool against skin still warmed by the forge, and as she begins her explanation his brows lift slightly, the shape of it already familiar; the way she dangles a statement just enough to invite curiosity before delivering the truth beneath it. He nods once, a quiet encouragement for her to continue, his attention settling fully on her now. When she that everything burned, everything's gone, his movement stills almost imperceptibly, the glass hovering just shy of his lips. There’s no sharp intake of breath, no immediate reach to close the distance between them, only a subtle shift in the way he holds himself, as though he’s listening not just to the words but to the spaces around them, to the path they’ve worn through her already.
He tips his head slightly, thoughtful rather than reactive, and only then does he take a slow sip of the champagne, letting it linger for a moment before lowering the glass again. "You know," he begins, his voice gentler now, but steady, "Ronin and I have had to start over... gods, more than a handful of times." His thumb traces idly along the rim of the glass as he speaks, not quite looking away from her but not pinning her in place with it either. "Hard as it is, there can be parts of it that feel..almost cathartic. Stripping things back to nothing, and choosing again what’s worth building."
A small smile follows, warmer now, touched through with something quietly fond. "He will be sad to hear it, though," Remi adds, the humour returning in a soft, familiar thread. "There was a time he would take his dragon shift out into the dunes and turn the sand into glass when he was particularly angry." The image seems to settle comfortably in him, and he lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound carrying more affection than anything else.
Her approval of the saddle draws his attention back, and he inclines his head again, this time with a flicker of something a touch more satisfied, though he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly over his shoulder toward the forge, the molten mixture rolling steadily within its confines, before he glances back to her, something a little more playful lighting his expression. "Ah, you should leave the dad jokes to me ," he says before lifting his glass slightly in a small, teasing gesture before letting it fall again, his free hand moving to make a minor adjustment to the heat, the flames responding with a subtle shift.
"Torchline is in the middle of completing an RQ," he continues, nodding faintly toward the churning metal. "I am making cannonballs for a magical cannon that will be set along the docks."
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.
