"HERE I HAVE A CHANCE TO LIVE... OUT THERE I MERELY EXIST." maelle / alicia dessendre from clair obscur: expedition 33. gfx cred.

titsay
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ellievsbear
Sade Olutola
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Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
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Show & Tell

Andulka
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Product Placement
almost home
NASA
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@peredore
"HERE I HAVE A CHANCE TO LIVE... OUT THERE I MERELY EXIST." maelle / alicia dessendre from clair obscur: expedition 33. gfx cred.
She awoke with ash in her lungs.
Remnants of smoke and fires fading to embers curled around her, blurred her vision. Or was it-- yes. It was chroma. Thick, weighted. As she closed her eyes against it, her mind seemed to split into fragments. And the memories swarmed.
A blast-- chaos across scattered battlefields-- a wound that never was-- laughter and hair plaited between her fingers-- friends with lifeless eyes-- arms around her in candlelit quiet-- "--can't even look at me--"
Julie's eyes opened. The echo of her own words lingered as she took in deep gulps of air. She had to steady herself. Make sense of where she was. Surely... she should be dead?
But the sight before her was not what she had imagined an afterlife to look like. It was Lumiere. Home. More conflictingly, Renoir Dessendre loomed above her. Julie froze as his presence registered.
No. No, he wanted her dead. Didn't he?
Yet here he offered her answers.
Answers. Yes. That's what she'd wanted, all she'd wanted... She ached for them. The ache remained in her chest, deep and visceral, burning with a need... a need to know...
It kept burning. It wouldn't cease. The pain became sharper. Then clearer. And then the metallic tang of blood coated her tongue, her lips. His sword. She could feel it still buried in her chest, hilt deep, his arms around her soft and gentle by contrast. Almost sorry.
She wanted to scream, but her voice failed her. Hands raced to her throat, clutching and clawing at her skin, trying to tear some sound free.
When her voice came, it was barely a whisper. Pathetic, almost pleading. Wide eyes stared up at him. "What did you do?"
Renoir let her struggle, at least until she went for her own throat. At that, he planted his cane in the ground, and rushed over to her, barely grabbing her hands before she began to scratch. Quietly, his voice emerged, a soft 'none of that now' repeated as he slowly, but surely, got her hands to calm.
Then, he heard her words. What did you do? And it made him almost smile sadly.
"What we have done is give you, and others, a chance at life that was robbed from you unfairly." Now that Julie was able to get a good look at him, she might note that this Renoir was not the one in the black coat. This one was...shorter, his hair less well-kept, and he didn't have a scar over one eye. "Breathe for me. Simply breathe. You are safe here, and your body is unharmed. Feel it, feel the air on your skin and the cool breeze of the autumnal air."
One step at a time, he would help her come to, like surfacing after being stuck under the water for eternity.
Though that’s a question, isn’t it. He doesn’t answer right away, and the fact that he truly has to mull it over is a telling thing. " —— sometimes, " he admits, low, weight rocking against a doorframe, arms crossed. " I’m glad all of them have everything back. They deserve it. " Marriages, family, children. Picket fences and peace, and he still feels like such a damned ghost on the outside. " But it’s hard to forget just what all it cost to get here. "
Dimly, Verso becomes aware just how little he knows of his father’s life, and how much he won’t be able to know, now. Were they the same, similar? How much of their histories were assumed to be shared? His memories have always felt borrowed, somehow, since he found out the truth of this place; does he have actual memories, or were they planted there when he was made? It’s something he’s struggled with for all that time.
