if i look back, i am lost
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Janaina Medeiros
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@cleameur
an independent & selective CLEA DESSENDRE from clair obscur: expedition 33. primarily headcanon based with canon influences. extremely low activity. est. may 25. as penned by denise (21+, she/her, gmt).
LES COMPAGNONS: revienso (excl.) darkdevour/paintressed (excl.) krohft perduxamour indirges
i. prompts ii. headcanons iii. verses
hi this is just a heads-up that i will be quieter than usual for the next few weeks. i’ve just started my application for getting british citizenship and very much overestimated my knowledge ahead of the test i need to pass as part of the process so now i’m Stressed. then my mom is coming to visit me for the first time in literal years at the end of january and i’m Terrified. all of this to say, apologies in advance for what i anticipate to be very sparse and slow replies. pls pray for my mental health
nvm i lied shit really hit the fan so i won’t be around for some time. i hope you’re all holding up okay <3
hi this is just a heads-up that i will be quieter than usual for the next few weeks. i’ve just started my application for getting british citizenship and very much overestimated my knowledge ahead of the test i need to pass as part of the process so now i’m Stressed. then my mom is coming to visit me for the first time in literal years at the end of january and i’m Terrified. all of this to say, apologies in advance for what i anticipate to be very sparse and slow replies. pls pray for my mental health
❝ how did you … the doors were locked ! ❞
THE STILL LIFE TABLEAU THAT GREETS HER UPON ARRIVAL IS, IN A WORD, DISMAL. sheets of music lay strewn across the parquet, a lone guttering candle some ways away serving as the only illumination and there, seated before the piano, is what looks like her brother’s slovenly form, but could very well be a deflated egg soufflé for all of its despondency. standing in the open doorway, arms folded, CLEA TAKES THIS IN WITH SCATHING APPRAISAL. lets the sorry state of her surroundings and sorrier still state of his person settle in her mind’s eye before speaking at last, a near stage whisper. ❝ evidently not, you imbécile. ❞ she quips back, drumroll quick and rich with exasperation. for the hour is late, her patience is thinning and she has neither the bandwidth nor disposition to entertain his antics.
❝ verso, what── are you out of your mind? tu es fou! you’re making a racket. suppose you woke alicia up? or worse, maman? ❞ louder now, her voice growing stern. is he drunk? indulging in bitters instead of resting and disturbing her peace and quiet in the process? she had been in the midst of a project, FUELLED BY A BOUT OF MIDNIGHT INSPIRATION, colour-smeared hands working tirelessly as her brushstrokes spilled under the moon’s watchful gaze, a swath of hazy silver catching on the fresh paint through the draperies. then came the first few chords, innocuous at the beginning, a timid hum in the air before it swelled into an auditory assault pursued with all the strident abandon of taking a brick to glass, rather than anything even remotely fit for an audience. clea could have sworn she felt the walls of her atelier groan disapprovingly.
so here she is, a jumble of filberts and pigment tubes hanging precariously from the pockets of her smock, the smell of turpentine clinging to her rumpled day clothes and curls tumbling loose from her chignon. KEEN AS EVER TO IMPART THE KIND OF INFINITE WISDOM SOLELY POSSESSED BY OLDER SISTERS. ❝ why the urgency to turn your piano into a heap of splinters? i’m certain we have enough firewood. ❞ it’s only once she makes a beeline for him, steps resounding against the floor, that the finer details slot into place and her befuddlement morphs into understanding.
verso’s face is wan, tired. something terribly doleful muddied in the manner of his mien. the sight robs her moralising tirade of all steam. SHE KNOWS OF HIS PROPENSITY TO RUMINATE, how often he is inclined to stew in these low spirits of his that surface without warning. when her shawl is placed atop his bunched shoulders as though by reflex, her palm landing upon the crown of his head, ruffling his hair with a steady touch in a way that is sure to make her brother scoff indignantly, clea is stolid, resolute in her desire to help. perhaps an old childhood staple, some small comforts that ought to mollify him? it’s worth a try. ❝ come, you will cease your moping. let’s go downstairs. i’ll ready us some brioche with warm milk. then you can tell me all about what troubles you so. ❞ THE IMPLICATION IS CLEAR, THERE'S NO ROOM FOR COUNTERARGUMENT.
