oh but that's the irony: broken people are not fragile
As the emotion crests across her features, Remi does not look away, not in the sharp, reflexive way that might suggest discomfort or pity, though neither does he hold her too firmly in his gaze. Instead, his attention softens, shifting just enough that she might feel the space to have the moment without the added weight of being watched too closely, his presence remaining steady and unflinching all the same. There is no rush in him to fill the silence, no attempt to smooth over what rises; he simply lets it exist, as it is, between them.
Her question draws a quiet breath from him, something measured and thoughtful, and when his seaglass gaze returns it does so without hesitation. "Yes," he answers simply, a small nod following as though to ground the truth of it before anything else can complicate it. His fingers settle lightly against the edge of the worktable, the glass still held loosely in his other hand. "But, for me at least...there is always a piece that stays behind." His shoulder lifts in a faint shrug, the motion unassuming. "Each time I have left somewhere, it has been easy at the start to let my mind linger there, to wander down the paths I might have taken instead, or the ones I wish I had." There is no sharpness in the admission, only a quiet acceptance, worn smooth with time. "You visit less, as the days pass. Life has a way of insisting on that. But…" another small shrug follows, softer this time, "a little part of me has always remained, in all of those places."
When she asks if he regrets it, his gaze does not shift, and what rests there is neither heavy nor evasive, but something steadier, more honest for its lack of adornment. He inclines his head once, the answer given without hesitation. "Yes," he says, and though the word is simple, it carries its own weight. "Some of them, I do." The moment does not linger overly long in the heaviness of it, not because he avoids it, but because he allows it to settle where it belongs, neither pushed away nor drawn out further than it needs to be. At the mention of Ronin, a softer sound escapes him, something brighter this time, threaded with fondness that comes easily despite everything else.
"Careful what you wish for," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting as he tilts his head slightly, mischief glinting faintly in his expression. "Ever since he ruled Stormbreak, he has been quietly convinced the world would benefit from a rather large statue of himself. There was even some discussion of it being entirely in the nude." The grin that follows is warmer, edged with amusement. "Though I suppose it would make quite the landmark."
He casts Colt a dry look at her pun, one that carries the humour forward without pressing it too hard, before turning back toward the forge. The molten mixture has reached its readiness, and without ceremony he sets his glass aside, reaching instead for the heavy pot. Where it might have taken several sets of hands to manage, he lifts it alone, the motion controlled and precise as he carries it the short distance to a row of moulds. The liquid metal pours in a slow, glowing stream, each cavity filling with quiet purpose, the heat radiating outward in waves that curl against his skin without drawing so much as a flinch.
Only once the last mould has been filled does he set the pot back into place, adjusting it with a small movement before turning once more toward Colt, his expression settling again into something easy. His gaze flicks briefly to her hair, and a quiet chuckle follows, softer now, but no less genuine. "It still looks good," he says, the compliment offered without fanfare, as though it were simply another small truth to be acknowledged alongside all the others.
Her question draws a quiet breath from him, something measured and thoughtful, and when his seaglass gaze returns it does so without hesitation. "Yes," he answers simply, a small nod following as though to ground the truth of it before anything else can complicate it. His fingers settle lightly against the edge of the worktable, the glass still held loosely in his other hand. "But, for me at least...there is always a piece that stays behind." His shoulder lifts in a faint shrug, the motion unassuming. "Each time I have left somewhere, it has been easy at the start to let my mind linger there, to wander down the paths I might have taken instead, or the ones I wish I had." There is no sharpness in the admission, only a quiet acceptance, worn smooth with time. "You visit less, as the days pass. Life has a way of insisting on that. But…" another small shrug follows, softer this time, "a little part of me has always remained, in all of those places."
When she asks if he regrets it, his gaze does not shift, and what rests there is neither heavy nor evasive, but something steadier, more honest for its lack of adornment. He inclines his head once, the answer given without hesitation. "Yes," he says, and though the word is simple, it carries its own weight. "Some of them, I do." The moment does not linger overly long in the heaviness of it, not because he avoids it, but because he allows it to settle where it belongs, neither pushed away nor drawn out further than it needs to be. At the mention of Ronin, a softer sound escapes him, something brighter this time, threaded with fondness that comes easily despite everything else.
"Careful what you wish for," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting as he tilts his head slightly, mischief glinting faintly in his expression. "Ever since he ruled Stormbreak, he has been quietly convinced the world would benefit from a rather large statue of himself. There was even some discussion of it being entirely in the nude." The grin that follows is warmer, edged with amusement. "Though I suppose it would make quite the landmark."
He casts Colt a dry look at her pun, one that carries the humour forward without pressing it too hard, before turning back toward the forge. The molten mixture has reached its readiness, and without ceremony he sets his glass aside, reaching instead for the heavy pot. Where it might have taken several sets of hands to manage, he lifts it alone, the motion controlled and precise as he carries it the short distance to a row of moulds. The liquid metal pours in a slow, glowing stream, each cavity filling with quiet purpose, the heat radiating outward in waves that curl against his skin without drawing so much as a flinch.
Only once the last mould has been filled does he set the pot back into place, adjusting it with a small movement before turning once more toward Colt, his expression settling again into something easy. His gaze flicks briefly to her hair, and a quiet chuckle follows, softer now, but no less genuine. "It still looks good," he says, the compliment offered without fanfare, as though it were simply another small truth to be acknowledged alongside all the others.
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.
