He ducks into the darkness of the alleyway, emboldened by years of feeling downright invincible. Besides, nothing truly bad ever happens here; it's probably only— ]
—Clea?
[ He squints. ]
Did you follow me? Maman is going to kill us both if she catches us here.
[ Well, no. He'll blame Clea if it comes down to that. ]
[ She had followed him. From a distance, so she could pretend that he is nobody in particular. She'd gotten good at following people in the days since her brother had died; stalking the Writers' known associates through the streets without being noticed.
He is the key. Defacing Lumiere, as personally satisfying as it is (not that Clea expects Aline to care), isn't helping the situation. Clea is actually somewhat surprised: Aline is keeping the alterations. Then again, Renoir had always been the one with control issues - Aline must value the illusion so much she refuses to claim her power.
Ridiculous.
And so it has to be him. Any of the others, she would simply erase and remake.
Which is why Clea is in an alleyway that should not exist, following a man who should not exist.
Then he - it, Clea reminds herself with forced detachment - speaks to her and it is impossible to pretend any longer. Speaks with a voice that Clea is never supposed to hear again, a voice that is false as a siren's song is false and yet, like the sailors in the tale, a part of her is tempted to throw herself upon the rocky shore. To say 'yes' to his question, to enter into one of the conspiratorial conversation she and her brother had so many times before as they plotted ways to bend their parents to their will. To let herself be regarded with fondness, instead of looked at with Renoir's vacant eyes or, worse, Aline and Alicia's unseeing ones.
She cannot. She must harden her heart. She must listen to a different part of herself: The part that wants to recoil in disgust, knowing this thing cannot be her brother and yet it effortlessly wears his face. Aline had excised and dismissed the portions of him that did not involve her: This 'Verso' is completely devoid of any conversation they'd had out of Maman's earshot, devoid of all the aspects of himself he hid from Aline lest he raise her ire. Devoid of his moments with Alicia, Renoir, and the people of the city. Does she think so little of her son, that a hollowed out copy will satisfy her as long as her whims are met? Is that what they all are to Aline? Extensions of her and nothing more? How could she love her favorite so shallowly that any part of him could be expendable?
On the heels of the disgust, there is rage. That Aline would create a version of Verso ignorant of his and Clea's personal history here, in their Canvas, where their adventures and their conversations and their arguments are written into the skies themselves.
There is always rage now, roaring and whispering in equal measure, never abating. Even in sleep, it calls to Clea, urging her to defend herself. To defend them. Reminding her that as they grieve their enemies plan.
Her body has gone rigid, every muscle involuntarily tense, and Clea has crossed her arms over her chest in her characteristic tell of discomfort, fingers digging in to her arms so deeply they would leave marks if she weren't in a Canvas. She angles herself away from it and refuses to meet its eyes: They have to speak or she can't accomplish what she needs to accomplish, but she cannot make herself hide her pain or anger.
Clea's jaw sets while at the same time something in her eyes softens, the combination a sign that the woman is about to make herself do something that will hurt: It is the facial expression she wore as a child dancing on a sprained ankle to please Aline, or when she'd hurt herself learning her sculpting tools and had stoically bandaged her hand to keep working. When she'd waded into ice cold waters to retrieve Esquie when they were children, shivering and blue by the time she emerged but victorious in her quest. ]
Yes and no. I need to speak with you.
[ This needed to be tended to as quickly as possible. It is a complete and utter waste of time. ]
[ The expression on her face is somewhat familiar, albeit not quite right to his eyes; the Clea he's accustomed to is less severe, certainly warmer. It pings worry instantly — Clea has always been wound a bit more tightly than he is, but she looks so rigid now that surely something terrible must have happened. Instantly, he's overcome with the desire to fix it the only way he knows how. ]
If it's about Papa's surprise party, [ he says, voice forcibly light, ] I think he already suspects us.
[ It's a silly idea, anyway, that Papa could ever really be surprised. He seems to know everything. Honestly, Verso gets the feeling that he's just humoring them so that they can feel they've pulled one over on him.
But Clea's coiled far too tight for that to be the real reason she's here. Verso does a quick mental run through the family: Alicia was reading last he saw, and Papa and Maman were relaxing by the fire, as horrifically over-affectionate as they always are. If not something related to the family, he can't imagine what could ever make Clea look so— harsh.
He takes a step forward, fingertips brushing lightly against her arm. She's always been his protector, not the other way around, but perhaps it's time they reversed those roles. ]
Aline's youngest child is fighting to breathe, her favorite child is dead, and her husband is a wreck, and she's in a canvas having parties. Clea's vision nearly goes white with rage, entire body tense and rigid. She grits her teeth, forcing back tempting mental images of marching up to Maman's cocoon and setting it ablaze. Of slapping Aline across the face. Or perhaps setting all of 'Lumiere' on fire and hand delivering Aline a fiddle for a 'birthday' present.
She exhales through her nose, trying to calm herself.
Only to jerk away violently when Verso touches her, reacting to his fingers as though they burn. In a way, they do. His fingers burn, the concern in his voice burns... every little thing about him is a burning needle stuck through her heart. Verso is dead. He's never going to talk again, never going to try not to laugh at her snide aside comments, never going to speak to Alicia in that coddling tone. He's never going to touch anyone again. His fingers are never going to rest on the piano keys he'd loved again.
Verso. Is. Dead.
Clea does force herself to look at it. God, it's uncanny. She wants to believe, but no. She can't. Parts of him are missing and gone. This is a freakish puppet.
There are so many ways she could approach this, but Clea has always favored directness. ]
Verso-
[ Using his name makes her stomach roil in her gut. This is wrong. ]
When we played together as children, what did we do?
[ There is one family of his memories Aline did not - could not - give to her puppet. Because if 'Verso' knew about the Canvas, knew why the stars were as they are, knew how Esquie, Francois, and the gestrals had come to be, he would know where he was. ]
[ "He's still breathing!" Maelle says, and it's like having a bucket of ice water poured over him. Verso hesitates for a moment, but Maelle is already begging him to help her get Gustave up and to safety. Given that she's a tiny sixteen-year-old girl, Verso ends up having to bear all of Gustave's (not-quite-)dead weight as he drags his body to Esquie, and then camp. He's coated in Gustave's blood by then, and while Lune tends to the worst of Gustave's wounds, he absconds down to the river and furiously scrubs at his hands, takes off his coat and soaks it until the water runs red.