Still: he turns his gaze away, barely. " —— he saved us, here. In the fire. My father. " He clears his throat, thick. " That’s how he was hurt. " He gestures vaguely to the side of his own face, where old scars ripple through his jawline and down his throat. " I got these when I was trying to get Alicia out. He —— he cleared a dresser that had fallen in front of a door and I was able to get out. "
He studies the man for a moment more, his features drawn terribly neutral. " That’s when my —— that’s when Aline, " because he can’t really call her mother, can he? It’s a bitter thing, but that’s a thing reserved for a version of him that no longer is. " Started acting strange. We thought it was because the fire scared her. " Keen pale eyes shift over; they’re not accusatory, just weary. " But maybe it was just because he was never meant to move that dresser, wasn’t it. "
Renoir nodded, quietly, listening as intently as he could. He remembered what life was like when Henri had freshly died; what his life was like. How everything seemed to lose color, how it became so easy to hate others for having what he himself could not ever have. He found it easy to grow jealous and to wish the worst upon them. Yet...he also knew that this, too, would pass.
"...I think you do not give yourself enough credit." He finally said, "...I think if I had been in your shoes I would have gone mad with nihilism. You haven't done so, insofar as I am aware. Melancholic yes, but not nihilistic." Renoir held off after a moment, eyes flicking down.
"...Strangely. Hm. She likely began to repeat herself, likely started to lose focus mid-conversation, and she began to have days where she would just...stare off into the distance, yes?" Renoir flicked his eyes over, and a little corner of his lip turned up in a sad half-smile. "...These are...the beginning signs. When one remains in the Canvas for long enough, the body outside begins to break down, which conversely affects the behavior of the soul within. She would have likely gotten worse and worse, which...she did, as you well know."
It was strange to discuss those things with a near-clinical dissection, but...well. Renoir knew them as intimately as he knew himself. It was, in many ways, why he had been so determined to pull Aline and Maelle out of this mess. He paused, thinking to himself for a moment, before he hummed.
"...What is it you want? Is it to be unmade? or do you simply want for something else to focus on, something to help pull you out of the pain and the agony?" Renoir didn't sugarcoat it. He knew, on some level, that the younger man would appreciate this.
resignation runs deep in the circles beneath her eyes, exhaustion and a certain unsteadiness of footing keeping Celia ever on edge since she had revealed her hand. she had accepted the likelihood of her demise before showing Clea the notebook, fully aware of the chance she would not be permitted to continue breathing. how unfortunate, then, for the woman who had won her heart to have made a case of sorts on her behalf.
Celia had certainly not asked her to... and she had avoided both Aline and Renoir quite deliberately since, too tired to fathom the depths of their anger and grief that she might have to face. it would have been easier for them all if she had left, fleeing rather than confessing. was escape not all that she had ever been taught?
she'd tensed the moment he caught her eye, steeling herself until the man spoke.
she has to restrain the scoff that threatens, avoiding eye contact with crossed arms and a carefully maintained distance.
"I imagine what is left of it would thank you." the words are dry, and nearly as tired as Celia felt. sleep had never been a particularly good acquaintance of hers, but uncertainty lent itself easily to insomnia. nightmares of flame offered further disruption, even well after they had faded into the dark; details may have evaded her after waking, but the scent of smoke always seemed to remain.
"but yes, you have made yourself clear. should my allegiance suddenly change once more, I shall inform you post haste." the venom in her voice remains unobscured, seemingly directed at the patriarch in some measure of retaliation - but it courses through her own veins all the same.
Renoir does not respond, not immediately. Instead, he simply stares Celia down, and the damage that his stare is capable of...it's greater than that of any blade. And indeed, the longer he stares, the more imposing the old man seems.
"You stand in the same place where I was forced to listen to my daughter's screams, as my son burned alive just to save her life." The pure, undiluted rage in him silenced any degree of validity her venom might have held, banished like shadows fleeing from the light. "...And this was, in some capacity, large or small, your fault. You will not make light of my very rightful anger at you again." It was a command spoken with such finality it would terrify most people.
Then, standing there, staring at Celia like an insect inside of an overturned glass, Renoir exhaled, and set his jaw.
"...So long as you are in our home, you are our guest and you are under our protection. If you encounter any issues with your accommodations, speak with Clea. If you suspect you are being followed or that you are in immediate peril from others of your family, speak to me and me alone. I will take care of it. Breakfast is served at eight, lunch at noon, dinner at five." A pause, as Renoir continued to stare. Then, he added, "...Have you any questions for me as it stands?"
