An unflattering portrait of a man

"Or the insides. Last expedition, those that survived you sweeping in, decided it would be a great idea to challenge Serpenphare. I told them they'd get eaten and I was right."

Rook did his best to meet up with each expedition that came across, offer his insights and experience; if they let him. More often than not he had found other expeditions to be more dangerous than the Continent itself, prone to fear, which Rook didn't really blame them for. He had always known he was an odd quantity, able to shoulder the pain that came with surviving, with living.

"Energy cannot be created or destroyed, just transformed from one form to another," he mumbled mostly to himself, forcing his mind away from past failures to focus on the task at hand. Rook closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, mind whirling as lines and dots finally, finally connected.

There's so much he wants to know but Rook isn't sure how much time he has, how much patience Renoir will show him. He certainly didn't envy his position either and while his path was one Rook would not take himself he understands how Renoir got there.

"Time for that circle back then. Who, or what, is unravelling our world? Interesting choice of words. To me that implies that there are multiple worlds, which then starts leading me down a whole different rabbit hole of thoughts."

#atlasveiled #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

There had been many, many grisly ends to far more lives than even Renoir could hope to count. That anyone could hope to count, in truth, and he had long ceased caring: he could end them himself, or let the world weaken itself by having the Nevrons do the job for him. Or the foolishness of people by itself.

It was not an easy topic, but not one he would shy away from. Not when decades weighed on his shoulders and now he had a youth asking him questions that no Expeditioner before had dared ask.

"Energy can, however, be captured, and stored." He warned. It was still there, it could simply not be used. It was removed from the natural flow of time.

And while he could not spend as much time as he wished there, what he was speaking of were not secrets: he had once tried to share this knowledge. It had all ended in harm, and he would not have shared it again, if he weren't alone. But he was, at the moment, as so Rook could get his answers from a man who had seen what lay behind the abyss.

"Some matters cannot be unlearned, once they are learned." He warned, once again. Almost smiled. Almost. "But the Paintress is not the one that wants us gone. That which she is barely holding back, beneath the Monolith, is." He revealed.

There was a time he wouldn't tell the truth because of what that first Expedition did to him —— that was back when he did try to protect them, when he fiercely wanted to live. But telling the truth once had turned them against him in ways that he's never fully recovered from, and so he warily held his tongue for so many years out of —— what, cowardice? Fear?

Now he holds his tongue for different reasons: he wants them to get to the Paintress. He wants this to end.

" ... "

They both know the answer to it, and he doesn't answer right away. " And what a life it would be, " he says at last, voice weighted with a certain derision, a wry acerbic bite. " Living forever locked in a fantasy where I'm not even real. I'm not even him. Verso's dead and maybe that's the way it always should have been. "

But he is real. It's something he's warred over since that day, that existentialism, those questions no one can answer.

A low wind whips past, stirring the edges of his his ragged clothes; he looks past Renoir, then, to the Monolith and the great grieving colossus at its feet. The sword tip wavers, and he looks aside, fuming and hurting and angry at so many things, but his fingers open and the sword wisps away into nothing. What's the point?

His eyes squeeze closed, reopen. " —— why can't you just let me go? Maybe I could talk to her. Maybe she'll just — unpaint me. Let you and Alicia —— "

#soulpainted #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers #cw suicidal ideation

Verso is dead, and Renoir's son is forever doomed to be a shadow of that man. And yet, how Renoir wishes he could get through his stubborn head that he is, and can be, his own person. Renoir himself is not the man trying to consign their world to oblivion, reflection of him that he may be.

"You are not him." He agrees, as the sword vanishes, and so does any thread. And Renoir does not mind that anger, for all he wishes it was directed elsewhere. "And you don't have to be."

But as long as life keeps forcing cruel choices on him, on them, he'll keep making them.

And this is yet another choice to make, as Renoir's cane stomps on the ground.

"Enough!" He asks of Verso. "You deserve to live. To learn to live, and be yourself." He almost pleads.

And they both know the Paintress won't unpaint him.

Oh, this he had not been expecting. Rook's eyes lit up with curiosity as Renoir spoke, deep drive for knowledge fed, mind working, working. He'd learned very quickly that he would have to tread a very fine line when it came to Verso if he wanted to keep his fleeting appearances in his life consistent in any way. He'd gotten bits and pieces but didn't dare dig further. But Rook wasn't stupid, quite intelligent in fact, able to make good use of what little he had been able to get.