"You have... something on your face," Sciel points out awkwardly when he returns, gesturing to a spot on his jaw where he'd accidentally brushed bloodied fingertips.
Although it's a bit touch-and-go for a moment, with Lune's healing and their tints they're able to bring Gustave back into the land of the living, although even a couple of days later he's still not well enough to travel, according to the others. (Verso suggests that they really should get going, and they remind him that Gustave just got run clean through with a sword.)
It's easy enough to avoid the feeling of guilt when Gustave is in and out of lucidity, but he's firmly coherent now, if still a little indisposed. He'd lost a lot of blood, Lune explains, and his abdomen is still stitching itself back together again. At least another day of rest, if not more. Verso avoids being near him as much as possible during this time, offering to fetch water and forage for mushrooms and oh, I just remembered I have to go polish my sword.
Until now— Gustave's healing has stalled, apparently, and the girls are afraid that it's gotten infected. (Not surprising, given that he's been hanging around in the wilderness.) Verso, of course, pipes up that there's an antibacterial poultice he knows how to make, if they'd just let him go scavenge for the ingredients. "You could use some rest, too," Sciel points out, "and besides, it'll go faster if the three of us split up. You keep an eye on Gustave while we're gone."
So, that's how he ends up babysitting an injured Gustave. Verso hasn't spoken more than three words to him since the Stone Wave Cliffs, and he feels incredibly awkward doing so now. When he approaches Gustave where he's propped up against a log, he stops a noticeable distance away, hands on his hips. There's still a faint trace of dried red blood over his uniform. ]
The, uh, others went out looking for poultice ingredients. [ ... ] They'll be back soon.
[ He presses his mouth into a thin line. God, this is physically painful. A moment of silence stretches out, just long enough to be uncomfortable, before he says: ]
[ For a little while, Gustave had almost wished that he had died.
It turns out, being stabbed really, really hurts. It also hurts after the stabbing, when you're being moved around and jostled, and you're trying to stare at the stranger who apparently helped save your life while also not squashing your sister-figure under the weight of your probably-dying body. Everything hurts, from his head to the horrible wound in his gut to the footsteps he takes before he's lying down, and then the hurt dissolved into a lot of sleeping and a lot of wishing he could just stand up and get moving.
The problem with not being able to move is that he's stuck in his own thoughts, and while it might be nice to have the others treating him nicely because of the aftereffects of defending Maelle with his life, he loathes the fact that he's keeping them stationary instead of continuing their expedition forward. Their days are numbered, literally, and there's only so much time they have left before it all runs out and everything goes to shit - more than it already has.
Maelle is more worried than he's ever seen her, making jokes about his old bones and whatever else to make her feel better, but he can see it. Lune and Sciel are being more pleasant than usual, perhaps worried that he could die any day and their last words to him might have been scathing or sarcastic. And Verso? The stranger who swept in just in time to save Maelle and himself? They've barely had a single conversation, and he's beginning to think it's intentional.
Well, he thinks to himself. Sorry, for getting stabbed. I'll duck and roll next time. The hoarse laugh makes his ribs ache.
Left alone now, aching and shivering from the strange fever wracking his body, he stares up at Verso with tired eyes before he waves his flesh arm, trying to shrug it off - and doing very little more than making himself groan, his entire body still feeling sore despite the pictos, the healing and the kindness of his friends. Merde. ]
... Thanks. I think I remember hearing it.
[ He keeps passing out. It's not good, but... Lifting his head, his expression softens a little at the offer.
An olive branch...? Maybe. ]
Water would be good, thanks... Verso, right?
[ Because they haven't actually spoken yet. He doesn't mean to be a jerk about it, but it just slips out. ]
[ Verso crouches down to retrieve the waterskin from his pack. The reminder that he's been avoiding Gustave at all costs makes his ears turn red, although luckily they're hidden beneath the hair that he took ten minutes to properly 'tousle' this morning. A little bit of paranoia niggles at him—has Gustave noticed that he's nervous and uncomfortable around him, and does he suspect why? Was he compos mentis enough in the moments after his stabbing to feel the anxious reluctance in Verso's body as he hoisted him up?
He has to venture closer in order to give him the water, and he does so with as much nonchalance as he can manage. It's strange being up close and personal with someone he'd only ever seen through the windows in Lumière and from a safe distance on the Continent. Verso crouches again, eyes trained somewhere on Gustave's chin as he holds out the waterskin. ]
Fabien, actually, [ he says, an extremely poor and unfunny attempt at a joke, because he's so deeply uncomfortable he feels like he might crawl out of his own skin.
Esquie, the only other living being currently at camp, calls over from where he's perched, watching the waves, "That's not true, Verver! Be nice to my new friend!" ]
Verso. Yes. I was there when...
[ He trails off. Better not to bring up any details of that night. ]
I carried you back.
[ Your metal arm is heavy, he thinks, but doesn't say. ]
Well, you know what they say; art is best done in the dark, when you can't see what you're doing.
[ No one says that. Having to draw by moonlight is a little irritating, but at least it means he doesn't have to clean the empty bottles of alcohol out of his tent yet. ]
Until then, my friend.
[ True to his word, he's there in the clearing after most of their campmates have retired to their tents. Astarion is lucky that Verso is an inveterate insomniac, or he'd be annoyed about having to lose sleep, too. As it is, he's not particularly put out. If it weren't this, he'd just be lying awake in his bedroll or penning some embarrassing poetry. Really, this is probably the least pathetic way he's spent his night in a while.
He holds his notebook and pencil to his chest, raising an eyebrow at Astarion when he approaches. ]
Before we start, I want proof of life of my hairbrush.
[ To quote some mischievous children he heard the other day: ]
That sounds like a skill issue.
[ Not his fault you don't have darkvision, Verso. Git gud.
Similarly, Verso's lack of sleep is hardly his problem or remotely his concern. It isn't as if he would be the only one haunted by visions behind closed lids anyway. All that matters is that he's lucid enough to uphold his end of the bargain.