Razor-edged disquiet settled near her diaphragm, a jagged edge tearing at the seams. There was a sort of comfort in it, she supposed; the weight of her choices as background static in a life she kept herself tightly anchored to, the sacrifices she made haunting every beat of her heart like a clot shifting from one vein to the next. Self-indulgent to the highest degree. ❝We’re all doing our best to survive.❞ She didn’t broach the kinship she felt for Verso — the sense of understanding lingering somewhere in the ether, unacknowledged and unspoken. Her own idea of freedom occluding any need for public notice. Perhaps that was where they differed most; without a family to protect, her image mattered little in the grand scheme of things. ❝For what it is worth, I think the Dessendre name can afford the odd sculpture. I’d argue it has withstood worse.❞
Hesitation angled needle-sharp into her lungs, twisting twice around the sternum. She itched to test the limits of Clea’s grace, but found she had no real interest in irritating old wounds for the mere pleasure of it. Perhaps they would always speak in facsimiles and generalizations, skimming the heart of the matter by an inch or two to retain the status quo; a battlefield in ceasefire, waiting for the order to retreat or push on. Never quite honest. The reality of it sat leaden on the edge of her occipital, pushing against the bone as she tugged her leather jacket over one shoulder. ❝It takes more than a bit of joy to tarnish your family name — believe me.❞ A pinprick truth, muttered into the air between them like a secret missive. ❝It took my father thirty years and a near obsessive dedication to the project.❞
She waved a hand at the cigarette case, mirroring the smile Clea offered. Since childhood, their support for each other had scarcely wavered; a silent treaty of sorts, punctuated by the odd inconsequential quarrel or disagreement. Resolute in the way few things were. ❝Aline? She still thinks I’m attending her soirées.❞ Humor tinged the cadence of her voice, feather-light against the brisk autumn air. A moment suspended in time, almost, with their grief as a makeshift tether — softening the strain of a fight too familiar to launch into. ❝I’m sorry. I never meant to add to your plate.❞
THE FIRST DRAG OF HER CIGARETTE IS UNHURRIED, a languid affair between clea and the lit, hand-rolled smoke nestled against index and middle finger. she takes her time with it, lets the acrid tobacco billow above them in plumes. her haggard face is cast in profile, gaze sweeping along the darkening strip of horizon like she means to disappear inside the vanishing point and never return. somewhere in the distance, a train whistles with gusto, the rhythmic sound of wheels already dying under the strain of wind and birdsong. ❝ our little secret then, n’est-ce pas? ❞ A THIMBLEFUL OF WARMTH, then the lightest nudge to lara’s shoulder with her own in silent kinship. another pull, the muscle in her jaw working around the sticky paper. ❝ they’re all bluster and pomp. i don’t blame you for avoiding them. ❞
if only she could be so lucky to absent herself from these bureaucratic liaisons done under the guise of divertissement, as suffocating as a sentence of death. and how could it not feel so? when the greater part of the painters’ council comprises of puny old men, either dull as rainwater or more foul-mouthed than brothel goers, perennially stroking their beards behind near-empty flutes of champagne as they discuss, in rather florid detail, everything from brushwork and plein air compositions to whichever poor, unfortunate wide-eyed coquette they intend to proposition next. CLEA CAN'T QUITE DECIDE WHICH IS WORSE. still, she endures the posturing through no real choice of her own. smiles her stately smile when prompted, extemporising platitudes de rigueur and accepting calling cards with barely put-upon restraint. the scathing remarks and murderous intent she keeps hidden, buried under layers of stuffy taffeta and too much rouge. a bona fide dessendre has the good sense to pretend at civility, after all, lest she scandalise aline by saying something deemed vastly improper for polite company. LESS PERSON, MORE FIGURE IN A MUSIC BOX, dancing, dancing, endlessly dancing to a tune she can seldom hear. she’s almost certain lara has experienced much of the same.
❝ don’t be silly, you’ve done no such thing. not in the least. you couldn’t possibly. ❞ an exhaustive, mulishly reproachful huff springs free from her ribs, voice faltering in the open space between them. seconds drag on as she ashes the cigarette beneath the heel of her boot with a distinct lack of decorum, before wrapping the overcoat tighter around her. they say a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but she finds no succour in the wake of her makeshift confessional, only the sour flush of embarrassment twisting her stomach unpleasantly. for what does clea really know of toil and hardship? what do any of them? her wealth alone should preclude her from protest. by all metrics, she has an enviable life, the kind of silver-spooned upbringing many can only hope for. SHE SHOULD WANT FOR NOTHING. and yet she harps on and on and on, bringing these trite diatribes that reek of gluttony into the light of day and sounding for all the world like some spoiled, ungrateful brat. never mind that she’s hoisted it all upon another, as though lara doesn’t already have her own sorrows to contend with. good god, she could expire on the spot from shame. ❝ if anything, i ought to be the one apologising. i’m not sure what compelled me to talk your ear off like a dolt just then. please forgive me. ❞
“Brilliant, perceptive, and implacable, Clea is the eldest daughter of the Dessendre family. Her motivations have changed drastically since Verso's death. Her sole goal now is to crush the Writers to avenge her brother and secure the future of Painters. Ambitious and determined, she always sets herself unattainable goals and describes herself as an occasional misanthrope. Often perceived as intimidating and insensitive, Clea cares deeply about the future of her family and the Painters, in her own way.”