He is no longer wound up and ready to dash, completely engrossed in his thoughts. Rook took a few steps back so he'd have some space to pace a little. It wasn't nervous pacing, almost excited, finding it easier to think if he was moving; youth perhaps painfully on display here.

"Those who die to nevrons, their chroma is trapped and their bodies remain. Those who die of other means or reach a certain year gommage, freeing their chroma. Paintress... You - " a pause to look at Renoir for a moment, no accusation or such in his tone, just thinking, thinking.

"Okay so where I am at right now is that you kill expeditioners to free their chroma, yes?" Rook tilted his head to the side, brows furrowed slightly, still nothing resembling judgement in his tone or expression. He wasn't even considering the fact that the more he knew the more danger he was likely in.

Curiosity, cats.

"To what end? Where is it going? To fight whatever is unraveling our world? We'll swing back to that particular phrasing later."

#atlasveiled #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers #( GOOD )

He had not fully dared to hope, an while a fool wouldn't have survived for this long in the Wilderness away from Lumiere, it did not change how Renoir had long lost hope in her inhabitants, and how short-sighted they were. But this had been something of a reckless attempt, a reckless hope from a tired man, and the lack of judgment in Rook's tone was oddly welcome.

Of course, there was the chance that he was not being believed, and that this would turn into a battle, or a mistake, but for now... for now, Renoir nodded. Steady and still, in comparison to the younger man, merely arching an eyebrow the slightest, smallest bit.

"Chroma is the lifeblood of our world." He explained. "And ours, as well. And if all were as it should be, it would flow from the living to the world, and then to the living again."

It was the circle of life, in an existence such as theirs. It was the balance of things, and the way things were.

"When the Nevrons kill a person, that Chroma is no longer flowing. It weakens that cycle."

It turned their world into a shadow of what it had been, unraveling it thread by thread.

"Any cause of death other than Nevrons releases that Chroma. So does the Gommage." He went on, gesturing just slightly with the hand he wasn't holding the cane with.

"And too many expeditioners have already met their end at the hands, or other extremities, of Nevrons."

sparrow , hi! i just wanted to drop by and say how appreciated you are on the dash and as a person. you have such a kindness that just radiates so much sun and love. i hope you know how valued you are! thank you for writing such a fantastic renoir and bringing him to life. i hope that this week is so so very kind to you.

Aah! Thank you, thank you, Anon

I've had a very chaotic, very busy week, and this message was such a drop of kindness. Thank you, thank you: This is a very new RPC but I've felt so welcome from the very first day, even writing a character like Renoir, with all his complexities and his moral quandary.

It's been a long time since I had threads that reached my heart like that, so thank you, anon, and thank you everyone.

#{ out of character }#{ answered asks }

He waits and watches as Renoir flicked through his journal, eyes drifting to the cane as it remained upright despite not being held, head tilting a little curiously. He'd never been able to manipulate his chroma in such ways, small useful ways, far too erratic natured. Hell, he had a whole picto that he always had equipped that helped keep his chroma, his lightning, from getting out of hand when his emotions did; it also doubled as hormone therapy.

"Surviving is kind of my thing at this point." Rook replied, a moment of hesitation before he closed the rest of the distance between them to take his journal back. He tucked it back away in his kit, another curious tilt of his head given at Renoir's words.

"So, if it's not a threat what is it?" Probably not the best question to ask, might be testing fate a little. "Not to seem ungrateful but... You've been going after expeditioners pretty mercilessly. And I know it's not," a moment to think about his words, "something you enjoy. You don't gloat, don't grandstand. You just sweep in and do what you believe needs to be done."

He sighs and runs a hand through blue curls. "Reminds me of the Paintress in a way. There's a sadness there, resignation almost. I've never been quite sold on the idea that she's the enemy. There's so much we just don't know, so many assumptions from very little information. It's-"

Rook shut his mouth, looking a little sheepish. "Shit, sorry. I ramble sometimes and there's... Not many people out here to talk too."

#atlasveiled #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

It was not something he enjoyed, but it was far from usual, and far from expected, to meet someone sharp enough to put two and two together. Then again, most people who encountered Renoir did no longer have the chance to ever put two and two together again.

It was an unfortunate cost of keeping this world alive.

It was also what made Renoir regard Rook through the pain, through the weight of the years, and in the end, nod. It was not a gentle gesture, but neither was it unkind.