@peredore : "Please. I need you to trust me, Clea."
please, please, please 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
Her focus shifts at the sound of her name carrying such gravity — the pain of sleepless nights they spent thinking, meditating on recent events — the weight of the endless pondering, while her father kept despairing. Alone. It had gotten worse with each passing day — and the confirmation of all their doubts did finally manifest the moment her mother did not reemerge from Verso's canvas — without any notice, no hints. She simply disappeared into ink and colors. Since then, he has known no peace.
At first, she had almost thought him a coward to think any less of the brilliant paintress — their teacher and mentor, the woman whose paintbrush always seemed like nothing but an extension of her own hand; she couldn't possibly choose to waste away inside a painting. She would know when to stop, when to return home — and in the meantime, Clea believed, she would have processed the immense, obscure grief of Verso's death the way she preferred the most.
It's gone now, faded like snow in spring — that assurance of a return. Listening to her father, it almost sounds as though the woman will never return home. Never return to life.
The cowardice permeating that irrational fear of his, now, shifts into something else. Pain -- and when he begs her to listen to him, hurt yet convinced of his plan, she finds it impossible to ignore. His grief, her mother's — it is her own. And it burns a different way than Renoir's.
❛ Trust you to enter the canvas, and-- what then ? ❜ she raises an eyebrow, doubt showing in her features — narrowed eyes, pursed lips — though she already knows how this is about to end. How she will eventually concede, after all. For her father's sake, and no one else's. And because, aside from Renoir, she remains the only other Painter in the house, and in the family — who can assist his desperate rescue mission.
The faltering sentiment comes not from pity. She has none for her mother, and he needs it not. Wouldn't even accept it, actually. No — it's the thought she will have to enter that Canvas again, after so much time, that acts as a bridle, halting her resolve enough to make her think twice, to make her imagine what's to come. The place she once considered hers and Verso's playground, their safe haven shaped at the simplest, creative whim of a child — now probably botched. Perhaps unrecognizable, too. Oh, she dreads the moment her eyes, and heart, would start noticing the many differences.
❛ What you ask of me... it won't be easy. But, if there is no other way— ❜ her tone is low, her back against the chair relaxes as it fully leans against it. At the very least, it's testament enough that her father regards her as one skilled Paintress for the task. That brings some solace to her soul. ❛ Then I choose to trust you. If only to have this pantomime your wife has set in motion finally come to an end. ❜
There's a twitch in Renoir's expression as he hears his eldest daughter bite back, as he knew she would. She always did worry about each of them, though for wildly different reasons. Renoir reaches up, and puts a gentle hand on Clea's shoulder. As much reassurance as he can offer in this moment.
"...You and I both know that between the two of us, I have the best chance of convincing your mother to return. And...someone will need to stay and fend off those monstrous people." The Writers, of course. Like wolves at the door, they were, and Renoir knew of no one else as ferocious as Clea when it came to the defense of their family.
"You have done more than enough, Clea, and we need you here. Those creatures--Nevrons, you called them--they are brilliant in design, and they do their ugly work well. But I still think if I try, just one more time, to reach out, perhaps it will work. Perhaps, this time, she will see. This madness must end, and the Guild needs her." The addition of 'I need her, too' went unspoken.
Regardless, this had to end. On that, he and Clea were agreed, and Renoir punctuated the statement by slamming his cane's tip against the floor.
Going to probably take a break for a couple days.
grcdientshift - indie, priv, sel Clair Obscur multimuse loved by Light
sideblog to @cybrvce // template [x]
Gustave doesn't know everything that had happened, finding that many of his memories are fuzzy or that there are gaps in time that he can't explain. Leaving for the Expedition, losing people on the beach, the Gestrals, Equie...he remembers all of that, but the cliffs are where he loses much of what happened. Throwing rocks with Maelle, and then a terror he can't place-
And the man now before him brings that terror rising to his chest in a way Gustave can't describe. Not just the man from the beach, but something about the Stone Wave Cliffs... Even the calming raise of the hand takes a long moment for Gustave to nod and the fear to fade from his eyes. There's more to this man, something between the beach and waking up again in Lumiere.
