a blank piece of paper

i'm not the man they think i am at home

Once upon a time, Remi's handwriting was perhaps the most elegant thing about him. The most surprising, too, for some who might not have expected a commoner to be able to write so beautifully (the construction of the letters, mind you, not the content of the words themselves). Now even writing a simple sentence was taking an age. Trying to decide if it would be best to force himself to become left-handed or if he could make do with three fingers instead of five, Remi sits looking furious and exasperated at the clunky letters and ink-stained parchment before him.

Pausing to press his fingers against his eyes, Remi opts to take his anger out on the parchment instead of taking a few deep breaths as he'd originally intended. Scrunching the paper into a ball and throwing it at the wall (the harmless plit it made only fueling the alchemist's annoyance), Remi rakes his fingers through his curls before letting his forehead fall forward to lean against the table. Where, predictably, a puddle of ink has formed. Oria, enjoying all of this, has begun finger-painting using the spilled ink, using Remi's arms as her canvas.