"There are not many away from Lumiere." And whose fault was that? Alas, it was still necessary. "But you are not wrong." He conceded.

And then, after a moment, he decided to test again that which had failed with Expedition 0. That which had cost so much pain to Renoir and especially to those he loved, yes, but then again this situation was far from usual.

"The Paintress is not what Lumiere believes her to be, Rook, and neither do I enjoy my task." He settled for, hand on the cane again, tone steady, both grim and a shade tired. "But every time an Expeditioner dies to Nevrons, that which is slowly unraveling our world grows stronger."

Time to see what he made of this knowledge.

shad0wbringer

Las preguntas hacia Verso vendrían mucho más tarde , o tal vez, nunca si no conseguía salir con vida de este encuentro. La tensión parecía traspasarse a su guadaña cuyo resplandor parecía mantenerse inestable. ¿Qué podía significar la verdad? La verdad era que muchos habían muerto para encontrar un pellizco de ella. La verdad era todo el sufrimiento que habían acumulado en Lumiére. La verdad era la gran mayoría estaban muertos tal vez por Renoir. La verdad era que Gustave jamás volvería a reír ni compartiría nada con ella de nuevo.

Algo en su interior parecía avisarle que las cosas iban a ponerse peor aunque quisiera permanecer en posición de ataque. Tenía las de perder en este combate. Sciel se fijó en la figura que acompañaba a Renoir cuyo aspecto, le recordaba a Maelle pero era incapaz de pensar más allá de aquello ahora.

" Solo queremos parar este ciclo de sufrimiento. Es lo único que importa. "

#shad0wbringer #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers #(no worries no worries )

Era un cometido loable, en verdad, y era un cometido que compartían. A su modo, y no exactamente igual, pero Renoir también luchaba por detener el ciclo.

La tragedia era que su forma de detener el ciclo requería sangre y decisiones crueles.

Tras él, Alicia se detuvo, cauta, mirando a Sciel. No escondiéndose tras Renoir, pero por una vez obedeciendo y no poniéndose en peligro. Simplemente observando la situación.

Renoir habría preferido mil veces que no estuviese allí, y Alicia lo sabía. Y aun así, Renoir no retrocedió, ni se amedrentó ante la guadaña. "Muchos han fallado, antes de vosotros. Muchos antes han caído en el camino." Habló Renoir. "Y aunque llegaseis a vuestro destino, lo que intentáis no logrará detener el ciclo." Le advirtió. "No de la forma que queréis."

verleseau

there is an irony to this argument they have now : the argument of the man wishing to preserve and live on through this canvas for all of eternity, with a man who yearns to usher on the erasure of a world ( of himself ) so thoroughly decimated. his father's composure is meant to pacify his sizzling nerves, but it only agitates verso all the worse. at one time, his father could have soothed him. there was a time when every word the man spoke to him was a warm blanket the size of lumière itself, lulling him into logical security. his family : the most important part of his life.

but solace has turned to scorching heat now, an eiderdown forced upon him in a cruel attempt to keep him in place, to stop him from escaping his scorched skin.

he stands now, feeling pathetic, his sword and dagger clutched in his hands against a man who offers no fight in return. it would be dishonourable to incapacitate a foe that does not fight back, or ask for the steel.

teeth bite down on tender tongue. ❝ rebuilt ? you think this world can be rebuilt ? ❞ to the world itself, verso gestures. a fallen nevron lies in pieces several yards away, crumpled into a heap in the corner. ❝ after all this destruction, all this chaos, after the entire continent has been rent apart and ravaged by nevrons, you truly think this world can be rebuilt ? ❞

the argument is varnished several times over, a praiseless tempo that cannot hold its own. he's tired. ❝ no. ❞ his arms lower, the tip of his sword touching the ground now. ❝ when the time comes, we will be the only ones left. forced to wander in an empty world, infested by their creations. and then what do you expect we'll do ? go back to living our lives, just our family in this world, forever ? is that what you want ? ❞

#verleseau #{ answered asks }#{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

He does not really expect Verso to start attacking recklessly, and Renoir will not provoke him unless he absolutely has to, beyond the impracticality of it all, when they will both recover.

Does he think the world can be rebuilt? He has to think so, has to hope so. Has to believe there is something that can be salvaged, for the sake of a future that is more than the quiet of oblivion or the knowledge he failed Verso.

All Renoir wants is for his children to be happy, and fate itself conspires against it. Against them.