Despite the half-assed attempt he made at bartering--more for amusement than looking for any true reward--Verso incidentally offers him something far more valuable than a days worth of gold. He's suspicious this is just going to fall apart with Astarion being the butt of the joke. But he's curious enough to put his pride on the line for the night.
He was being very honest about giving the brush to the owlbear cub.
As such, Astarion pulls said hairbrush out of the gods know where with a flourish. He gives a silly little wiggle, flips it once not unlike he does with his knives when he's bored, and a testing sweep through his curls as if to prove its sustained functionality. ]
Still perfectly happy with its newest companion.
[ And away it goes. ]
And still perfectly capable of becoming a favored chew toy.
[ He eyes the notebook as he steps closer, motioning at it with a limp wrist. ]
Before we begin, do you have any samples of your past works?
[ Well, he'll try not to think about where in the world Astarion could be keeping that hairbrush, given the tightness of his pants.
Luckily (or unluckily, perhaps, for Astarion's entertainment), the tension between them is primarily one-sided; it's just a hairbrush, and he's not looking to make waves over a little bit of light theft. Besides, Astarion is— well. Not nice, but he can be witty, and he gets the job done with a dagger or a lockpick. Verso's learning to let the insults roll off of his back in the name of teamwork.
Somewhere between amused and exasperated: ] Do you always give people who are offering you free things the third degree?
[ Some people would pay good money for a commissioned sketch! He lays a protective palm over the cover of his notebook. ]
My notebook is... private.
[ Not a lot of traditional art in there, anyway. A lot more overwrought poetry about the agony of being alive, et cetera. Verso takes a slow, performative step back. ]
If that means you're no longer interested in a portrait... [ He trails off, obviously waiting for Astarion to cut him off. ]
Where does he even begin? They aren't 'skills' as such; it's just that everything about an Expedition has become so repetitive as to be second nature by now. He's done everything there is to do, again and again and again. ]
Well, Mlle. Hiring Manager, I have 67 years of experience in navigating the Continent. Doesn't that count for something?
Edited (STOP DONT REPLY YET SHES A MADEMOISELLE) 2025-10-30 00:02 (UTC)
From...the Canvas. Sciel isn't an overthinker, but neither do these revelations completely run of her like water off a duck's back. So she focuses on her task, on the fact that she's going to see her fucking husband again, (for real this time, not just possibly in the afterlife), and pushes on.
As a result of the urgency, though, there is some breaking of protocol. Even Lune doesn't protest, though: it's difficult to argue in favor of guidelines that were built without knowing all that they know now. So as they pass through an area with the flags of former Expeditions (Frozen Hearts, this time), nobody really argues when the plan to split up and scout is proposed. It's the fastest way to identify any larger quantities of bodies, to be able to call them out to Maelle, and so off they go.
The dangers of the area are still very much present, but...well, you gain a certain perspective once you've seemingly defeated a god, become unmade, and then been resurrected. Sciel is less concerned with death than ever.
...Even so. Though she's able to avoid most of the Nevrons in the area, moving quietly past them as she makes a wide loop in search of corpses, it's the environment itself that proves to be the bigger threat. Sciel is just about to head back, noting the impending disappearance of the sun, when she takes one wrong step. The seemingly-innocuous snow bank beneath her foot collapses where it'd been obscuring a thin layer of ice, and before she can makes sense of what's happening, she's slipping into the pit it concealed. Though she thinks immediately to summon her weapon and drive it into the walls to stop the fall, the width is not enough space to allow it, and she's quickly crashing into the ground below.
Fortunately it wasn't a chasm, and she isn't dead. Less fortunately: her attempt to slow the descent left a long, nasty gash across her dominant arm, and she grits her teeth furiously against its searing pain.
Sciel looks up to the surface of the hole, calculating the distance, thinking of her inability to easily use her weapon as leverage and the bloodied stretch of her arm. She looks down at the damage done by the rock and ice and grimaces, rooting around in her pack for a healing tint, which...right. The last of which had been downed after a Danseuse's fire strike had caught her across her back. ]
Putain de merde. [ "Why don't we use radios" would be her first question once she made it back to camp, after...figuring out how to escape with a nasty injury and the sky darkening overhead... ]
Edited (too much leg :l) 2025-10-30 16:30 (UTC)
unfortunately, verso cannot help with this as he only does legs. sorry
[ The sun goes down, and Sciel is nowhere to be found. Although their relationship—if one can call it that, now—has certainly cooled with the promise of Pierre's return, her conspicuous absence still troubles Verso (along with the rest of their crew). It's unlike her to fuck off without telling anyone, and the Frozen Hearts is chilly enough that it's difficult to imagine her wanting to linger. The decision to split up and look for her is made quickly; each of them knows that Sciel would do the same for them, so it's not difficult to commit to returning the favor.
His coat is enough to fend off the worst of the cold during the day, but it's freezing without the sun to counteract the chill of the snow. Verso wraps his arms around himself, teeth chattering, the only reason he's still out here the fact that he knows Sciel must be freezing, too. ]
Merde, [ he curses anyway, fantasizing about asking Lune to immolate him when he gets back to camp. ] Sciel? Can you hear me?
[ She isn't dead. Yet. But in spite of her training and experience as an Expeditioner, she's also still decidedly in the bottom of the icy pit, slowly freezing.
Her scythe had, in fact, proven impossible as a point of leverage. She'd considered trying to use her cards as footholds, possibly anchoring them in place in the walls with concentrated Chroma, but that hadn't worked either. And in the meantime, staving off hypothermia has proven difficult: without any of the others' abilities to generate fire, she's been largely at the mercy of the elements.
At least there's no wind down here, but...it's a grim silver lining. ]
Dammit. [ She sighs heavily, leaning her head against the frigid wall at her back. It'd be...so nice to just stop for a minute, but she knows better. Has to resist the urge to rest in any way that might become eternal.
...Time feels nebulous. Her thoughts, too. She keeps pushing herself to come up with more ideas, try new things, but her body and mind have both slowed.
At some point she hears a voice. Hears her own name. Swallowing, she opens the eyes she hadn't meant to close. The voice...is Pierre's, and he's taking her home, just like she knew would happen.