"I don't...recall, exactly," he says with a shake of his head and steadying breaths to try to calm his racing heart and the tension in his shoulders. Briefly, he glances back to Sophie and Maelle, but they're distracted inside the shop and show no sign of being done any time soon. Good. The fear has taken up residence in his spine doesn't need to bleed onto the girls, too.
At the question, he looks back to Renoir. "She's good. I...I'm sorry, I don't think I know who or your family are. I only remember..." The beach. The beach. Putain, the goddamn beach still lives in his nightmares to this day. Maelle has explained bits and pieces, but not the full picture, always withholding pieces of the puzzle that could describe how Sophie is back, how half of Lumiere who gommaged is back. It's not enough, but he doesn't know how to ask for more when she stubbornly doesn't want to give it.
"I don't know how to accept your apology when I know very little of everything that's happened."
Maelle hadn't given Gustave the memories of his death. That...made sense. Renoir nodded, and still did not approach. A deep breath escaped him as he stared at Gustave. This...would take some explaining. "...My name is Renoir Dessendre," he began simply, taking a slow, deep breath to encourage the other man's calmness as well.
"...The man who attacked you on the beach was not me. He was..." Renoir's lips thin to a line. "...A creature made of chroma. Similar, but different from the Nevrons which you yourself fought. I have no intentions to harm you." He had to stress that, repeatedly. As if to prove it, Renoir was not only shorter than his painted copy, but he had no scar on his face, either. "In fact...before I regained my power, you knew me as the Curator." Renoir gave a soft, almost paternal smile. Before Gustave could speak up in disbelief, Renoir explained, "...When you first met me, you and Lune believed I was a special type of Nevron, haunting the manor. You were about to move for your weapons to defend yourselves when Maelle spoke in my defense. She had been taken there, though the two of you did not know why. Do you recall?"
Renoir would take the form of the Curator if Gustave needed more proof, but he hated that form. So threadbare, so raw, it had been him pushed to the absolute limits of his power...
Verso wasn’t sure precisely what he’d been expecting — some part of him had thought that would be it and, like the world around them, the world would move on and he would hear no more of it. He knows time moves differently in here — knows from what Monoco and Esquie have told him, knows from what he’s seen here and there. Perhaps time would slip by out there — that strange other there that has bothered him for decades, haunted him for the knowing of a broader world he has no way of truly knowing — and so much time would pass in here that it would no longer matter.
His place is —— depressing, to say the least. He hasn’t done much for repairs, and the little upright piano near the closed balcony is partially covered with a sheet, littered with enough books and dust that suggest it hasn’t been touched in months. He’s been —— floating. It’s strange, coming to terms with living; he struggles, still, most days, though perhaps life gets steadily just a little bit easier here and there.
But such things don’t come overnight.
It’s still strikingly difficult looking at the man; he stares for a heartbeat, a surge of complex and haunted emotions clattering noisily through his thoughts. He loved his father, for all the pain and grief and unresolved anger that cast them against each other, and who would he be if he can’t still see the ghost of that man in the one standing before him? This one —— the real one, he supposes —— seems smaller, somehow. Smaller, less presence, more gentle. He’d always thought his father had been turned so to stone because of the Fracture, but now he wonders how much of that was just here.