"The world needs not be empty, if She is the one to win." He retorts.

If the Paintress is freed, and the Painter is vanquished, and some of the canvas can be rebuilt. If the Gommage can be stopped or unmade, if there is a Lumiere Verso can hope to go back to.

"It needs not be our family alone."

Those who remain, and might even remain if She wills it so. And while Renoir doesn't trust in Painters, he is still a pragmatist of a man.

shad0wbringer

El despliegue de poder de Renoir era inmenso, Sciel era capaz de percibir que había algo mucho más allá - no parecía de este mundo ante tal despliegue de chroma. Qué extraño debía ser envejecer - aunque no era momento de hacerse ninguna pregunta, ni de cuestionarse su existencia - ya que estaban bajo peligro.

"Tregua entonces? " gritó, por encima del ruido de los pasos de los Nevrones. La mano de la exploradora se movió con rapidez, lanzando su primera carta de augurio. Un resplandor violeta pareció impactar en uno de sus enemigos cromáticos - si aquellas bestias hacían replantearse una tregua con el temible Renoir, Sciel era consciente que no podía subestimar aquellas criaturas.

Al lanzar su segunda carta de augurio, el color resplandeciente cambió a un intenso dorado - mientras se movía sin precedentes hacia su enemigo, cobrando su deuda. Pocas cosas se hacían sentir tan viva o plena, como en el campo de batalla. Si era el fin, iba dar un buen espectáculo. Su guadaña iba moldeándose a los reflejos de sus augurios ; sol / luna / sol. Por el sonido del bastón de Renoir y sus palabras ; intuyó que la fortuna o el azar, casualidad o no, iban a luchar codo con codo ante esas bestias.

#shad0wbringer #{ verse: the portrait }

"Tregua." Fue la respuesta de Renoir, puntuada con un golpe seco de su bastón de paseo antes de que el croma a su alrededor -alrededor de ambos, de hecho- se alzase para bloquear el embate de uno de los Nevrons más grandes que les estaban atacando.

En otra situación, tiempo atrás, Renoir quizás se habría lanzado al combate con el frenesí y el arrojo de su actual aliada: a él nunca le había gustado luchar, pero jamás había hecho nada a medias si podía evitarlo, y no había capitaneado esa primera expedición a base de carisma y voluntad solamente. No, Renoir no amaba luchar, pero sabía hacerlo bien, y era a estas alturas un acero bien pulido.

Lo bastante como para poder permitirse observar a Sciel luchar, en algunos momentos. Para considerar un estilo de batalla bastante inusual, y saber dónde iba a ser de más utilidad. Y en este caso, las habilidades de Renoir iban a ser mucho más útiles a la defensiva, permitiendo que Sciel mantuviese una ofensa constante con sus augurios.

El Nevron más cercano volvió a intentar golpearles, una criatura con tres veces su altura, que no era la más grande pero sí la más osada de las presentes.

Y de nuevo Renoir alzó el bastón, y en el momento adecuado cortó el brazo de la criatura, deteniendo así su ataque.

"Todo tuyo." Le dijo a Sciel, mientras se centraba en los dos Nevrons que ahora se acercaban aún más.

When that moment came, when Renoir had found them and what they were doing — his son bloody, hurt beyond what any mortal could endure, having been questioned and interrogated and asked questions he couldn’t answer, wouldn’t answer — something inside him had been so close to breaking.

He had fought back when he was freed, standing with a blade still stuck through him and bleeding, and he had fought back. He’d fought back, and they’d —— won? Was it winning?

He’d fallen to his knees and wept in great broken gasps like a child when it was all over, fingers gouged into muddy and bloody ground and only his father’s support amidst the silence. But then he’d picked himself up, and he hadn’t wept since. He’d not been stoic, but there was something that had broken apart a little, cast itself over the musician and aristocrat he’d been before they left. Something bloody, and hard, and jaded. It’s small, now, just filling in the cracks: but oh, it will grow.

" I’m fine, " he insists, quiet, for the millionth time, but he’s not fine, not by the greatest reach he could make. " I’m alive. I —— " He looks down to his hands, and his vision briefly blurs as he turns one over; it’s steady because he takes after his father.