No, it isn't. Wake up. Sciel shifts, frowning unhappily at the chastisement of her own internal monologue. ]
Fine. [ She mutters. It'd be best to call out in reply, but that feels impossible. So she snaps a card into existence, hoping that this can be the next best thing, and sends it shooting up above the pit where it bursts in a flourish, like a flare.
It may attract a Nevron sooner than a rescue, in which case she'd be fish in a barrel. But she has to try what may be her last-ditch effort. ]
[ The following day, spent in a strange world without a word from what he would consider his only friend at the moment, is lonely—but it's lonely in a way Verso is acutely familiar with, and it almost feels as if he's back in that ramshackle hut (damn bitch, you live like this?) he'd been relegated to after leaving the family manor, reading books and staring at the walls to pass the endless time. That night, he dreams for the first time in a decade, of red flower petals and Julie's face as he laid her body down in the grass.
It's a relief to have something else to focus on upon waking. He tousles and re-tousles his hair about five times, runs a thumb down the blackened scar cutting across his eye. When he dresses, he does his best to recreate what he's seen other men wearing, although male Alethi clothing is just a shade too long for him, and he has to roll up the cuffs of his pants to make them fit properly. He's never once been insecure about his height until now.
Having to peer up at the guard Jasnah sends while they walk doesn't help matters. He's inclined to ask for information about Jasnah and her family, but he doesn't; she would be irritated at the nosiness, he imagines, and there's little chance it wouldn't get back to her. ]
Sorry, [ is his easy reply when she finally deigns to acknowledge his presence, tilting his head again in that not-quite-a-bow. ] I got caught up in sharing what I'd read about the Oathgates with my new friend here.
[ In preparation, he'd flipped to the index of the book she'd lent him and skipped to any page mentioning Oathgates. ]
Once used by knights. Fascinating stuff.
[ Verso looks not unlike a teacher's pet expecting a gold star for his good work. ]
[ jasnah turns and regards him for a long, appraising moment — the kind that feels both like attention and judgment. tone light, but it carries the faint hum of approval beneath the polish. ]
You're learning. A commendable start.
[ the ghost of a smile touches her mouth — there and gone, as if she's already regretted it. she steps closer to the nearest oathgate, the one that leads to the shattered plains in particular. her gloveless hand rises, palm brushing through the air in a slow, deliberate gesture. she breathes in — drawing in stormlight from a brazier on the wall filled with glowing spheres. as their light fades, the irises of her eyes begin to glow faintly. when she speaks next, a mist seems to leak from her lips. stormlight, escaping. ]
Yes, as you read, they were used by the Knights Radiant before their orders disappeared. A living blade is required, like a key, to operate the mechanism.
[ in the space between one heartbeat and the next, light pools around her fingers, brightening into lines that curve and intersect — geometry turning into presence. ivory manifests in her hand as a sword, long and slender. ]
The text I lent you is somewhat — outdated. [ the knights radiant have returned, for one. ] We rediscovered the oathgates less than a year ago.
[ jasnah didn't call her sword to boast or brag or posture. like she said, the mechanism requires a shardblade to function. she strides into the control room, slotting the sword into hole at its center.
and, waiting for him to join him inside the ten-pointed star etched onto the ground, she adds: ]
Then consider me your devoted student, professeure.
[ It's as much habitual charm as it is sincerity. There's something special about learning once again, about having things to learn. Life, for so many years, has felt like the same cycle over and over again; taking the same people on the same doomed journey year after year, watching them die again and again. Even battle had grown rote and predictable. The unhappiness he'd felt had almost seemed a reprieve from the boredom.
He's spent a long time being a glorified tour guide, all of the wonder sucked out of the world. It's nice to be on the other side of things for once.
Verso steps into the star alongside her, wondering briefly if this is safe only because he'd hate to have to piece himself back together in front of Jasnah. ]
[ Let it be said that Verso still feels sort of bad about this. It's not, strictly speaking, right. But it's— a moral grey area. Gustave hadn't felt taken advantage of, wants this of his own free will. He's had casual entanglements with Expeditioners before. The only thing that makes this one different is that he let Gustave get stabbed.
Probably a big difference.
But he tries not to think about that as he sits propped up against a tree a few minutes' walk from camp, hair very purposefully tousled and collar artfully rumpled. There's lots of benefits to doing this. Good stress relief. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to solidify Gustave's trust. And he'll never have to deal with the consequences, seeing as how they'll all be consigned to oblivion soon anyway, if he gets his way.
So, he poses attractively against the tree trunk, in a way that he hopes screams 'sexy, but not like I care'. ]
[ It's very artful, Gustave thinks, as he steps into the clearing and sees Verso waiting for him.
This probably isn't a sensible idea, given their proximity and the likelihood of their incoming death, but that makes him feel as if there's all the more reason to do it. He's already almost died once, so it's not that far away, not a foreign concept, and if he's going to die in this fight he'd rather die having had a little bit of fun. That's what niggles in the back of his mind, pressuring him gently.
Plus, he likes Verso. Thinks he's fine, and handsome, and funny, and unfortunately quite charming. It makes it easier.
Shaking his head, he puts the plate of food down on a nearby rock, his lips curling ever so gently. ]
Bonsoir, mon ami. [ He looks so effortlessly sexy it's actually pissing Gustave off a little bit, but in a way that makes him want to be equally sexy. ] Did you want to eat now?
Not really, honestly. Sure, he's a little hungry, but the pangs of a skipped meal are just background noise now that he's worked himself up in excitement for getting to touch another human person for a second time in years. It's selfish, but he wouldn't mind if he walked headfirst into oblivion without being incredibly pent-up.