He swallows, thick, reminding himself he all but invited the man here. " —— guess that should be obvious. " His mouth twists, wry. " We probably didn’t have her here at all. " But he doesn’t want to fight; he’s spent too many years fighting, and even if he chose what he did, he’s still tired, and he snorts softly. " I’ve tried telling myself that for years. Not sure which end is worse. "
His hair is growing in white, now: it hasn’t all the way, but the first inch or two. It makes him look —— stark. Striking. The scars on his face, both from the fight with his father and the fire so many years before, are still in stark contrast; he still won’t allow them to heal over and wouldn’t allow Maelle to fix it, either. Since his immortality was taken away, they no longer swirl with chroma, either: just scars, old and tell-tale. And there’s some part of him that wants to be antagonistic, but it withers before it begins. " —— I would have thought you wouldn’t want to come back here. Not with —— " His mouth thins, and he just wearily adds, " Everything. "
Renoir doesn't force the issue when it comes to the poet. Verso, even this painted version, should be allowed his gripes. "If it makes you feel any better, I've no more memories of her than you do." He knows it doesn't. On the remark of which end is worse, Renoir shrugs. Were Verso still alive, he would've been able to, perhaps, explain better. Although...Renoir had managed it once, so there's no reason he can't do it again.
"...When I was younger, my brother Henri went off to war and got himself killed." There's a tired, almost exasperated air to it, but not at Verso. "...I had been...overindulging in my grief when Aline and I first met. That's how I got the limp; I spent months inside a Canvas, running from my sorrow about it. I had...always been weaker on my right side, but that..." Renoir takes a seat beside Verso, planting his cane in front of him, both hands resting atop it. "...that took what was a mere weakness, and magnified it."
So often, that was what Canvases did. They could be tools for pushing the very limits of creativity, but...like any form of power, it magnified both a person's strengths and weaknesses. A pause, as Renoir just...looks over the state of the house. Frankly, he should have chewed Verso out, but somehow...Renoir didn't feel have it in him. This Verso, it reminded him too much of his younger self...
"That limp," he says, finally, "is what kept me from being too slow to save my eldest son. And then after, I was...too slow to realize what was happening to Aline before everything spiraled out of control. Then I was almost too late to save Maelle..." his eyes slowly closed. "I suppose the point to my rambling is simply this: it is easy to wallow and forget what you have before you until it is too late." A pause, one he lets hang for almost a moment too long, before he whispers,
"...I cannot hate this place. So long as the piece of my boy that remains wishes to paint, I will never hate this place. It is a realm of joy and peace, as it should have always been." There is a pause, however, and Renoir can't help the sigh he lets out now. "...Do you hate it, Verso?" He looks over at the other man.
@shadowatmorning liked for a starter!
Renoir was not a man of rage. He liked to think, for how he expressed himself, that he was quite gentle. And indeed, when Clea first told him that she had someone who was seeking asylum from the Writers, Renoir was elated. Not only because it meant they would have more allies in their coming battle, but it meant he would be able to help someone who likely had suffered as they had.
And then, Clea had told him the name of the woman seeking asylum: Celia Clarke.
It had been the barest traces of mercy that had stayed his hand when Clea had said this to him. Now, when he saw that woman again, a member of the Painters' Guild, she had been, one of the instruments in the Writers' own attack...it took everything he had not to run her through with the blade he kept in his cane. Or to just shoot her.
His face twitched. That wasn't good.
"...It is only by the grace of my now eldest daughter that I have not yet torn your still-beating heart from your chest and sent it back to your family in a box." With that said, he approached, carefully. "...My daughter has shown faith in you. If you make her regret it...I will do far, far worse than simply rip out your heart. Do I make myself clear, Miss Clarke?"
"HERE I HAVE A CHANCE TO LIVE... OUT THERE I MERELY EXIST." maelle / alicia dessendre from clair obscur: expedition 33. gfx cred.
✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.
₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.
[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ? [ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ? [ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ? [ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ? [ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ? [ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ? [ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ? [ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ? [ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ? [ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ? [ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ? [ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ? [ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ? [ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? [ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ? [ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ? [ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ? [ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ? [ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ? [ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ? [ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ? [ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ? [ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ? [ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ? [ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ? [ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ? [ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ? [ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ? [ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ? [ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ? [ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ? [ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ? [ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ? [ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ? [ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ? [ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ? [ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ? [ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ? [ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?
ALL HER LIFE, HER FAMILY HAS DONE IT'S BEST TO KEEP HER OUT OF SIGHT OF ANY AND ALL PAINTER'S AND THEIR PRESENCE WITHIN THE CANVAS THEY CALL HOME. Céleste can understand their apprehension, has felt the gaping absence of Aunt Clea since encountering her other half in the aftermath of the Fracture, with no answer seemingly to be found on her whereabouts or safety. (Grandmère would not let her grasp on their Gift slip so easily, even with the war waged for control.)