— The Art of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33
Things back there are getting… tense.
༉‧₊˚. ` frantic fanfic sentence starters . / 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 .
verso stands on a fragmented platelet of the world high up in the sky, gazing amongst the still rotting carcass of the continent. behind him stands the elder sister, whose gaze he can feel pierce through him. the blunted end of a scalpel, craving to sculpt him into something else. he is what aline had wanted, not clea. two separate instances, with his own carving sorrow into her with surgical precision, despite lack of intention.
he's always wanted to know what her life is. outside of this painted surface, where he can never go and she can never show. he dares not say it aloud, lest he cause some spark of pride in clea's paint-bolstered ego. the last thing he wants is for her amusement to drip onto his skin. even now, he remains unsure if the proximity of her fervour alone might eventually erase him. a droplet on the canvas in the wrong spot. a blemish, a mistake. as she often does, clea creates. for a moment, clea creates : a tear in the canvas with the nail of her little finger. verso can do nothing but lunge toward it, in the hopes such a gash might rip him from the threads of his torment, into a world where his existence has always been wanted.
but it was never your existence, was it ? sometimes, he wonders whose voice it is he has in his head.
❝ your perfect little real world ? tense ? i couldn't imagine. ❞ there is nothing perfect of war. nothing wondrous about a broken family. his had never been shattered before the fracture. nor had clea's been dissipated before the fire. he knows this, and regards it as he turns to face her, his own gaze distant, yet pointed, to meet hers. ❝ you pop in and out of this place. but renoir, aline, alicia now … it can't be good on your family, i imagine. what's happening ? back there, in your world ? ❞ verso's soul inquiring : himself, the doomed emissary. ❝ what's going on out there ? ❞
THE QUICKSILVER REVERB OF CHROMA THRUMS TO LIFE, flickering across her form, stirring within the bottomless fount of her reserves. once, twice, before it’s leashed again, tucked neatly inside a crawlspace hidden from view. she doesn’t reach out. doesn’t change him into an anomalous shape, anoint him with the touch of her hand until he’s reduced to smears of colour drizzled with paint thinner, drip-drip-dripping onto the ground. A PORTRAIT MADE NIGHTMARE, hacked apart and hollowed of pulp. bending to her designs just like her namesake did. but there would be no point to such a display. after all, his taunts hardly warrant the effort.
❝ what’s happening? ❞ she repeats incredulously, a combative note to her words. ❝ nothing of consequence, only a nationwide clash between factions. quite the diverting pastime, i must say. ❞ the laugh she ekes out is a dry, unfeeling sound, distinctively bereft of lustre, as though snagging on a grain of shrapnel lodged in her throat. ❝ rest assured, i have it under control. like i always do. ❞ and she does. she has to. an unwilling bellwether, RESOLUTE IN SEEING THIS TO THE VERY END, no matter the cost. even with the figurative lunette digging into her skin and the shadow of a blade dangling overhead as it descends, little by little, ready to be set loose at any given moment.
❝ think whatever you will, but i’ve been spending every damned second of my days trying to ensure their safety. ❞ too defensive. she hears it as soon as it leaves her tongue. tastes the high-strung vulnerability at the back of her teeth. for one uncomfortable reason or another ── neither of which she cares to investigate ── clea finds that she doesn’t much relish the thought of verso’s copy becoming privy to the inner workings of her schemes in paris. ugly though they may be, her actions are necessary. as is the extent of the fervour with which she seeks out retribution. no, vengeance. still, she doesn’t want him to know, to see. to look at her with her dead brother’s eyes full of judgement and a face that screams how could you? THE SIGHT ALONE MIGHT JUST UNMAKE HER. cleave her heart in two. the kind of agony that hurts like a gangrenous malaise calcifying her insides. maybe she deserves it. because verso is gone. buried. he’s gone and she never even had the chance to be his mourner, so she’ll be his warmonger instead. he’s gone and she’s here, left to pick up the pieces. she could kill him. wring his neck bare-handed. that foolish, stupid martyr.
