He said "I bet you don't remember me"
For all the valiant effort Kaisel puts into salvaging the explanation, Remi only lets the smallest curve of amusement linger at the corner of his mouth. It is not cruel, and certainly not the sort of expression a man wears when he means to drag someone through the coals; there is too much fondness in it for that, too much recognition of the particular humiliation of having a private thought become public through nothing more than an unfortunately timed entrance. Still, he makes no real attempt to hide that he has heard the correction for exactly what it is. "Ahh," he says, drawing the sound out just enough for it to be unhelpful. "Sure. Of course."
The lightness in his voice is innocent enough, but it rides the gentle lilt of his accent with a buoyancy that gives him away entirely. No part of him believes Kaisel, and from the way the Bastion’s brows lift for the briefest moment, no part of him expects the younger man to believe that he does. But whatever small victory Remi might have won is hardly worth pressing when it comes at the expense of both his daughter’s dignity and the man who is going to become part of their family, so he lets the subject go with the same ease he might set down a cup after deciding he has had enough.
At the mention of Noe, his expression shifts, the teasing softened out of it in favour of something more attentive. "Ahhh, I see. Ronin and I both thought it looked...wrong," he admits, sea-glass eyes narrowing slightly. The sudden scrape and violent flutter near the window draws his attention aside. Remi turns his head just enough to see the Hel battering itself against the glass, its wings striking hard and uselessly as though persistence alone might eventually teach it how to pass through a wall. His eyes narrow vaguely at the bird, not with true irritation but with the quiet, baffled patience of someone watching a very small creature make a terrible decision repeatedly.
When he looks back to Kaisel, the softness in his expression returns. "Anytime," he says, simple and sincere. His thumb shifts over the little bag of sand in his hand, feeling the dry grains settle within the fabric. "And I am glad you are alright, as well." His attention drops once more to the pouch, then. "I do not have anything with me," Remi says thoughtfully, turning it over in his palm as though the answer might be stitched into its seams, "but perhaps—" The drawstring loosens beneath his fingers. At first, the sand inside seems to catch a stray angle of light, each grain flashing with a muted gold that ought not to be possible in the entryway. Then the glow deepens, warm and soft and wholly wrong, and the pouch in Remi’s hand becomes suddenly weightless as its contents lift free. Fine streams of sand curl upward in delicate ribbons, splitting in the air with the strange, purposeful elegance of smoke that has found two separate paths to follow.
"What?" Remi says, but the word comes too late as gold spills toward them both. The first touch of it is almost gentle. A few grains whisper against his cheek, gather at the corners of his eyes, and then the heaviness comes down all at once; the awful, irresistible pull of sleep after too many sleepless nights, the kind that does not ask permission so much as take hold at the base of the skull and drag the rest of the body after it. Remi’s breath catches sharply as his eyelids begin to lower, his limbs turning distant beneath him.
His free hand reaches for the wall, fingers finding nothing but open air as his knees threaten to give beneath him. For a disorienting instant, the house seems to tilt—not around him, but away from him—and when he jerks himself upright again, he is standing several feet from where he had been, the bag empty in his hand and the golden grains all but disappeared in a way which feels impossible based on his experience with sand.
The lightness in his voice is innocent enough, but it rides the gentle lilt of his accent with a buoyancy that gives him away entirely. No part of him believes Kaisel, and from the way the Bastion’s brows lift for the briefest moment, no part of him expects the younger man to believe that he does. But whatever small victory Remi might have won is hardly worth pressing when it comes at the expense of both his daughter’s dignity and the man who is going to become part of their family, so he lets the subject go with the same ease he might set down a cup after deciding he has had enough.
At the mention of Noe, his expression shifts, the teasing softened out of it in favour of something more attentive. "Ahhh, I see. Ronin and I both thought it looked...wrong," he admits, sea-glass eyes narrowing slightly. The sudden scrape and violent flutter near the window draws his attention aside. Remi turns his head just enough to see the Hel battering itself against the glass, its wings striking hard and uselessly as though persistence alone might eventually teach it how to pass through a wall. His eyes narrow vaguely at the bird, not with true irritation but with the quiet, baffled patience of someone watching a very small creature make a terrible decision repeatedly.
When he looks back to Kaisel, the softness in his expression returns. "Anytime," he says, simple and sincere. His thumb shifts over the little bag of sand in his hand, feeling the dry grains settle within the fabric. "And I am glad you are alright, as well." His attention drops once more to the pouch, then. "I do not have anything with me," Remi says thoughtfully, turning it over in his palm as though the answer might be stitched into its seams, "but perhaps—" The drawstring loosens beneath his fingers. At first, the sand inside seems to catch a stray angle of light, each grain flashing with a muted gold that ought not to be possible in the entryway. Then the glow deepens, warm and soft and wholly wrong, and the pouch in Remi’s hand becomes suddenly weightless as its contents lift free. Fine streams of sand curl upward in delicate ribbons, splitting in the air with the strange, purposeful elegance of smoke that has found two separate paths to follow.
"What?" Remi says, but the word comes too late as gold spills toward them both. The first touch of it is almost gentle. A few grains whisper against his cheek, gather at the corners of his eyes, and then the heaviness comes down all at once; the awful, irresistible pull of sleep after too many sleepless nights, the kind that does not ask permission so much as take hold at the base of the skull and drag the rest of the body after it. Remi’s breath catches sharply as his eyelids begin to lower, his limbs turning distant beneath him.
His free hand reaches for the wall, fingers finding nothing but open air as his knees threaten to give beneath him. For a disorienting instant, the house seems to tilt—not around him, but away from him—and when he jerks himself upright again, he is standing several feet from where he had been, the bag empty in his hand and the golden grains all but disappeared in a way which feels impossible based on his experience with sand.
and I said "only ever other memory"
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.
