𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑, 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 , ⎛ . . . ⎠ i was melted and burned, if now that it's extinguished outside me, it besets and consumes me inside ⎛ . . . ⎠ and bit by bit 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 ?
a study of ❲ . . . ❳ grief and betrayal. masks. understanding the self. creating out of love. art as a prison. breaking the cycle.
𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄 of 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐂𝐔𝐑: 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝟑𝟑. by percival ⎛ he/him, 31+ ⎠
app ₁ self portrait ₂ threads ₃
affiliated with @isolaradiale.
graphics by @hyruleshop
ranked ❲ . . . ❳ luminous subgiant ⎛ 9/3/25 ⎠
housed ❲ . . . ❳ dessendre manor ⎛ verso dessendre's personal housing ⎠ , the echo
the basic rules from all my other isola blogs apply. its me, percival, again.
She nods, as if she understood anything Verso just told her. Bits and pieces mad sense, but...
"And what are gestrals, exactly?" The pirate lass asks. "You sound very familiar with them."
Obviously it sounds like they're beings from this person's home, but... Rennie just feels like she wants to know. Maybe it's to figure out exactly why fighting on beaches called to these things.
what are gestrals, she asks, and verso can't help but laugh. he focuses on the bits and pieces of chroma that the stars have allowed him to reach, moves his hand through the air, and the space around his hand ripples as if it had become paint. crimson petals are left in the wake of the motion. he never liked being a painter, but sometimes, it was the only way to really get the point across.
plus, it's easier than it was when he was a kid. at the age he was- the real verso- when he came up with gestrals in the first place.
when the distortions fade, he's managed to create a small figurine of one. a portly creature made of wood. ❝ they're much larger back home. this one's just a replica. ❞ but he thinks for a moment that he's homesick. ❝ they're essentially immortal. if they break, they're brought to a sacred river, placed in the water, and they come back. granted, every time they come back, they're not quite the same as before. it's like starting life all over again. ❞
he shrugs. that doesn't explain why they fight, and that isn't easy to explain. not really. ❝ as for why they fight, that's just part of their culture. i guess they were made like that. i think they see it as a way of having fun, but they come up with some really intense things. it would make more sense if you saw one in action- but that would make a mess of the beaches here. ❞
" What makes a man a warrior? What shapes him into someone able to survive the pain necessary for greatness? Some like to say that it's pure willpower. Working sunrise to sunset with sweat on your back and blood in your mouth. Releasing attachments and focusing entirely on the honor of battle-- is that the mark of a real fighter?
Or, some tell me that having someone worth fighting for invigorates their spirit in combat. If there is nobody to return to when it's time to lay down your weapons, then, what is the point in any of it?
well, isn't that the question of the day. as a member of expedition zero, verso had started out believing that being a warrior was something he needed to become- for the sake of those who had gone missing during the fracture. back then, he liked to think that he was someone who was fighting for something good. or whatever he believed was good at the time.
❝ i think it varies from person to person, ❞ he thinks of simon. strong and brave and full of love. simon had joined expedition zero because he was that noble sort. that, and he was physically built for the task. a mountain of a man, an oddity among the people of lumiere. ❝ i've done my fair share of fighting, so ... i've seen a lot of people come with different things that they've fought for. ❞
somehow, he feels like that's not the real question. this guy's asking him what he fights for. verso doesn't know how to answer that. at least not honestly. ❝ i come from a place where every year, people die. it became more and more obvious as the years went on. see, there's a being called the paintress, and she's been counting down from 100 every year for the past 67 years- ❞
❝ and for a long time, expeditioners have been going out to see if they could stop her. they fight so that maybe there will be a better tomorrow for the people who are left behind. you know, for those who come after. ❞ the words flow easily enough, because they're true. ❝ before i came here, i was an expeditioner, too. we always told each other- when one falls, we continue. maybe a real warrior is someone who holds onto an ideal and fights for it, even when things seem hopeless. ❞ that's what maelle would say- something like that. maelle who fought so hard to ... no, he knows better than to think of that. maelle's not here. none of the others are here. and he's alive, whether he wants to be or not.
lmao i did crocus for verso's last cyor but ALSO understand there's nothing like making a chronic liar tell the truth about Literally Anything so i will continue to make him Suffer this.