" I liked her. I —— fuck me, " and he never curses in front of his parents, not even now when he's long, long left childhood behind; he saves that for friends and companions, but it comes effortlessly now with a short and hard little exhale. " I cared for her, and then I had to kill her. How do you ever get over that? I see it every time I close my eyes, Papa. " A soft curse in his mother tongue, this one more eloquent but no less heartfelt. " I see it, and I see it, and I feel it —— "

#soulpainted #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

Something had broken apart a little in Verso, in that tragedy that Renoir would always ascribe the meaning of wrath to, and Renoir had seen it, and he had not been able to heal that. He doesn't know how to heal it, either, and while nothing can be as bad as what they encountered, he so dearly wishes he had more than fury to offer.

More than the quiet patience as Verso says he's fine, because that's a lie he will not believe. Because they are alive, yes, but not unscathed, and sometimes he can only wish things were different, and it was not only Renoir to offer support. Alas, things are the way they are, and he can only make do with what he has.

In another life, had Verso been a child, Renoir would have pointed out the cursing. As matters stand, he thinks it impolite, yes, but far from undeserved, and the lack of some manners can certainly be forgiven.

"One step after the other." Is all Renoir can tell Verso, as he approaches further, rests a hand on Verso's shoulder, regards him. "That's how you learn to live with the wound."

He does not offer a hug, not directly: it will be on Verso to take that second step, when Renoir has taken the first. Verso is no longer a child, but he's his child, and the air between them is not yet so poisoned that Renoir, even this Renoir, cannot offer affection in support.

For all that he is — for all that they've become — he can't hate his father. The wounds they've caused each other, both on the surface and deep within, are myriad and many, and even given a lifetime of reconciliation there may not be enough time to come to see eye to eye again.

But he doesn't hate.

He remembers too much for that. His childhood was good; flawed, like most are, but good. He always knew his parents cared fiercely, and —— maybe that's the biggest problem here, isn't it?

His gaze ducks aside at the question, guilt creeping. It's answer enough. " When would you ever have let me? You don't let me near her. "

He doesn't flinch at the hard words, the thump of the cane. Once, that stern look and a hard word alone would have made him bend, but —

" I'm not young anymore. " And he's not. He only knows how old he is through the numbers counting down every year. " You still see me as that same man that came with you over here. But I've lived a lifetime since then. A lifetime. And for what? I've buried every person I've cared about because of all of this. Do you even realize what a prison this life is? " And god, but there's an ache in him, deep and unending, a frustrating burn that makes him grit his teeth and makes those pale eyes furiously flash because if he doesn't get angry, he may break.

" What are we going to do? " He blurts the question, because it's safer than feelings. " Are you going to kill them? " The Expeditioners, of course, way down there out of sight.

#soulpainted #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

Verso is, and might forever be, young in the eyes of his father. Oh, Renoir knows he's not a child anymore, they both have lived far more than they should have, but it does not change how Verso will forever be his child.

This is, moreover, an argument they have had already, an argument they've rehashed and will continue to rehash as their world crumbles time and time again around them.

"We both have lived a lifetime since our world shattered." He retorts. "And you can still help us stop this all. Build a life out of it all."

Something better than grief.

But the expeditioners, well, they are not an easy, safe topic, are there? Renoir knows he should kill them, and he knows he will try. The question, of course, is a matter of when, not if.

"Will you cease your folly?" He asks Verso. They both know their answers are tied. "Will you tell them the truth?"

While Rook had never been the most social of individuals he had learned from a young age how to read people, read whether or not he was about to get a potential ass kicking. He's noticed Renoir standing down in inches, slowly uncoiling, but Rook can't follow just yet. He's still tense, ready to bolt, a hare staring down a wolf.

His head tilted to the side, considering Renoir's words, brow furrowed in thought. It could all be a ploy to get Rook to relax before he attacked, but despite not knowing the man he felt that such a move was beneath him.

"And I live to see another day." Rook gave a confident grin, a slight easing of his posture, still tense but less so. He reached into his coat and pulled out a paper journal. "Here."

He underhand passed it to Renoir trusting the other to be able to catch it, not quite willing to step any closer. It was a sketchbook, fairy decent drawings of various places around the Continent and Nevrons in the pages, dated based on the year on the Monolith.

"Proof I'm not lying."

#atlasveiled #{ verse: the portrait }

It could all have been a ploy, and a man more cautious than Renoir might have done that. It would have been useful, for someone less certain of his might than he was, and he had often chosen to use ambushes or confusion to avoid his prey from fleeing.