Besides, the last time he'd felt— halting. Uncertain. Worried he was about to dislodge something load-bearing in their group and have the consequences come tumbling down on him. Now that they've discussed it very maturely like adults (with excessive euphemism), he's less concerned about this fucking things up with Gustave and consequently the whole group. Really, the only thing he needs to worry about now is answering for this in the afterlife, and he's relatively confident that Paintings just dissolve into chroma. The point being, this time is going to be even better. ]
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@repaintress
And then, one day, the music shop that he frequents is simply gone. The next night, the constellation that he plans to point out to Maman looks reshaped entirely. A week later, a friend asks what Verso thinks the imposing new building in the square is for, and isn't it odd that he doesn't remember it being constructed? All of this seems to throw Maman into a fit, which is not exactly unexpected considering how fragile she can be, but is concerning all the same. She seems positively perturbed by the idea of anything that she can't explain happening in Lumiére, and although she asks the family not to mention it again, Verso finds himself longing to find an explanation that will set her mind at ease.
So, he lies (of course) and tells her that he's going to the opera house with a friend, but instead he heads toward the strange new building he's heard about. It doesn't quite fit with the rest of the architecture in Lumiére, he finds; it's a bit dark, a bit gnarled. Almost a little scary. The shadow he swears he sees moving in the alley doesn't help assuage that perception.
He ducks into the darkness of the alleyway, emboldened by years of feeling downright invincible. Besides, nothing truly bad ever happens here; it's probably only— ]
—Clea?
[ He squints. ]
Did you follow me? Maman is going to kill us both if she catches us here.
[ Well, no. He'll blame Clea if it comes down to that. ]
no subject
He is the key. Defacing Lumiere, as personally satisfying as it is (not that Clea expects Aline to care), isn't helping the situation. Clea is actually somewhat surprised: Aline is keeping the alterations. Then again, Renoir had always been the one with control issues - Aline must value the illusion so much she refuses to claim her power.
Ridiculous.
And so it has to be him. Any of the others, she would simply erase and remake.
Which is why Clea is in an alleyway that should not exist, following a man who should not exist.
Then he - it, Clea reminds herself with forced detachment - speaks to her and it is impossible to pretend any longer. Speaks with a voice that Clea is never supposed to hear again, a voice that is false as a siren's song is false and yet, like the sailors in the tale, a part of her is tempted to throw herself upon the rocky shore. To say 'yes' to his question, to enter into one of the conspiratorial conversation she and her brother had so many times before as they plotted ways to bend their parents to their will. To let herself be regarded with fondness, instead of looked at with Renoir's vacant eyes or, worse, Aline and Alicia's unseeing ones.
She cannot. She must harden her heart. She must listen to a different part of herself: The part that wants to recoil in disgust, knowing this thing cannot be her brother and yet it effortlessly wears his face. Aline had excised and dismissed the portions of him that did not involve her: This 'Verso' is completely devoid of any conversation they'd had out of Maman's earshot, devoid of all the aspects of himself he hid from Aline lest he raise her ire. Devoid of his moments with Alicia, Renoir, and the people of the city. Does she think so little of her son, that a hollowed out copy will satisfy her as long as her whims are met? Is that what they all are to Aline? Extensions of her and nothing more? How could she love her favorite so shallowly that any part of him could be expendable?
On the heels of the disgust, there is rage. That Aline would create a version of Verso ignorant of his and Clea's personal history here, in their Canvas, where their adventures and their conversations and their arguments are written into the skies themselves.
There is always rage now, roaring and whispering in equal measure, never abating. Even in sleep, it calls to Clea, urging her to defend herself. To defend them. Reminding her that as they grieve their enemies plan.
Her body has gone rigid, every muscle involuntarily tense, and Clea has crossed her arms over her chest in her characteristic tell of discomfort, fingers digging in to her arms so deeply they would leave marks if she weren't in a Canvas. She angles herself away from it and refuses to meet its eyes: They have to speak or she can't accomplish what she needs to accomplish, but she cannot make herself hide her pain or anger.
Clea's jaw sets while at the same time something in her eyes softens, the combination a sign that the woman is about to make herself do something that will hurt: It is the facial expression she wore as a child dancing on a sprained ankle to please Aline, or when she'd hurt herself learning her sculpting tools and had stoically bandaged her hand to keep working. When she'd waded into ice cold waters to retrieve Esquie when they were children, shivering and blue by the time she emerged but victorious in her quest. ]
Yes and no. I need to speak with you.
[ This needed to be tended to as quickly as possible. It is a complete and utter waste of time. ]
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If it's about Papa's surprise party, [ he says, voice forcibly light, ] I think he already suspects us.
[ It's a silly idea, anyway, that Papa could ever really be surprised. He seems to know everything. Honestly, Verso gets the feeling that he's just humoring them so that they can feel they've pulled one over on him.
But Clea's coiled far too tight for that to be the real reason she's here. Verso does a quick mental run through the family: Alicia was reading last he saw, and Papa and Maman were relaxing by the fire, as horrifically over-affectionate as they always are. If not something related to the family, he can't imagine what could ever make Clea look so— harsh.
He takes a step forward, fingertips brushing lightly against her arm. She's always been his protector, not the other way around, but perhaps it's time they reversed those roles. ]
Hey, look at me. What's the matter?
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Aline's youngest child is fighting to breathe, her favorite child is dead, and her husband is a wreck, and she's in a canvas having parties. Clea's vision nearly goes white with rage, entire body tense and rigid. She grits her teeth, forcing back tempting mental images of marching up to Maman's cocoon and setting it ablaze. Of slapping Aline across the face. Or perhaps setting all of 'Lumiere' on fire and hand delivering Aline a fiddle for a 'birthday' present.
She exhales through her nose, trying to calm herself.
Only to jerk away violently when Verso touches her, reacting to his fingers as though they burn. In a way, they do. His fingers burn, the concern in his voice burns... every little thing about him is a burning needle stuck through her heart. Verso is dead. He's never going to talk again, never going to try not to laugh at her snide aside comments, never going to speak to Alicia in that coddling tone. He's never going to touch anyone again. His fingers are never going to rest on the piano keys he'd loved again.
Verso. Is. Dead.
Clea does force herself to look at it. God, it's uncanny. She wants to believe, but no. She can't. Parts of him are missing and gone. This is a freakish puppet.
There are so many ways she could approach this, but Clea has always favored directness. ]
Verso-
[ Using his name makes her stomach roil in her gut. This is wrong. ]
When we played together as children, what did we do?