❝ there was only fighting because that was the primary way gestrals liked to interact with each other. ❞
and whose fault was that? a fragment of a child's soul, the person he had been made from, made in the image of- the real verso dessendre had been a rather whimsical child trying to escape from the duties that would be placed on his shoulders, and while he had wielded godlike powers, he was still just a little boy.
❝ they had established a few spots at various beaches where they liked to try to rope other expeditioners into their antics ... with various outcomes. ❞
❝ the beaches here are quite a bit more relaxed than the ones back home- no fighting, just people playing in the water and laying in the sun ... that's nice. ❞
❝ oh, professor, are these yours? ❞ verso had learned to identify professor kent's handwriting rather well. the man was known to leave papers here and there- maybe assignments, maybe his own writing; verso had never read exactly what was on the papers, but the instances where they'd been found was enough for him to know the writing nonetheless. of course, he wasn't actually the one to identify the papers on his own, but that was neither here nor there.
if he had been alicia, he would've read them. his younger sister was quite the avid reader, and no secret was safe from her. verso preferred privacy, for himself and thus he gave that respect to others. but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't tempted to see exactly what was written on the papers.
❝ i found them at the library, ❞ he says, holding out the loose papers with a small smile.
❝ the librarian saw you run out in a bit of a hurry, but since he never really leaves, he asked me to find you to return these. they're important to you, i'd think. ❞
❝ sorry, i'll be heading out soon- ❞ verso had lost track of time. the theater had wonderful acoustics, and there were no rules saying that he couldn't sit and play the piano. music was his escape, his preferred major, although as a painter he had also made enough of a name for himself. separate from his family's name, a few of his paintings ⎛ whimsical and warm, a strange contrast to his own melancholy nature ⎠ had been placed in the university's gallery- his music was something that was only heard when he played it.
❝ i come here to play. to let out all the stress after lectures and long hours in the studio- ❞ and to finish his assignments for his composition classes. if not for the fact that there were rehearsals for the university's musical, verso would've stayed in the theater late into the night.
there were ghosts, he was told, and sometimes he thought he saw them sitting there and listening. he had dreamed of that, performing at a grand opera house. his younger sister would love that- he'd dedicate the first song to her. for now, playing for ghosts was fine, too.
❝ what time are your rehearsals? you know, so i can plan around them ... unless you need someone to play for you ... ❞
verso dessendre is the only son of the wealthy dessendre family — a family of famous artists. his strict mother expects him to follow in the family craft, but verso wished to be a musician instead! overworked and lacking sleep, verso double majors in musical performance and fine arts- specifically painting. his usual haunts are either the art studios or the theater- the latter because he really likes being able to play the piano there.
notes
guys, it's just verso being sad and tired but now in a college au. he is trying his very best.
of course he's seen the ghosts, he goes to the theater after dark
he usually keeps to himself, but he's at least willing to chat if someone wants to. he also lies. a lot. pathologically. good luck learning any real things about him-
on top of that, he's masked for so long he barely knows who he is under that. so he's got a lot to work through.
if you ask nicely, he will compose music for you or paint you a portrait.
"Octavo." He extends a hand to shake. His fingers are tipped with nails that curve into blunt claws, filed so he could play his illicitly-gotten guitar.