now, she swallows it all down the best she can. an absent-minded pass of her fingers over the divot in her brow, the heel of a palm pressing into her temple. a tangent, a lifeline, she needs to stir this conversation toward safer waters. ❝ that reminds me ── i told you to keep an eye on alicia, did i not? ❞ this is familiar. the wintry flagellation she directs at the entity before her, who’s done nothing useful but run rampant through the broken amphitheatre of her childhood. LIKE A GHOST, A POLTERGEIST THAT REFUSES TO RELENT. when she closes the distance to elbow past him, nearer to the edge of the cliff, the disdain she harbours for him is palpable. ❝ she’s still off playing ruffian with aline’s pets. i all but dragged her out of there myself. ❞ a lie. she’d seen her from afar. a shock of red hair across some filthy corner of lumiére. younger. brighter. clea couldn’t bring herself to do a thing, hypocrite that she is. ❝ i can’t afford fretting about what she gets up to on her own. so do better. ❞
what it feels like to be in a near constant state of dissociation for weeks at a time. really took a page from verso's playbook huh
if i don't manage to get tickets to the e.33 concert i'm lwk gonna lose it
SUCCESS
if i don't manage to get tickets to the e.33 concert i'm lwk gonna lose it
tchaikovsky's refrain powers towards its climax, though vasya has yet to move from her spot on the floor and align herself into the position the dance would demand of her, staring hard at the other with full lips pressed into a thin red line. " wonderful, i'm glad you have everything figured out. perhaps you could pick out a winning lottery ticket for me next, since you're in the business of knowing everything ? " its rare she gets to whet her tongue without fear of serious repercussion. a sharp or sarcastic word to her instructor would result in a slap across the face or worse. with clea the pair could spar with the skill and precision of olympic fencers. " nobody is trying to fool anyone! this isn't some elaborate joke, there is nothing going on. " she had endured the teasing from ksenia and alicia for many years now. alicia with her romantic, bookish heart being the worst culprit at her young age. her sugarcoated fairy stories did not account for the horrors that dwelt in every fable though, and the trauma that kept them from ever coming true.
she wants to shriek that clea couldn't possibly understand the absurdity of it all. the dessendre's, born so high above all that they can't see or hear what is said about them. even outside their canvases they are untouchable as the gods. clea may flounce down here in her stained wears and the chattering of the birds of high society might offer light prodding at her lack of propriety, but vasya would be torn to ribbons by their sharp beaks. THEY LOOM HIGH ABOVE LIKE CARRION CROWS, awaiting their chance to soar down and feast on her flesh. she cares little of their words, but even the smallest suggestion from the right person could close every door in her face for good. — but that was only a portion of the logic behind her folly, wasn't it? she would never tell clea, nor verso, or even ksenia how desperately unworthy she felt. how she loves him too much to ever chain him to her miserable person. besides, her feelings mattered little when he couldn't possibly see her in such a light. his silence on such matters spoke louder than words, and he had made it clear in her eyes that he found her dalliances distasteful. " Unless he tells his alleged feelings to me himself, I have no reason not to marry whomever I choose. " the words taste terrible on her tongue as she spits them out.
vasya deflates almost comically at clea's final declaration, tule drooping like a wilting flower around her. the dessendre's had been kind to her in ways that were beyond her. aline ensuring their education and happiness where she could and maintaining that their home was always open to the zolotova's. this was not a world that vasya could understand or abide. she was raised in the cold harsh reality of owed favors and — nothing in her world was unconditional. no act of kindness and certainly not love. she had no means to repay them and could not bear to be a burden. " You're a good friend to me, Clea. . . Perhaps even the best. " she says softly, a heavy sigh squeezed from her lungs as she finally gets to her feet. " I doubt I could pry Ksenia from your home even if I wanted to. "
THERE’S A FARAWAY, SOLEMN LOOK ON HER FACE, one that is punctuated by the bars of contrition slashing across her forehead like patterns on a vitrage. orchestral music swells around them, harmonies blending together unbidden and notes playing on with needlepoint precision, yet clea seems deaf to all but the piercing metronome of vasya’s words. or rather what she doesn’t say out loud, the silent truths left to fester in the open air; THEY'RE A COLD WATER RINSE IN EVERY CONCEIVABLE WAY. ❝ your sister may very well drown you in the seine if you tried. ❞ with her posture drawn taut and brows tented low, she tacks the remark on almost distractedly, signature gallows humour missing its mark by a mile. in an instant, the attempt at light-heartedness crumbles under the strain of reality. thoughts awhirl without mooring, her mind see-saws between frustration and understanding, a near-constant ouroboros cycling through every worst-case scenario.