[ There is one family of his memories Aline did not - could not - give to her puppet. Because if 'Verso' knew about the Canvas, knew why the stars were as they are, knew how Esquie, Francois, and the gestrals had come to be, he would know where he was. ]
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CLEA!!! she has me frothing at the mouth (complimentary)
:> - sorry this got long
no apologies needed... i am eating it up!!!
om nom nom family drama - you broke her, good job
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@unuttered
"You have... something on your face," Sciel points out awkwardly when he returns, gesturing to a spot on his jaw where he'd accidentally brushed bloodied fingertips.
Although it's a bit touch-and-go for a moment, with Lune's healing and their tints they're able to bring Gustave back into the land of the living, although even a couple of days later he's still not well enough to travel, according to the others. (Verso suggests that they really should get going, and they remind him that Gustave just got run clean through with a sword.)
It's easy enough to avoid the feeling of guilt when Gustave is in and out of lucidity, but he's firmly coherent now, if still a little indisposed. He'd lost a lot of blood, Lune explains, and his abdomen is still stitching itself back together again. At least another day of rest, if not more. Verso avoids being near him as much as possible during this time, offering to fetch water and forage for mushrooms and oh, I just remembered I have to go polish my sword.
Until now— Gustave's healing has stalled, apparently, and the girls are afraid that it's gotten infected. (Not surprising, given that he's been hanging around in the wilderness.) Verso, of course, pipes up that there's an antibacterial poultice he knows how to make, if they'd just let him go scavenge for the ingredients. "You could use some rest, too," Sciel points out, "and besides, it'll go faster if the three of us split up. You keep an eye on Gustave while we're gone."
So, that's how he ends up babysitting an injured Gustave. Verso hasn't spoken more than three words to him since the Stone Wave Cliffs, and he feels incredibly awkward doing so now. When he approaches Gustave where he's propped up against a log, he stops a noticeable distance away, hands on his hips. There's still a faint trace of dried red blood over his uniform. ]
The, uh, others went out looking for poultice ingredients. [ ... ] They'll be back soon.
[ He presses his mouth into a thin line. God, this is physically painful. A moment of silence stretches out, just long enough to be uncomfortable, before he says: ]
Water?
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It turns out, being stabbed really, really hurts. It also hurts after the stabbing, when you're being moved around and jostled, and you're trying to stare at the stranger who apparently helped save your life while also not squashing your sister-figure under the weight of your probably-dying body. Everything hurts, from his head to the horrible wound in his gut to the footsteps he takes before he's lying down, and then the hurt dissolved into a lot of sleeping and a lot of wishing he could just stand up and get moving.
The problem with not being able to move is that he's stuck in his own thoughts, and while it might be nice to have the others treating him nicely because of the aftereffects of defending Maelle with his life, he loathes the fact that he's keeping them stationary instead of continuing their expedition forward. Their days are numbered, literally, and there's only so much time they have left before it all runs out and everything goes to shit - more than it already has.
Maelle is more worried than he's ever seen her, making jokes about his old bones and whatever else to make her feel better, but he can see it. Lune and Sciel are being more pleasant than usual, perhaps worried that he could die any day and their last words to him might have been scathing or sarcastic. And Verso? The stranger who swept in just in time to save Maelle and himself? They've barely had a single conversation, and he's beginning to think it's intentional.
Well, he thinks to himself. Sorry, for getting stabbed. I'll duck and roll next time. The hoarse laugh makes his ribs ache.
Left alone now, aching and shivering from the strange fever wracking his body, he stares up at Verso with tired eyes before he waves his flesh arm, trying to shrug it off - and doing very little more than making himself groan, his entire body still feeling sore despite the pictos, the healing and the kindness of his friends. Merde. ]
... Thanks. I think I remember hearing it.
[ He keeps passing out. It's not good, but... Lifting his head, his expression softens a little at the offer.
An olive branch...? Maybe. ]
Water would be good, thanks... Verso, right?
[ Because they haven't actually spoken yet. He doesn't mean to be a jerk about it, but it just slips out. ]
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He has to venture closer in order to give him the water, and he does so with as much nonchalance as he can manage. It's strange being up close and personal with someone he'd only ever seen through the windows in Lumière and from a safe distance on the Continent. Verso crouches again, eyes trained somewhere on Gustave's chin as he holds out the waterskin. ]
Fabien, actually, [ he says, an extremely poor and unfunny attempt at a joke, because he's so deeply uncomfortable he feels like he might crawl out of his own skin.
Esquie, the only other living being currently at camp, calls over from where he's perched, watching the waves, "That's not true, Verver! Be nice to my new friend!" ]
Verso. Yes. I was there when...
[ He trails off. Better not to bring up any details of that night. ]
I carried you back.
[ Your metal arm is heavy, he thinks, but doesn't say. ]
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Well, you know what they say; art is best done in the dark, when you can't see what you're doing.
[ No one says that. Having to draw by moonlight is a little irritating, but at least it means he doesn't have to clean the empty bottles of alcohol out of his tent yet. ]
Until then, my friend.
[ True to his word, he's there in the clearing after most of their campmates have retired to their tents. Astarion is lucky that Verso is an inveterate insomniac, or he'd be annoyed about having to lose sleep, too. As it is, he's not particularly put out. If it weren't this, he'd just be lying awake in his bedroll or penning some embarrassing poetry. Really, this is probably the least pathetic way he's spent his night in a while.
He holds his notebook and pencil to his chest, raising an eyebrow at Astarion when he approaches. ]
Before we start, I want proof of life of my hairbrush.
[ Kidding. (Mostly.) ]
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That sounds like a skill issue.
[ Not his fault you don't have darkvision, Verso. Git gud.
Similarly, Verso's lack of sleep is hardly his problem or remotely his concern. It isn't as if he would be the only one haunted by visions behind closed lids anyway. All that matters is that he's lucid enough to uphold his end of the bargain.
Despite the half-assed attempt he made at bartering--more for amusement than looking for any true reward--Verso incidentally offers him something far more valuable than a days worth of gold. He's suspicious this is just going to fall apart with Astarion being the butt of the joke. But he's curious enough to put his pride on the line for the night.
He was being very honest about giving the brush to the owlbear cub.