"Is survival really such an accomplishment when nobody is allowed to die?" He asks dryly. "...I suppose the survival of your mind is more important, trying not to go mad knowing we're just the pieces of some great experiment."
octavo brings up a rather valid point- at least, for anyone who wasn't usually immortal. or someone who hadn't spent his whole life in a god's canvas ⎛ he thinks of the dead expeditioners left behind. of the chroma in their bodies. he thinks of how alicia- no, maelle- brought them back, even if only for a moment. and then he thinks of ... ⎠ ❝ i suppose so, it takes a strong will to continue on, knowing something like that. ❞
he's seen people crumble under that sort of knowledge. he's seen the results of the death of self. he thinks of the yawning abyss and the golden blades, and simon who had been locked away in place of the curator. in the place of his father.
back then, simon had been the strongest person he knew- in body and in willpower. he'd vanished and verso thought that he'd died in the battle with the hauler ⎛ swords of light driven through the axon's body, but no trace of an expeditioner ⎠ - the truth was so much worse. ❝ there are people i know who would want to think that even under these sorts of circumstances, there's hope. ❞ he thinks of maelle's smile.
❝ i wonder if we will ever know why we were brought here? there are some days where nothing seems out of the ordinary- beyond the obvious things. my sister would tell me that it's a sign that not everything is so drenched in despair. ❞
"As have I. Well-" He pauses, thinking back on the many loops he'd experienced. "I've suffered things at least as equally bad. But still, better not to tempt fate. It seems they've got something lined up for us, and it's probably not going to be another festive winter carnival..."
❝ well, tempting fate is almost second nature, now. ❞ verso thinks to every expedition he'd traveled with. of all the things he'd done in the times in between. reckless things, fighting nevrons and axons. reminiscing on the past-
seeking release as well. but he'd learned that there was no freedom from the agony and the truth in this new world; only an endless waking. ❝ i suppose the only thing we can really do is survive- i've also proven to be startlingly good at that. ❞
he laughs then, a sound laced with a deep exhaustion. god, he's tired.
❝ by the way, my name's verso. i probably should've started out with that one. ❞
he's starting to think that maybe this is a canvas, with how strange the weather is. an eclipse every few days? what else would explain something like that?
❝ believe me, i have suffered worse. ❞ snarky, but not untrue. that was the upside to his nature as a painted immortal. it was also the downside, because things never ended well when people learned the truth. but that's neither here nor there, is it? ❝ thank you for the warning, regardless. this place is unpredictable- ❞
he's starting to think that maybe this is a canvas, with how strange the weather is. an eclipse every few days? what else would explain something like that?
The boy is so earnest, and Lorene finds himself weakening to it. And yet, he says he is unharmed, but the cracks in reality around his eyes had looked like agony. And Lorene had heard Verso's strained gasp, however soft--Elven hearing is too acute to miss that.
You're not fooling anyone, he wants to say. It's okay to fail sometimes, he wants to say as well, just as strongly. The Prince is at war within himself, and he has to wonder--why does it hurt him so badly, to watch this little boy lie? Lie to Lorene--lie to himself?
Maman says I must practice more. Ah. There it is.
Lorene loves his mother. He looks up to her, and that's natural, not just because she is his mother, and not just because she's one of the most accomplished sword fighters in his country. It's because someday he will be her--that is his destiny, as the secondborn royal of his generation. To take on the mantle of High General. Atariel, daughter of Diaphana, the Blue Rose of Tir Dolmindon is admired by all, not because she is a Princess. Not because of the accident of her birth (and things could have been very different for her; she is the secondborn of twins). But because she took back her birthright from the Usurper with her own two hands (she was the one who crossed the sea to recruit Dair's help. The fact that they later fell in love as a result was only a happy accident). Because she earned the title of Champion, the fifth and highest tier of earned titles in Mongol, one that can only be attained after a person makes major, lasting contributions to the wellbeing of their nation. And because Atariel did all of this--and she is not a mage. She did it all with strength of will, power of personality, and the might of her swords alone.
It hurts to look at this child. It hurts to hear him speak--speak of the expectations heaped upon his shoulders. The expectations he heaps upon himself. It's only been a scant handful of minutes, and Lorene doesn't know how much more he can take. The Prince can weather, has weathered quite a lot, but this? To this, he is weak inside. He'll crumble. He hates it.