But such deliberate misdirection was beneath him, when he was no longer honorable but could have at the very least standards. That did not change, of course, that Rook could be the one using that same trick, but Renoir would ensure he regretted it, if he did.

For now, however, he caught the sketchbook, an eyebrow rising minutely in curiosity, even as he let go of the cane to open the book with both hands.

The cane, of course, did not shift one bit, held by Chroma and prepared to defend Renoir if needed, but most of his focus was on the journal, which he regarded with quiet attention as he quickly moved through the sketches, careful not to touch the drawings themselves. He knew enough about that, of all things.

"You have survived more than most." He said, however, after a brief look through it. There was no need to spook the youth further, if he wasn't about to kill him, and so instead he was the one to approach one step, and offer the journal back.

"But the Nevrons grow more vicious with each passing year." He warned Rook. "Be careful, and be aware we will meet again." And then, "And this is not a threat."

cleameur

HER PATIENCE WEARS DOWN with every passing second, a wellspring that has long run dry. though, where clea is involved, this was never much of a bottomless fount to begin with. in its absence, NAKED CONDEMNATION CLOTS AND CONGEALS, stretched taut between father and daughter like a punishing barbwire. it should come as no surprise then, that his muted admonishments seldom serve as more than cannon fodder, fuel to the fire of her already simmering fury. as though she’s some misbehaving toddler instead of the only adult present in the room.

her hands go slack against the desk’s surface, dropping the letter unceremoniously in her haste to lambast him. ❝ oh? are we suddenly pretending that you care in the slightest? ❞ the thinly-veiled snide catches on the sharp end of her teeth, CASTING BLAME ON THE ACCUSED with the severity of a branding iron. but she doesn’t stop there, eager as she is to take her grievances out on him, until they’re all but clawing gouges into his veneer. ❝ given the recent shift in your priorities, i assumed you no longer concerned yourself with the fate of the council or the painters as a whole, for that matter. ❞ her words taper off into a serrated edge, meant to cut deep, to hurt. she hopes they do. he lost any licence to sympathy the moment he made it clear where he stands on this.

a huff of laughter splits the air, but it’s a cruel, mordant thing, leaking noxious fumes every which way. the ridiculousness of the situation brings to mind the painting that still hangs proudly in renoir’s atelier, a trite parable of herself. clea refuses to be his atlas shouldering the world. ❝ so please, spare me the empty platitudes. everything is under control, but no thanks to you. ❞ A BRUTAL CASTIGATION. she fixes him with a begrudging glare, as if daring him to disagree, to refute the facts.

#cleameur #{ verse: the painter }#expedition33 spoilers #( She's furious and she's valid )#( And there's one father )

Oh, she's hurt and hurting and furious, and a part of Renoir wants to call her to order, to accuse back, to find something to blame. But Clea is young, and Renoir is his father, and he is better than that.

He knows it's not a good habit to let her unleash her fury on him, that it reflects badly on them both. He will still try to be understanding: he hopes she never has cause to understand the allure to stay, and he can't help but think she's stronger than them all.

He hopes that strength isn't needed for long, but until then, he knows she can handle herself, and he can focus on Aline, and on Alicia.

So instead of raising his voice, he stands, hand on his walking cane, steady and with a thunderous frown that is all the extent of his disapproval. She is a painter, after all, she has ways to unleash her temper.

But, he tells himself, he is grieving. And this is still, in a way, easier than grieving himself.

Renoir is also not unused to temper. And he also knows, from experience and from watching others, how to deal with it.

"Clea." He repeats, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, because his daughter certainly knows where to land a hit. He'd be proud of her, in any other situation. And then... "I have no need of empty platitudes, and I asked you a question." He reiterates. "What is the state of those reports?"

He does not blame her for her fury. He does wish their situation were another.

But he also knows he cannot send her after Aline, and so this is how things must be.

"Of course I did." Rook replied easily, almost seeming insulted by the very notion that he wouldn't risk his life and prospects of returning in that way. "It was the right thing to do. Trouble hadn't hurt any of us, he was just lost. Plus, you'd already killed Varric by then. I had no real reason to stay, no real connections with the others. Especially when they were going to help the Commander kill me and the gestral."

Anger bleeds into his voice when he mentioned Varric, fist clenching as he felt his chroma ripple, much more erratic then that which surrounded Renoir. He was honestly surprised that he had managed to keep himself so collected, but Rook knew if it came to blows Renoir would certainly win. He needed to keep himself in check, not let instinct and the storm inside him take control. Quite the exercise in discipline for Rook.