Their own Renoir had always seemed larger than life in her eyes, capable of guiding small hands through her first painting and slaughtering anything that stood in his way, whether that be Nevron or their fellow Expeditioners. (He does not wish to, sees no other way to protect Grandmère and the rest of their family from destruction - in that it seems the two are not so different after all.)
"It only need be a taunt if you wish it to be." Céleste is not blind to the ways she stands out from the rest of her family, born not painted, something new, not merely a recreation of his. (Papa's voice whispers to her from the beginning - 'we deserve to live, all of us. we deserve to exist')
The part that harms him more than most others is the fact that Céleste almost sounds like Aline. He stands up a little taller as she approaches him, as she whispers that it need not be a taunt. He locks eyes with her once more, and in his there is a kind of steel determination, the kind that was so essential, lest life and its cruelties break him wholly. He had to think this through...
She was made of chroma, as everything in this painted world was, but still Renoir could tell that she was different. Born, instead of directly painted. That made this all the more tragic. What to do, what to do...? Originally, Renoir was begrudgingly accepting of Clea's plan of outright slaughter, of disappearing these people because they had little other choice. But this...this changed things. Renoir...
Renoir decided, in that moment, that he would not harm the girl before him. He would have to find another way for Aline and Alicia.
"...Child, you know I am not here to harm you." Is he saying it for her or for himself? Perhaps both. He sighs. "...I am here to take my wife and daughter home. Beyond that, I wish for nothing else." That much, at least, was truth. He was not the painted monster Aline had conjured. He was not the evil man who would slaughter innocents, not even after all of this. He was going to go up there and pull Aline and Alicia out of this if he had to drag them kicking and screaming...but...he would not destroy the granddaughter who should have been.
@etoilesfantome, continued from (x)
Like most of Renoir's visits to the Canvas had been, this one was subtle and quiet. He didn't emerge with a bang, and he didn't really let anyone know he was even there.
Lune was so startled upon seeing him she'd very nearly thrown a fireball at him. That was alright. He wouldn't have gotten hurt by it anyway, not to any meaningful degree. Gustave avoided him like the plague. Most people were at least mildly nervous upon seeing him. It hadn't been fair to them, any of them, how this had happened, and Renoir knew it.
When he met Sciel, it was something of an awkward, if small conversation. How are things, is she settling in alright, how is her husband and her baby, are they doing well together, does she need anything, et cetera. But it became clear, before too long, that they don't have much to talk about, especially when he realizes that, on some level, Sciel sees him as the man who murdered Gustave.
He wasn't entirely sure if he would ever forgive Aline for portraying him as that much of a monster. The fact that that creature had even raised a hand towards Alicia filled him with such rage...
But no, there was no time to sit and ponder on that idea. He was here to see Verso, not to think about the painted monstrosity. So, politely and with a slight bow, he quietly excused himself, and went to go find the object of his visit.
The trip led him up to the second floor. It makes his stomach churn a little, but he knows he needs to at least see the boy. Hah, the boy--he still thinks of him as such. Honestly, part of him is terrified he'll find Verso plastered, but a part of him knows better. The pain and agony that poor boy faces every day, the agony that Renoir himself faced every day...something about it keeps you wanting to stay sober, even just a little.
Approaching the doorway, it's partly ajar when Renoir stands in the mouth of it and feels his grip tightening on his cane. Idly, he couldn't help but speak.
"...We do, in fact, have Louise Ackerman, incidentally." He says, after a moment, "...I do not recommend forgetting. Forgetting only makes it worse when something pops back up and hits you with memories."
@perduxamour liked for a starter!
