#verleseau

[ryelandgrace]

Family is ... complicated.

CLAIR OBSCUR: EXPÉDITION 33 (2025) dev. Sandfall Interactive

[shininginyourlight]

@verleseau

The area was so calm.

Almost irritatingly so.

Nishiki had joined the expedition with a singular goal in mind. It really should've been simple. How could he have fucked up that astoundingly? Sure, he could point fingers at the teammates that saved his life repeatedly, but surely if he weren't such a coward...

Lifting his head up, he'd peer over toward where the survivors of 65 were going through with their usual tasks for the day. It'd been like this for a little over a week now. Playing house amongst the Grandis. The older members of the team were just waiting for the day when the gommage came, but what of them? What of the younger?

Were we really just going to sit there and do nothing? Add nothing more?

Their commander had already deemed their expedition a failure, but how could that be said when there were still 7 of them left? ...Well, 6. Not counting himself in being a viable expeditioner. ...Whatever. What did it matter to him?

The sound of more distant, crunching snow had Nishiki swiveling his head toward the source. He'd just been sat upon the steps alone while the others worked. He hadn't thought anyone had left to go hunt, but--

Brows furrowed as a pair of distant figures grew closer, either unbothered or completely unaware of the new "occupants" of the train station. One was clearly a gestral, but the other...

"What the fuck?" Nishiki couldn't help but utter at the sight of a completely unfamiliar human, his heart racing with the memory of the old man that had slaughtered more than half of their team.

"Oh," the deep voice of the gestral uttered, "a survivor." They-- they spoke? Their language? The gestral looked to the human, appearing completely unfazed by the human. "They made it quite far," the gestral mused. From behind him, Nishiki could already hear another of his teammates approaching, looking to find out what was going on.

[luminarm]

“ So, a little uh, Nevron - shaped bird told me that if I ask you very nicely, ” begins Gustave, for once uncaring about every single little technicality in his words that @verleseau could latch onto, hands clasped behind his back as they meet at the edge of camp, “ you'll ... summon a piano from Pictos? ” There's no ulterior motive to his approach, at least no nefarious one, but really: it would've been stupid not to take Maelle up on the opening she's offered up to know Verso more. [ It's already a bit much like pulling teeth when there are walls upon walls to hide behind. Most times, people approach Gustave when he's well engaged in his hobby of chucking rocks over a high edge and it always works. Maybe it will with Verso, too. ]

he's in no position, and neither does he really wish, to see Verso on the defensive, so Gustave lifts his hands to assuage any knee - jerk reactions. “ You know, I could never play. Piano, I'm actually useless at ... and it wouldn't have been any easier after, uh, my first accident. ” He wiggles now - wooden fingers, and for a second he finds himself missing the limb forged in steel. “ But look, I'm not just going to ask you if you can play. I'll I'll level the playing field, in a way. ”

he steals a sideways glance at Verso. “ ... any pieces for piano and baritone? ”

in, act 2. plotted, and we surely won't make it sad.

[cleameur]

SHE FEELS LIKE A VOYEUR, a phantom returning to its haunting grounds only to realize how much they’ve changed. all she sees is a gnawing absence everywhere she looks, the remnants of a simpler time. an emptiness filled with unrealized potential. it jars her, this onslaught of memory, more than she’d ever admit. once, she’d taken comfort in verso’s canvas, in the art of creation, the adventures that followed. but now, under the open sky… it’s as though the place has been wiped clean of colour, ruined beyond recognition. ANOTHER TOMB. perhaps her parents are merely gluttons for suffering, choosing it as the backdrop of their power struggle. or maybe they’ve just lost their last shred of common sense, abandoning rationale in favour of dramatics. then again, level-headedness has always been a finite resource in their family.

it was easy enough to join the current expedition. to find a body sufficiently intact after the beach massacre and paint herself into their image. a miracle, she had told the group. how lucky that she gets to keep going. what hasn’t been easy, however, is watching alicia running amok like some folk hero of old, instead of remembering what’s at stake. between her vapid gallivanting and renoir’s spectre lurking tacitly in the corner, she has half a mind to shake the naive fool out of her amnesia herself. but no, that would be ill-advised. the less she knows for now, the better. and verso… well, clea can’t stand the sight of him. he’s not real, he’s not. just pain and despair given form, made corporeal in the cruelest of ways. the pastiche of a son, a brother. GRIEF WITHOUT END, his borrowed half-life hewn eternal. still, it’s unnerving, the resemblance. even twisted and perverse as it is, she can’t deny aline’s talent. her addled brain clearly spared no effort.

so when she hears @verleseau approaching, her muscles stiffen minutely, fingers flexing, itching for a brush out of habit. ❝ what do you want? ❞ she steamrolls his opening, fatigue turning her words vitriolic. ❝ if you’re here for your nightly check-in, let me save you the trouble — i’m not interested. ❞

[inkflowdmoved]

@verleseau liked for a starter! -> figure 8 - paramore

"i don't know how to stop." a breath, a pause. "i don't know how to STOP."