As such, Astarion pulls said hairbrush out of the gods know where with a flourish. He gives a silly little wiggle, flips it once not unlike he does with his knives when he's bored, and a testing sweep through his curls as if to prove its sustained functionality. ]
Still perfectly happy with its newest companion.
[ And away it goes. ]
And still perfectly capable of becoming a favored chew toy.
[ He eyes the notebook as he steps closer, motioning at it with a limp wrist. ]
Before we begin, do you have any samples of your past works?
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Luckily (or unluckily, perhaps, for Astarion's entertainment), the tension between them is primarily one-sided; it's just a hairbrush, and he's not looking to make waves over a little bit of light theft. Besides, Astarion is— well. Not nice, but he can be witty, and he gets the job done with a dagger or a lockpick. Verso's learning to let the insults roll off of his back in the name of teamwork.
Somewhere between amused and exasperated: ] Do you always give people who are offering you free things the third degree?
[ Some people would pay good money for a commissioned sketch! He lays a protective palm over the cover of his notebook. ]
My notebook is... private.
[ Not a lot of traditional art in there, anyway. A lot more overwrought poetry about the agony of being alive, et cetera. Verso takes a slow, performative step back. ]
If that means you're no longer interested in a portrait... [ He trails off, obviously waiting for Astarion to cut him off. ]
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sorry for editing 40 minutes later like a freak i picked my phone up again and saw something i hated
no i'm apologizing for writing a lot about a guy just standing
astarion deserves 5 paragraphs every time he so much as blinks!!
don't encourage him!!
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the way i was like obviously he should have been a paladin... pretend i said that instead
paladin verso, my heart cannot take this
oath of [vin diesel voice] family
you got me again with your witty one-liners
i'll be here all week!!
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@savante
[ Um, ] Are you asking for my resume?
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[ Really, is it any surprise, ]
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Where does he even begin? They aren't 'skills' as such; it's just that everything about an Expedition has become so repetitive as to be second nature by now. He's done everything there is to do, again and again and again. ]
Well, Mlle. Hiring Manager, I have 67 years of experience in navigating the Continent. Doesn't that count for something?
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"spooky"
Whether it's because they've all been so thoroughly desensitized or because death isn't death anymore...who knows.
They're on the clock, though. Renoir -- the real one, bizarre as the truth of it all still is -- wields Chroma of his own: the combined energy of the former citizens of Lumiére. Whether he'll stop at that or branch out to gather more isn't clear, so they'd given themselves a set amount of time to prepare before returning to the city to force him from their world for good.
From...the Canvas. Sciel isn't an overthinker, but neither do these revelations completely run of her like water off a duck's back. So she focuses on her task, on the fact that she's going to see her fucking husband again, (for real this time, not just possibly in the afterlife), and pushes on.
As a result of the urgency, though, there is some breaking of protocol. Even Lune doesn't protest, though: it's difficult to argue in favor of guidelines that were built without knowing all that they know now. So as they pass through an area with the flags of former Expeditions (Frozen Hearts, this time), nobody really argues when the plan to split up and scout is proposed. It's the fastest way to identify any larger quantities of bodies, to be able to call them out to Maelle, and so off they go.
The dangers of the area are still very much present, but...well, you gain a certain perspective once you've seemingly defeated a god, become unmade, and then been resurrected. Sciel is less concerned with death than ever.
...Even so. Though she's able to avoid most of the Nevrons in the area, moving quietly past them as she makes a wide loop in search of corpses, it's the environment itself that proves to be the bigger threat. Sciel is just about to head back, noting the impending disappearance of the sun, when she takes one wrong step. The seemingly-innocuous snow bank beneath her foot collapses where it'd been obscuring a thin layer of ice, and before she can makes sense of what's happening, she's slipping into the pit it concealed. Though she thinks immediately to summon her weapon and drive it into the walls to stop the fall, the width is not enough space to allow it, and she's quickly crashing into the ground below.
Fortunately it wasn't a chasm, and she isn't dead. Less fortunately: her attempt to slow the descent left a long, nasty gash across her dominant arm, and she grits her teeth furiously against its searing pain.
Sciel looks up to the surface of the hole, calculating the distance, thinking of her inability to easily use her weapon as leverage and the bloodied stretch of her arm. She looks down at the damage done by the rock and ice and grimaces, rooting around in her pack for a healing tint, which...right. The last of which had been downed after a Danseuse's fire strike had caught her across her back. ]
Putain de merde. [ "Why don't we use radios" would be her first question once she made it back to camp, after...figuring out how to escape with a nasty injury and the sky darkening overhead... ]
unfortunately, verso cannot help with this as he only does legs. sorry
His coat is enough to fend off the worst of the cold during the day, but it's freezing without the sun to counteract the chill of the snow. Verso wraps his arms around himself, teeth chattering, the only reason he's still out here the fact that he knows Sciel must be freezing, too. ]
Merde, [ he curses anyway, fantasizing about asking Lune to immolate him when he gets back to camp. ] Sciel? Can you hear me?
[ He really hopes she isn't dead. ]
ah beans
Her scythe had, in fact, proven impossible as a point of leverage. She'd considered trying to use her cards as footholds, possibly anchoring them in place in the walls with concentrated Chroma, but that hadn't worked either. And in the meantime, staving off hypothermia has proven difficult: without any of the others' abilities to generate fire, she's been largely at the mercy of the elements.
At least there's no wind down here, but...it's a grim silver lining. ]
Dammit. [ She sighs heavily, leaning her head against the frigid wall at her back. It'd be...so nice to just stop for a minute, but she knows better. Has to resist the urge to rest in any way that might become eternal.
...Time feels nebulous. Her thoughts, too. She keeps pushing herself to come up with more ideas, try new things, but her body and mind have both slowed.
At some point she hears a voice. Hears her own name. Swallowing, she opens the eyes she hadn't meant to close. The voice...is Pierre's, and he's taking her home, just like she knew would happen.
No, it isn't. Wake up. Sciel shifts, frowning unhappily at the chastisement of her own internal monologue. ]
Fine. [ She mutters. It'd be best to call out in reply, but that feels impossible. So she snaps a card into existence, hoping that this can be the next best thing, and sends it shooting up above the pit where it bursts in a flourish, like a flare.
