Nothin' but neon, nothin' but smoke

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

She wishes she’d thought of this before she’d left the Hollowed Grounds, but the incredible hangover and embarrassment had been a driving force to get the fuck out of Dodge. She’s only left her house to try and manage a better wig than her DIY horsetail one, but the stores in King’s End had limited selections, and she’s found them to be unreliable at staying on and unbearably hot.

Which is exactly how she feels currently—hot.

A black bob-cut wig is what she’s currently got on, pinned down under the hood of a sweatshirt that her hands are stuffed into and continually pulling forward to keep everything atop firmly adhering to gravity’s rules. Her sleeves are scrunched up to the elbow, because it’s Longheat, and underneath the powder blue fabric she’s slick with sweat and flushed with heat. It creeps up on her neck and sits on her cheeks as if it’s responsible for supporting her sunglasses. Airing out what she can with a yellow sundress that billows underneath when she opens the guild doors, she slips into the Guilded Market like a beacon pretending to be a shadow.

It’s worth noting that Colt has never much tried to hide a day in her life until now. She’s made herself small at dinner tables and quiet at parties, but it’s not quite the same. Now she’s trying to blend into the background, using a brush a bricklayer would better know as a trowel.

She glances around, licking at her lips with a wariness that pulls deeper in her pockets, assessing. Relief strikes quick and sudden as she spots Remi amid her sweep of the space. Ignoring the not-so-subtle turns of the other guild members and clients, Colt marches over to the Bastion and the worktable he’s bent over. ”Pssst, Remi.”

---

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

The heat settles heavy in the guildhall, thick with the mingled scents of metal, dye, oil, and old magic, the kind of warmth that clings rather than passes. Remi stands bent over the worktable with his attention narrowed to the piece in front of him, careful hands steady as he works through a request Flora has sent his way, something that requires patience rather than force. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms marked faintly with old scars and newer smudges of charcoal, and the LongHeat humidity of the Grounds has pressed his curls flat against his head, sweat tracing a slow path from his hairline down his brow before he can swipe it away with the back of his wrist.

Creation quiets him in a way little else does. The market noise fades to a low hum at the edge of his awareness, voices and footfalls blurring together as his focus tightens, the world reduced to balance and intent and the subtle hum of power waiting to be shaped. So when his name cuts through it, soft but insistent, it startles him enough that his shoulders jolt before he can stop them. He straightens quickly, blinking once, then again, seaglass eyes lifting to find the source. Recognition follows a half-second later, chased closely by confusion that he does his best to smooth away as his gaze flicks, quite deliberately, anywhere but the wig perched precariously beneath Colt’s hood.

A polite smile finds its way onto his mouth instead, gentle and unassuming, as though nothing about the moment has caught him off guard at all. One hand lifts to rake through his damp curls, more habit than necessity, grounding himself before he speaks. "Hello, Colt," he says, the travelling tongue softening the edges of her name without mangling it. "Is...there something I can do for you?"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

Her eyes don't meet his at first, flicking down to the work he's in the middle of instead, curious. She's no artisan, but she can certainly admire what they can accomplish. She's never peeked behind the table to see it in assembly though, much the same way most people don't look behind the burger on their plate, and it's amazing how many tools and setups she doesn't recognize. It's an entirely different style of life here.

The sound of her name, musical as it is to boot, lifts her attention back up towards the craftsman instead of just the craft. "Gods, I sure hope so," she mutters in response, voice thin with a sigh that seems built in these days whenever her mouth opens. Glancing around, she leans in a touch closer, voice dropping. "I was robbed of all my hair," she informs him, the lie passing through without a flinch on her part. She's had some time to consider her story, and claiming some midnight camping theft seems better than getting so stupidly drunk she volunteered it.

"I can't be bald Remi," she stresses. Her hands, still inside her sweatshirt, thrust out with the force of that conviction. "All the wigs are awful though. They slide around and they're unbearably warm." She shakes her head, the end of her current dark wig flapping back and forth with the movement, the feeling partially phantom. "So, I came here, hoping someone could make something better. A little something extra to make it stick and breathe better." A hand departs it's fabric den and reaches up to slide her glasses off, the force of her gaze pressing in on him with an earnest desperation. "Remi, please, can you do anything?"