But he also can't bring himself to turn away.
"You don't owe me a thing." Lorene says it quietly, morose, with a gravity that he knows the child won't understand (and he won't explain). "You don't need to make up for a thing. You haven't done a single thing wrong, little one."
"If you really need to practice...I understand. You can...you can paint me some flowers, like you said. ...Any flowers will do, but...I like blue and white ones the most, I think."
aline and renoir dessendre had been blessed with three children. the eldest was clea, the prodigy. she displayed her talents at a young age and was thought to be the next in line if aline ever stepped down from her position as chairwoman of the painters' council. clea liked to sculpt as well as paint, and everyone knew she was quite the perfectionist. that was about all she let anyone know about her.
the youngest was alicia. timid but curious, she was more fond of reading books in her room than of painting. she trusted people easily, perhaps too easily. she had a life to live and time to grow.
the middle child and only son was verso. odd in a way that alicia wasn't, he was, in a way, a blend of his parents and his siblings. his first love was music- a natural when seated at a piano, his dream was to compose and to play in the grand opera house of paris. but verso had the same powers as the rest of the family- no matter what he did, he would always be a painter, too.
no one would say that the dessendres were an unhappy family, but they were not quite happy, either. standing at the pinnacle of the painters, they were admired by many and resented by even more. and the painters' council had been in a faction war with the writers' guild for ages- the conflict escalating in a tragedy that ruined the dessendres. not in their power or status and influence, but in the fundamental parts of their souls.
verso dessendre was twenty six when he burned alive. trading his life for alicia, who still ended up just as injured- but at least alicia was alive. verso wanted that. the real verso wanted that. and the family fragmented.
aline, in her endless grief, painted a new family within her son's canvas. the only one that hadn't burned in the fire. she became known as the curatress. she lived in her gorgeous manor in the city of lumiere. with her husband and three children. resentful of her youngest daughter, alicia still suffered, but she lived, and clea lived. and verso lived. aline wasted away as a goddess of the canvas, and she began to waste away in the atelier.
renoir, unable to see his wife suffering, chose to force her out of the canvas. to destroy it so that they could lay their son to rest, grieve, try to heal. his arrival came with a great disturbance, one that caused what the people called 'the fracture'. the people that aline painted. in the city she made to mirror the one she lived in. aline would not leave the canvas. renoir fought her, and the people of lumiere suffered for it. aline's painted family suffered. her real family suffered.
the boy before lorene was, without a doubt, verso dessendre. the quirky boy who loved music and bright colored candies and model train sets. the one who looked up to his powerful mother and creative father. who wanted to be close with his pragmatic older sister, the one who always invited his shy younger sister to come play, too. in the canvas he made- but at the same time, he had been made from the fragment of verso's soul that aline held onto. and ultimately, it meant that the verso dessendre who smiled softly at the elven prince was nothing but a fragment of a memory.
verso lied because verso was a lie. verso dessendre was a mask, one of many that looked the same and were still so very different. he who guards truth with lies.
❝ blue and white, ❞ he gives a nod, and this time, it's easier. the chroma bleeds out from his fingertips. his body does not suffer like it had before- instead, a lovely bouquet of flowers appears from the distorted space- truly as if painted from nothingness. ❝ will these flowers help you feel better? you're ... i don't think i am the one who is hurt, monsieur. ❞
verso's recreation of his home mimics the one made by his mother, the paintress.
the dessendre manor itself is as expected, a massive manor house that belonged to the dessendre family. full of artwork, it notably has many doors that appear randomly across the continent that each lead to a different room which then leads to the manor proper.
functionally, the manor exists in its own space and most often is not seen in full. however, the many moving doors that allow entrance to the manor now appear in various places throughout the echo, rather than the continent because this is the city of spirale.
doors could lead anywhere from the main foyer to one of many art studios, to the family library, and more. while the original manor had many more, there are six bedrooms available for use. (here is the actual concept art for the manor itself!)