IF VASYA WILL ONLY LISTEN, EVEN JUST THE ONCE. if verso will only cease his cowardly conduct. if the world will only be as it should rather than how it is. for yes, she knows the fickle manner of paris’ beau monde more intimately than most, its rose-tinted veneer as brittle as eggshell. it is no secret that the cream of its populace are a pedantic, shallow bunch, peddling doltish politesse or other some-such nonsense as mandate, with impropriety viewed as the ultimate transgression. and those deemed lesser? they’re relegated to the fringes at the faintest sign of ill-breeding, while the rest, deep into their absinthe cups, carry on as normal. PRESTIGE BEGETTING PREJUDICE, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. neither a husband, nor the opéra stage could appease their appetite for fresh blood. countering this social ecosystem would be, in effect, akin to a sisyphean feat. still, she tries. tries in the shrewd, ineffable ways that frenchwomen of her status and wealth wield best. though they matter little right now, when her dearest friend, stubborn as a mule, watches her with the distinct surety of someone past the point of seeing reason.
❝ fine, suit yourself. a loveless marriage is most certainly a worthy pursuit. ❞ hard-edged pique dapples her voice, followed by the rhythmic tremolo of heeled feet clacking across the parquet’s baseboards, quick and restless. then, another issue altogether rears to the surface of her awareness. ❝ and alicia ── heavens! she’s going to have a fit when she learns of this. ❞ because who else other than the youngest dessendre would possess such a singularly overactive imagination and girlish, fanciful ideas of the future? who else would hang onto every word of her dog-eared novels, with a keener interest in stories than real life? CLEA IS SCARCELY PREPARED TO DEAL WITH THE INEVITABLE FALLOUT. the hemline of her skirt continues swishing about her ankles, fabric rustling behind her as she walks up and down the length of the room, visibly ill at ease. she daren’t say anything else for what feels like an age, not until she turns at last, bridging the distance in a few strides. her hands fall slack upon the crest of vasya’s shoulders, spindly harpist’s fingers squeezing ever so slightly. it’s as close to comforting as she will allow herself to be. ❝ just ── why not hold off for a little while? consider all of your options first, non? ❞ a touch too wooden, her words stilted as they slip past the guarded sieve of her emotions. it's moot in the end. pointless, really. NOTHING SHE DRUMS UP COULD POSSIBLY MAKE THIS RIGHT. her last resort is raw, plain-spoken earnestness. ❝ don’t let this city force you into choices you don’t want to make. you’re much too smart for that. ❞
ㅤㅤ.̮ㅤㅤyou'll never have to suffer a life you don't want. ㅤ...ㅤ⁺
# revienso. independent, private, & . selective rp blog for verso dessendre, from sandfall interactive's clair obscur : expédition 33. characterization relies upon canon, but is heavily headcanon-based. i am not affiliated with any developers of the game. prev. verleseau est. april '25.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤpainting isn't about verisimilitude, it's about essence.
Young Clea and Franfran 🎨🐢
idk about you but nothing makes me feel dumber than playing a puzzle game. like wdym i’m crashing tf out over DOORS???
i am not my mother and i am not my father but a third worse thing
their daughter
there’s a few hours left until midnight, but tomorrow is the 22nd and the last day of libra season, as well as my birthday. still a little wild to be turning twenty8 ngl. i’m trying not to spiral or let the existential dread take over bc i’m getting so close to my thirties and society makes us feel like we lose all value as people after a certain point. i’m fine, it’s fine…........….. in all seriousness, this year has really tested me with far too many difficult experiences, so i’m just manifesting a couple of uneventful months to wrap it all up and be done with it. i hope you all enjoy this vintage photo i found from my 4th birthday. it’s very much exuding that classic eastern european sadness™ ft. some mild communist aesthetic + the most early 2000s romanian cake you’ve ever seen. i know it looks kinda bad, but as far as i can remember, it used to slap. what a time that was. la mulți ani to me ig
The Dessendre Manor • Clair Obscur: Expedition 33