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi looks up from the table as Colt leans closer and if she looks on the table she'll see a compact, intricate thing of glass and metal that hums faintly with restrained magic that looks vaguely like a camera. His brows lift at robbed, surprise soft but genuine, and though it is normally the sort of claim that might earn a careful question, experience has long since taught him that when it comes to women and their appearances, it's usually better for him to keep his questions to himself.

"Oh no," he says quietly, sympathy arriving without hesitation as he turns toward her, hands coming to rest loosely on the edge of the worktable so he is no longer half-lost in the project. He listens without interrupting as she explains, and when she pulls her glasses down and looks at him properly, Remi meets her stare without flinching, and he nods almost immediately. "Of course I can," he says, the reassurance easy and sincere. A boyish smile tugs at his mouth as he adds, a little bashful now, "Before all of this, I was an alchemist. I miss making things sometimes." One shoulder lifts in a small shrug. "So I would be happy to help."

His eyes drift briefly to the wig she is wearing now, then back to her face as he tilts his head, thoughtful rather than judgmental. "You were blonde before, right?" he asks, fairly certain she was. "Do you want that again, or would you rather lean into this darker look instead?"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

The relief is immediate at his answer, something tight in her shoulders loosening, seeming to drop nearly an inch as if stepping off whatever edge she'd been standing on this whole time. "Thank the gods for you," she sighs, and the dramatics of it cannot be exaggerated for her current crisis. Although she isn't certain that wig-making and alchemy walk hand in hand, he sounds so certain, and his shiny contraption on the desk seems to speak to his breadth of skills that she doesn't let any fresh worry settle.

Her eyes follow his to the place more above her head, the wig perched there like a stranger. She folds her glasses up and slides them into her sweatshirt pocket, the now-empty hand slowly moving up to carefully peel away her hood and expose the full problem at hand. She nods slowly in confirmation of being blonde before. "No, this is just the best I could find," she asserts quickly, fingers almost fearfully reaching up to brush the dark hairs. "I liked the way I looked before, that's what I want back. Just something to hide the bald until the hair grows back, or I find some kind of hair growth tonic to help speed it up."

She quirks a quiet brow at him at that, wondering if perhaps his alchemy background also has a talent for that. "You know anything like that?" Although, it's a risk, she rather thinks, and might result in an extreme moustache sprouting or her leg hairs growing a woolen coat that'd tire out her razor. Maybe something she'd not drink, but just apply to her head, only the affected area sprouting back quick and lush. She's not used to dealing in medicines besides liquor.

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi listens without interrupting, the relief in her posture registering even if he does not comment on it, his attention steady and kind as she explains herself. When she finally lowers the hood and exposes the problem in full, his mouth twitches despite his best efforts, not unkindly, but with a quiet appreciation for the sheer ingenuity of it all. It is...inventive. Admirably so.

He reaches out with his foot and hooks a nearby stool, dragging it closer with a soft scrape of wood against stone before nudging it into place and tipping his head toward it in gentle invitation. "Why don’t you sit," he suggests with a nod and and small smile.

As she settles and continues, Remi bites briefly at the inside of his cheek, considering. One hand comes up to fold loosely over the other, forearms resting against the edge of the worktable, posture open even as his thoughts turn inward. "A hair-growing potion is probably possible," he says slowly, honestly, the hesitation there not from doubt but from precision. "Though I would want to consult with some of the others here who are more experienced with that sort of design. Left entirely to me.." A faint wince crosses his expression, paired with a soft huff of self-aware humour. "It would almost certainly taste terrible, and there is a very real chance it would make all of your hair grow. Everywhere."

His shoulders lift in a small, apologetic shrug, palms turning up as if to show he is not hiding the truth from her. "I could make it safer with help, it would just take a few days." His gaze flicks back up to her head then, careful not to linger on the worst of the wig while still taking in what he needs. "A wig, though," he continues, a touch more confidence settling into his voice, "that I can do easily. Today, if you like."

Another small tilt of his head, curls darkened with sweat shifting against his brow/ "It’s your choice. I can make you something now, to look the way you want while things grow back on their own, or I can send you a potion in a few days and hope it behaves itself."