It may attract a Nevron sooner than a rescue, in which case she'd be fish in a barrel. But she has to try what may be her last-ditch effort. ]
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sowwy for slow omfg the time blindness got me
girl pls you're preaching to the choir
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i liked the tag better before but ok
do not speak of funf!!
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@elsecall
[ The following day, spent in a strange world without a word from what he would consider his only friend at the moment, is lonely—but it's lonely in a way Verso is acutely familiar with, and it almost feels as if he's back in that ramshackle hut (damn bitch, you live like this?) he'd been relegated to after leaving the family manor, reading books and staring at the walls to pass the endless time. That night, he dreams for the first time in a decade, of red flower petals and Julie's face as he laid her body down in the grass.
It's a relief to have something else to focus on upon waking. He tousles and re-tousles his hair about five times, runs a thumb down the blackened scar cutting across his eye. When he dresses, he does his best to recreate what he's seen other men wearing, although male Alethi clothing is just a shade too long for him, and he has to roll up the cuffs of his pants to make them fit properly. He's never once been insecure about his height until now.
Having to peer up at the guard Jasnah sends while they walk doesn't help matters. He's inclined to ask for information about Jasnah and her family, but he doesn't; she would be irritated at the nosiness, he imagines, and there's little chance it wouldn't get back to her. ]
Sorry, [ is his easy reply when she finally deigns to acknowledge his presence, tilting his head again in that not-quite-a-bow. ] I got caught up in sharing what I'd read about the Oathgates with my new friend here.
[ In preparation, he'd flipped to the index of the book she'd lent him and skipped to any page mentioning Oathgates. ]
Once used by knights. Fascinating stuff.
[ Verso looks not unlike a teacher's pet expecting a gold star for his good work. ]
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You're learning. A commendable start.
[ the ghost of a smile touches her mouth — there and gone, as if she's already regretted it. she steps closer to the nearest oathgate, the one that leads to the shattered plains in particular. her gloveless hand rises, palm brushing through the air in a slow, deliberate gesture. she breathes in — drawing in stormlight from a brazier on the wall filled with glowing spheres. as their light fades, the irises of her eyes begin to glow faintly. when she speaks next, a mist seems to leak from her lips. stormlight, escaping. ]
Yes, as you read, they were used by the Knights Radiant before their orders disappeared. A living blade is required, like a key, to operate the mechanism.
[ in the space between one heartbeat and the next, light pools around her fingers, brightening into lines that curve and intersect — geometry turning into presence. ivory manifests in her hand as a sword, long and slender. ]
The text I lent you is somewhat — outdated. [ the knights radiant have returned, for one. ] We rediscovered the oathgates less than a year ago.
[ jasnah didn't call her sword to boast or brag or posture. like she said, the mechanism requires a shardblade to function. she strides into the control room, slotting the sword into hole at its center.
and, waiting for him to join him inside the ten-pointed star etched onto the ground, she adds: ]
Consider this an update to your syllabus.
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[ It's as much habitual charm as it is sincerity. There's something special about learning once again, about having things to learn. Life, for so many years, has felt like the same cycle over and over again; taking the same people on the same doomed journey year after year, watching them die again and again. Even battle had grown rote and predictable. The unhappiness he'd felt had almost seemed a reprieve from the boredom.
He's spent a long time being a glorified tour guide, all of the wonder sucked out of the world. It's nice to be on the other side of things for once.
Verso steps into the star alongside her, wondering briefly if this is safe only because he'd hate to have to piece himself back together in front of Jasnah. ]
I was the top of my class in school, you know.
[ Brag. ]
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@unuttered
[ Let it be said that Verso still feels sort of bad about this. It's not, strictly speaking, right. But it's— a moral grey area. Gustave hadn't felt taken advantage of, wants this of his own free will. He's had casual entanglements with Expeditioners before. The only thing that makes this one different is that he let Gustave get stabbed.
Probably a big difference.
But he tries not to think about that as he sits propped up against a tree a few minutes' walk from camp, hair very purposefully tousled and collar artfully rumpled. There's lots of benefits to doing this. Good stress relief. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to solidify Gustave's trust. And he'll never have to deal with the consequences, seeing as how they'll all be consigned to oblivion soon anyway, if he gets his way.
So, he poses attractively against the tree trunk, in a way that he hopes screams 'sexy, but not like I care'. ]
Bonsoir.
IM LAUGHING
This probably isn't a sensible idea, given their proximity and the likelihood of their incoming death, but that makes him feel as if there's all the more reason to do it. He's already almost died once, so it's not that far away, not a foreign concept, and if he's going to die in this fight he'd rather die having had a little bit of fun. That's what niggles in the back of his mind, pressuring him gently.
Plus, he likes Verso. Thinks he's fine, and handsome, and funny, and unfortunately quite charming. It makes it easier.
Shaking his head, he puts the plate of food down on a nearby rock, his lips curling ever so gently. ]
Bonsoir, mon ami. [ He looks so effortlessly sexy it's actually pissing Gustave off a little bit, but in a way that makes him want to be equally sexy. ] Did you want to eat now?
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Not really, honestly. Sure, he's a little hungry, but the pangs of a skipped meal are just background noise now that he's worked himself up in excitement for getting to touch another human person for a second time in years. It's selfish, but he wouldn't mind if he walked headfirst into oblivion without being incredibly pent-up.
Besides, the last time he'd felt— halting. Uncertain. Worried he was about to dislodge something load-bearing in their group and have the consequences come tumbling down on him. Now that they've discussed it very maturely like adults (with excessive euphemism), he's less concerned about this fucking things up with Gustave and consequently the whole group. Really, the only thing he needs to worry about now is answering for this in the afterlife, and he's relatively confident that Paintings just dissolve into chroma. The point being, this time is going to be even better. ]
...Did you want to eat now?
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[walks into class 2 weeks late with yaoi porn]
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@elsecall.
Fair enough. Although I suspect the woman I'm currently writing to is a special case, regardless.
[ He thinks she's special, too!!! ]
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[ To some. To most, maybe. ]
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You don't enjoy rugged, I take it.
[ brb getting a haircut and shaving his face immediately ]
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