It wasn't fair to her. Poor Julie had suffered so much just by being in the proximity of this family tragedy. From a Canvas perspective, it was probably a year or two after Verso and Maelle (She'd demanded they think of her by that name) came to their compromise. Maelle had pleaded to Renoir not to destroy the Canvas, and Renoir had acquiesced, on the condition that she and Aline took breaks, and that they didn't visit for weeks or years at a time.
With the rules in place, and with Clea thinking it a foolish risk (but when didn't she?), all three of them had gone into the Canvas. They each took a piece of this old world to repaint. Aline took the architecture and the land. Maelle took up the work of repainting the Gestrals and Esquie, as well as her friends and the people she had known in her time as Maelle.
And Renoir?
Renoir took the rest.
Somehow, he had always been better at painting people than anything else. It was just something about their feelings and sensitivities that he innately understood. Perhaps it was his own trauma, perhaps it was simply the way he always had been. It mattered little, not to him. As the last of his swirling brush strokes came into existence, Renoir smiled as Julie, Verso's Julie, the one whom the boy had cared so deeply for, breathed again. It wasn't hard to repaint her; after all, it had been him who had taken their bodies away.
Quietly, his cane settled against the paved stone streets. He tilted his head, looking her over, then nodding. She was, truthfully, perhaps his finest work yet.
"Welcome back," he began, soft and simple. "...I imagine you'd like some answers."
@peintchanteuse liked for a starter!
Life is a constant mess of cruel choices and crueler circumstances. That has ever been Renoir's motto, and it seems fate has conspired to make it even moreso now. This girl--somehow, as soon as he sees her, Renoir knows she's meant to be his granddaughter. That Verso had a daughter. And that fact...it haunts and shatters Renoir utterly.
"Oh..." he whispers, upon realizing who she is. Upon their eyes locking. He wants to flee, wants to vanish from this Canvas and hurl it into the sea so he doesn't have to think about it anymore. So he doesn't have to think about what could have been, the woman who could have been his granddaughter.
He has to close his eyes and swallow hard to even have a hope or a prayer of grounding himself. Aline...did she even know how much damage this did to him? Not just as a father, a grandfather, but as a person? By now, he's white-knuckling the head of his cane. He bows his head and starts murmuring, very quietly, "God, if it is within your boundless wisdom, I plead that you forgive me for what sin I committed for this cruelty to have come about. I pray that you do not taunt me with this. Not with this..."
@grcdientshift liked for a starter (for any muse; I chose Gustave)!
There was no hard cane tap echoing against stone when Renoir chose to visit this day. No warning, no threat, no issuance of violence (hadn't these people had enough of violence in their lives, after all?).
Instead, when he appeared before Gustave on that Lumiere street, it was a quiet, small thing. He wasn't in that dreadful suit and coat Aline had always put that painted monstrosity in. No, Renoir was in his much softer grey shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, gold vest, speckled with paint stains, and slacks.
It would be incorrect to say that Renoir hated formalwear, but he could not present himself as a threat here. So, nothing fancy, nothing formal, nothing that could indicate that this visit was anything more than just that--a gentle, casual visit without pressure or tension. Back straight, shorter than the other version of him, but no less imposing, and yet...younger than even the painted monster had been.
Upon making eye contact, Renoir held up his hand. Peace. He did not dare to so much as move beyond that single act of peace. Blue-grey eyes locked with Gustave's own, and Renoir took a slow, deep breath. In this, he would have to be delicate.
"...I believe the last time you met someone with my face, Gustave, it was... traumatic. Allow me to offer you deepest apologies, not just from my family, but personally from myself as well."
Behind Gustave, that partner of his--Sophie, her name was--and Alicia were visiting a shop. They hadn't yet noticed Gustave was gone, and likely would not for the rest of this meeting. That was perfectly alright with Renoir. He did not intend to interrupt his daughter's affairs...yet.
"...How is she? Maelle." Outside, her body had been stricken with the same illness that was part and parcel of all who remained here extensively. It was the cost of being in this place. At the very least, Renoir knew that Gustave, of all people, would understand why Renoir was here. Yet...Renoir didn't know how much Lune or Sciel had explained to him.