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

She readily takes his offer of a chair, the heat of the sweatshirt still over her becoming a suffocating thing steadily, and it pulses underneath the wig with the threat of dripping sweat down from the dark hairs. It's a crawling, itching feeling, as if some creature is living under there and its wet legs are exploring down. Anxiously, she presses a palm onto the wig, assuring it's still set on properly, and the pressure helps squish the spidery sensation of scalp perspiration, for now. She'd take her sweater off now if it didn't mean upending the entire hairdo, a risk she'd not be making in public thank you kindly.

The heels of her books hook along the bottom rung of the stool, and she leans in over the pressed angle of her knees with her elbows, chin propping up on her hand as she watches him carefully. She hangs on every word, stare harder than she means as consideration burns brilliant in her mind. His thoughts about the potion being possible, but tricky, reassure her as much as they caution her. She'd hoped this might have been a more commonplace recipe. As he extends both options, she's half a mind to blurt out why not both. She holds her tongue though, inhaling steadily through her nose and leaning back.

There's a firm shake of her head that follows. "No, no, as much as I'd prefer to regrow it over anything else, I cannot spare another day like this." The look she gives him is completely exasperated, as if of all the trials she's ever faced, this has become her worst opponent, and isn't it obviously so? "The wig'll do just fine, thank you."

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi nods without hesitation. "All right," he says simply, warmth threading through the words. "A wig it is." He straightens from the table and moves with quiet purpose, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what he needs. A few drawers open and close, the soft clink of tools and bottles punctuating the guild's distant hum, before he returns with a modest spread of watercolour paints and a shallow dish of clean water. The care he takes in arranging them is deliberate, unhurried, as though this is not a stopgap solution at all, but something worthy of proper attention.

"I would rather not guess," he admits with a small, apologetic smile in her direction, rolling one sleeve a touch higher before he begins. He dips the brush, tests a stroke, then starts mixing pigments together in patient increments, pale gold softened with ash, warmed with honey, cooled again until it feels right beneath his eye. One shade becomes several, layered rather than singular, and he paints them out onto a thick pad of paper, building depth with lighter streaks threaded through darker ones so the colour has movement instead of lying flat.

As he works, he adds shape as well as tone, sketching in length, a suggestion of curl, the way light would catch and break across it rather than settle. It is thoughtful, almost intimate work, creation guided as much by listening as by skill. After a moment, Remi pauses and tilts his head, holding the pad up so Colt can see it properly. His curls cling damply to his brow, a line of sweat tracing his temple, but his focus remains intent and gentle as he looks between the painted blonde and her face.

"Is this close to what it was before?"

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

She's deeply grateful in times like this for men such as Remi Taliesin. Those who don't pry or wonder, but instead know how to settle into the work at hand and leave out the personal aspects of everything, letting the reality of what's on the surface guide it all. He hasn't said anything to set her teeth together, even his eyes have made quick work in assessing and avoid lingering, and there's a kindness in that inattention that does not escape her. She has always found him considerate and capable, both the Taliesins are really, and she's eternally glad that it's him who she's run into today.

There's a brief moment when he rises where she fumbles with the uncertainty if she's to follow or not. She leans forward slightly, but never unhooks her boots and sets out with the momentum, though she strains a bit and leans on the seat to watch him. He rustles through equipment with a knowing search, and quietly Colt's hands fold together in her lap and fingers fidget over nails. Admittedly, she doesn't know what her ask entails, and half expects he'll return with various strands of hairs like all the horse tails she'd chopped off that first night. When he instead sets down a painter's spread, her question is plain on her face. She glances from the spread to him, gaze locking briefly, and his explanation swiftly grants an approving smile. "The details make the craft," she agrees, softening a touch as he begins to work and the motions draw her attention entirely.

By the time he's complete, he has a fairly decent rendering of what her hair had once been. To see it on a page instead of a mirror is a new experience, not usually the subject for any art. This also existing as a sole entity floating amid paint and paper instead of with her makes it feel like something lost being remembered, a ghost of a different sort that he's summoned. "Mm," she says between pursed lips, a finger tapping there in thought before she reaches out and taps on a section of the drawing. "Here is darker than you show, because of all the time I wear hats. Otherwise, yes, that looks fantastic." There's a new sort of vibrancy back to her voice, the reality of what's being made becoming more clear, her hope not just something distant but here, cradled in his hands. Her fingers cup his arm as she leans back away from the desk and the page, brief before she pulls away. "I can't thank you enough for doing this."