[etoileobscure]

✧ a thing for @verleseau

the clearing was still warm from the day's heat, but the edges had started to cool - dust settling, shadows growing longer. the fire hadn't been lit yet, only the echoes of breath and blade resounding in the air.

simon parried cleanly, shifting his weight just enough to unbalance the strike, and let verso stumble a half-step, recalibrating; he was improving. he observed the way tension seemed to roil under verso's skin, the frustration riding high in the shoulders. the man had music in him, perhaps, even rhythm for WAR.

"you're over correcting." simon said, voice calm.

he circled him, slow, patient. his own stance was flawless, even lazy - long black hair tied back tight, sleeves rolled just past the elbow, frame wide and coiled like a storm held in check - every motion was economy, no wasted flourish; when verso struck again --high, simon caught the blow with a short twist, drove forward, and stopped the blunted edge of his sword just shy of the other's throat; close enough to teach something, but not close enough to wound.

"dead." simon said simply.

he looked straight at verso, a smile playing on his lips as he waited longer than necessary to elaborate.

"you hesitated before the lunge, you think too too much. you still fight like someone who hopes it won't come to that." simon narrowed his eyes as verso reset his footing. "again."

they clashed; the second round was better - tighter angles, smoother movement. but simon wasn't teaching now, he was measuring, watching the way verso moved and what he held back. when verso lunged again, simon caught him mid-strike, and moved in close - steady hand gripping the back of his friend's collar, drawing him forward, like a secret being told through motion alone.

"don't flinch when you get close to me." he said, voice low.

the waning sun caught the side of simon's face then - dark gold on sharp features, over the faint shimmer of the first breaking of sweat. he held verso's gaze a second longer than necessary.

then, he let go.

[repeintre]

@verleseau asked: ❝ i think beneath that mask you're scared. ❞ arcane (s2) sentence starters || Accepting

It is not an easy thing, for a parent, to admit they are afraid. And perhaps the man Renoir was based on would have been able to accept a truth used as a weapon with something closer to grace. Alas, he is who he is, and he is indeed afraid.

"Son." He sighs, and there is something mournful in his very voice. "You know what is at stake."

Of course he is afraid. What kind of man wouldn't be? What kind of father wouldn't be?

It doesn't change the way he holds himself back from trying to call him to order, to fall back into arguing once again. He knows that has already failed, and Renoir is, more often than not, a pragmatist.

"You know what you endanger."

This world, their family, his sister. Everything they know, everything they are. He must be made see reason, Renoir thinks, still looking steady, his cane -his weapon- still. He will not raise it unless he's given reason to.

And then, this man who is afraid, who has already seen too much, done too much, and yet will not stop, speaks again. Plays a painful card.

"You know they will never trust you." He tells him. "As you know you cannot trust them."

With the exception of the one even he has a soft spot for, perhaps. But even that is not certain

[shininginyourlight]

@verleseau

Hunting, like most things in their daily lives on Frozen Hearts, had long since become routine. Mon/oco had no use for it himself, but, for the sake of keeping Ve/rso well-fed, it was a necessity. He'd gotten good at catching rabbits and foxes, with the occasional lucky find of chamois.

But, for every animal he came across, he felt like there were at least four nevron he'd come across first. Which has hardly an issue. He could go through the braseleur, danseuses, and pelerin without much issue. After all, he'd been living within the mountains of The Continent regularly practically since he'd been reborn.

He was fine. With a few caught game strapped to his back, he was looking to catch perhaps one or two more before he'd head back to the home Ver/so and he had built together.

Passing through a thicket of trees, however, Mono/co would soon be stopped in his tracks by the loud thump of oh-so-familiar sounding footsteps. Oh, shit.

Looking toward the source of the thumps, Mon/oco was met with a stalact no more than a hundred feet away. Shit-shit-shit!

It was okay. He could be smart about this. He could sneak away. Maybe he should just head back home early... Looking around, he'd attempt to get some bearings of where he was so he could do just that.

However, before he could even really manage to start to turn around, the stalact would stomp one of its feet again. That time, much of the snow from the nearby trees was falling from the branches. Some were barely touched, but Mon/oco would wouldn't be quite that fortunate. The majority of the snow from the branches above him would crash down on top of him, forcing a strangled cry from him as he was almost completely buried beneath the heavy snow.

The cry caught the attention of the stalact, that of which had had its back to Mono/co initially. With the noise presenting itself, it would turn and begin to approach, in search of the source of the noise.