"I didn't survive alone. Trouble, oh that's the gestral's name, helped out in his own way." Not just Trouble, but Rook felt is was perhaps best not to mention Verso right now. "I've always been the scrappy sort. Surviving out here isn't too different from surviving on the streets, aside from the more lethal beat downs."

A pause. "I'm Rook. No last name." He'd dropped that the moment he'd lost his parents, the name he held now not even the one he was born with. Varric had called him Rook one day and he knew in that moment that it was his name. "I guess I should thank you for not going me right away. So, thank you."

#atlasveiled #{ verse: the portrait }

There was no denying the youth's disquiet, and had Renoir not known who he was, and why he fought, he might have felt sorrow at the necessities of his situation. He did not enjoy the blood on his hands, after all, but it had never been enjoyment that had driven him.

But he had not moved to kill, and he was glad he had not, beyond the curiosity he'd felt: he remembered far too clearly, far too sharply, the Expedition he'd led turning on Verso, and Renoir having been too late to prevent that. It hardly surprised him that they would have turned against one of their own as well.

And for all that leaving someone alive on the continent was a risk, when their world was in such danger, and he could not be certain just yet that this Rook was not lying, for now Renoir met his gaze, and considered him. Steadily, letting some of the menace bleed out from the Chroma around him.

It might do Verso good to meet this man, he thought, if he hadn't already. It was also a risk, but perhaps...

"I have found," Renoir spoke at last, "Gestrals, as a rule, to be far more trustworthy than humans. Yours was a brave choice."

One not many would have made.

"If you are not lying, you will not die today."

He listens, but the words don’t settle easily. It’s not that it doesn’t make sense — it does, and it’s really the only thing to be done. What else could they say? This world is a —— a creation? He’s not sure he even believes it himself.

But he draws in a breath, steels himself, and nods. He lost something over there, on the Continent. He lost a piece of himself that he’ll never get back, and sets his life on a path of crumbling, crumbling from that point on. But for now, it’s just a raw, knife-edged thing, wearing him bloody from the inside.

And so he lets that thought tumble 'round for a moment, troubled but accepting, looking out over gently rolling waves.

" Did we do the right thing? " Another sudden question, something just a little off in the way he speaks: like he’s trying to be hard. Like he’s trying to put it somewhere that’s can justify blood on his hands with righteousness, where he can make like getting caught and interrogated and tortured by those he came here with doesn’t haunt him every time he closes his eyes.

" I know they didn’t give us a choice. I just —— I can’t get everything that happened out of my mind. " It’s almost a shameful admission, but who else could he admit it to? Admitting it still feels a little like weakness.

#soulpainted #{ verse: the portrait }#expedition33 spoilers

All Renoir knows, as he very pointedly doesn't look back, is that he doesn't know if they did the right thing for Lumiere, and certainly not the right thing for Expedition 0... but this was the right thing to keep his children as safe as possible. And it's not as if they'd been given a better option.

Some truths are too heavy to be borne, but he will bear it as best as he can.

"We did the only thing we could do." He assures Verso, and keeps his tone as steady as he can. He wishes he could offer something better, but as matters stand... all he has is reassurances, and a steadiness he must present, for all he knows himself far from steady.

"They all made their choices." And their choices had involved torturing his son, and so there was no harm that was too little, for him.

Even if they had been familiar, once appreciated faces.

"But I would worry more," he admits, "if this all hadn't rattled you."

It's certainly rattled Renoir.

For all the summoned weapon is held, the point stays down; his hand is deceptively steady, but only through so many decades of experience. If he lifted it, it might be a different story; uncertainty bleeds through him, leaves traces.

His eyes snap up at that last accusation. " Don’t you dare, " he says, wounded. " How many times have you asked her what she wants? " Of course — he doesn’t know either, not really. He left. He left. He’s been away from the family, away from her, away from him.

But he can guess. He knows the weight in her eyes just as much as he can see it in his own.

Sees it in his father’s, too, for however much he denies it.

He dares take a step closer — weapon remains drawn, but —— that look in his eye is argumentative, not aggressive. Fingers holding the dagger tap his own chest, scarred features incredulous. " Can’t you see what I am? I died a long time ago. I died, " and there’s an emphasis there, hard and total, " during the Search and Rescue. I died when you talked me into killing our company. I died again, and again, and all of your son that’s left is a memory you won’t let go of. "