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi’s mouth curves into a faint, self-conscious smile as he glances back down at the page, one shoulder lifting in a modest shrug. "It has been years since I painted properly," he admits, tone easy and unembellished, as though confessing to something mildly out of practice rather than anything precious. "It was always a hobby. One I do not make much time for anymore, for some reason."

He adjusts the painting without fuss as Colt offers her correction, nodding once as the note settles into place. The brush dips again, pigment darkened and softened, blended carefully into the existing tones so the shift feels lived-in rather than abrupt, like sunlight interrupted rather than erased. His focus remains steady, comfortable in the quiet precision of the work, until her fingers brush his bare forearm.

The contact draws a breath from him that catches just slightly, not in discomfort, but in surprise at the sudden rush beneath the surface. Gratitude comes first, warm and sincere, followed closely by the taut edge of anxiety that brought her here at all, the strain of heat and self-consciousness and the brittle effort of holding herself together long enough to ask for help. It settles against him like overlapping washes of colour, and for a heartbeat he simply lets it register, grounding himself before responding.

Remi looks up then, meeting her eyes with an expression that does not pry but does not shy away either. He reaches out and covers her hand gently with his own, the contact deliberate, reassuring, and allows his calm to flow back through the connection, cool and steady as water spreading across paper, easing tension without trying to erase it. "You are very welcome," he says softly, the words sincere and unadorned.

When he withdraws, it is unhurried, careful not to make the moment feel abrupt, and he rises once more to gather what he will need. From nearby shelves and drawers he pulls lengths of fine fibre—silk-threaded wefts enchanted for breathability—alongside a small loom designed for detail work, a spool of binding wire that hums faintly with holding magic, and a tin of setting resin that will keep everything secure without weight or heat. He adds a narrow case of carving tools, delicate enough for shaping illusion and structure alike, and a folded length of gauze enchanted to anchor comfortably against skin.

He sets everything out with practiced order, sleeves still rolled, curls damp against his brow, already shifting from planning into making and begins.

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

The movement of his hand covering hers carries with it all the same effect of snuffing out a burning candle. Where discomfort had been chewing through the wick of her days, she feels it suddenly ease in a way that's more than just the promised potential of the craft at hand. It's a rare peace that curls through her, the smoke of worry trailing out with each exhale, breath taken in soft and quiet as she settles into this newfound calm. The rush of it nearly threatens to wet her eyes, but she blinks away that risk with a smile.

This time when he rises, she remains perfectly seated, hands back in her lap as she gazes around at the other curious desks and crafters at work. His return draws her attention back slowly, momentarily engrossed in watching a woman animatedly fluff out a dress around a mannequin, which from what Colt can tell, is meant to change colors with every stray movement—not irridescent or sequined, but like a living blend of every differently colored fiber briefly being given the spotlight. "Let me know if I can be of any help," she offers softly to him, hands briefly rising as if they could be put to use with proper guidance, although she doesn't need the charity of a task, only intending not to be dead weight when she doesn't have to be.

"Although," she says with a quirk to her lips, mischief creeping back in now that the panic has subsided. "I do need to ask you something else, and I'm afraid it makes me sound terribly needy," she laughs faintly at the jab, but she is aware that for all her reluctance to seek help, she finds herself doing it often enough. "This one's more fun, at least, I think so." She shrugs, because maybe he prefers the wig making. "I'm running another rodeo later this month, in King's End, like last year. Would you and Ronin be interested in unseating more cowboys?"

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi hums softly in acknowledgement of Colt's offer, already easing back into the rhythm of his work, though the truth of it is clear enough in the way his hands move with quiet efficiency; there is not much for her to do here, and he does not pretend otherwise. When she speaks again, though, something else in her tone draws him up short. He straightens a little, brows lifting into his curls as his attention shifts fully back to her, curiosity brightening his seaglass gaze.

"Oh?" he murmurs, the single syllable warm and lightly amused, before his eyes narrow just a touch as she anticipates herself. There is a playful edge to his look now, fond rather than suspicious. "More fun, you say."

At the mention of the rodeo, a low chuckle slips from him almost without permission, breathy and surprised, as his hands continue their careful work. The wig is nearly complete now, structure settled, fibres responding beautifully to the magic threaded through them, falling into place as though they have always known where they belong. "We have actually been staying in Meadowreach," he says, tone conversational, before tilting his head and amending it with a soft huff of laughter. "Well. Squatting is probably a more honest word for it."

He shakes his head faintly, smile lingering as he considers. "If it is only for a few hours," he adds, glancing up at her then, fingers still smoothing the final details into place, "I think we could risk it." There is a pause after that, brief but intentional, his gaze holding hers as though weighing whether to say the next part now or not at all. In the end, he chooses honesty, offered simply. "We have...taken advantage of the baby patch," he explains gently, the words careful but unmistakably pleased. "So we are expecting." The admission is quiet, almost understated, but the warmth beneath it is unmistakable, settling into the space between them as the last threads of the wig fall into place under his hands.

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Ain't had time to miss you since you been gone, it's been nothing but neon

The ease with which his chuckles come bites her smile deeper into the side of her cheek, his simple joy contagious. She's watching him carefully though, drifting from the way his hands pull a familiar sight back into being, however foreign it truly is, and the slow read of his answer that his face should tell before his tongue does. What he offers instead takes her a bit by surprise. "I think the better term is camping," she offers for him, features cut into amusement at his confession. "Well, if I'd known we'd be neighbors, I'd have gotten you a...squat warming gift." A chair, perhaps, would be proper in this case.

Although this begs the question of why, and it need not be for long. Plenty of time to muddy it all with some confusion first, and his initial description of time and risks has her tilting her head with the effort of following this trail of thought. "Risking...your...squat? Why," she gasps, a hand sneaking up to her mouth in dramatic fashion for the drama amid the meadows she's not privy to. "Is your, uh, spot a prime one? Have to defend it?" If only she knew that's exactly the case, but rather than a cutthroat housing market he's beating back cattle and rabbits.

She tries to assemble it too soon, the pieces there but not quite fitting, not until he offers up the last tidbit of truth. It's weighted with his quiet for a moment, and she leans in, expecting scandal. What comes next is so startlingly different that she can't keep back the bright, quick laugh that escapes. "Oh gods," she exclaims with eyes widening around understanding, her posture tilting back into something less gossipy and more soft. "That was the last thing I thought you were going to say, but that is wonderful news. Congratulations to you both," she says warmly, smile extending it further as she settles in her seat. "Well, by all means, don't fuck up your baby's growth on account of a rodeo, but if you need any help or supplies while you're here, don't hesitate to drop a line. Can't say I'm too experienced in that department," that being both plants and children, "but I do know a thing or two about corraling wild things." Usually to keep them in, rather than out, but she imagines the premise is similar.

Colt

Ain't been breaking down, I've been breaking in this heartbreak right

REMI

the bastion

What good are hands
if there's nothing that they hold

Remi lets Colt run through the full arc of it—jest, mock horror, dawning understanding—without interrupting, his smile edging wider with each turn until it settles into something lopsided and boyishly pleased, one dimple deepening as her laughter finally breaks. He dips his head at her congratulations, warmth colouring his expression in a way that feels quietly earned. "Thank you," he says, sincerely. "I did not think I would ever be lucky enough to have more children. So..yes, I am very excited."

At her talk of corralling, his brows lift, eyes brightening with playful interest. "Oh, you corral them?" he repeats, the word rolled with mock seriousness before he exhales a theatrical sigh. "Well. That would explain where Ronin and I have been going wrong." His shoulders rise in an easy shrug as a soft chuckle escapes him. "We have simply been turning into monstrous beasts and chasing away anything that gets too close" His humour eases, just a touch, as he adds more earnestly, "If any of that ever affects your ranch, though..I am sorry."

Remi reaches for the finished wig then and holds it up for her to see properly, the blonde catching the light with natural variation rather than shine. "All right," he murmurs, stepping closer only once she is ready, patient as she settles it into place. He makes a few careful adjustments—nudging the front, smoothing where it meets skin, ensuring it sits comfortably and true—his touch light and precise. "It should not sweat, and it should not move," he explains gently. "You can tug at it a fair bit before it will come loose. And if you do want to take it off," he adds, pointing to the front edge, "just lift it here. It will release easily."

Any final tweaks are made without fuss, colour and fit refined until the result feels finished rather than temporary. Stepping back, Remi gives a small, satisfied nod. "I think that will do nicely." His gaze lifts to her again, smile returning, softer this time. "And we will do our best to make it to your rodeo. It was quite fun last year."

~FIN

And what good are hearts
if you bury them all alone?

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!