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@topaintandwrite
#TOPAINTANDWRITE is an independent, selective roleplay blog for Clea Dessendre and Simon from Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, both drafted by ArtingDreamers (25+, she/her, UCT+2). Discord available to mutuals. Est. Feb 2026.
Spoilers won't be tagged. Medium activity.
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Carrd located here - Updated 1 Feb 2026
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Verso didn't have enough stability to move away from her grasp. He wasn't beyond sense even with the drink in his veins, but his movements were definitely slowed. He blinked as she inspected him. He hadn't even looked in a reflection on the way here, but he didn't feel like anything was broken. Just a bloody nose, and a slight swelling just along the cheek bone. Perhaps a bruise or two he'll have to try and cover up before Maman found out.
"Is it bad? At least they didn't get my good side." Verso grinned, again with the deflecting jokes. To her follow up question, he shrugged. "Someone else's occasion that was getting too rowdy in a quiet bar. Interrupted my conversation with friends one too many times." And he laid the details to rest. Verso had been indulging in bars more often than usual. It helped to keep his mind swimming in something other than his own thoughts. He sought out peace, but his mind brought him only war. To silence it for an evening was a blessing.
"Anyway, what are you doing up this late?"
Even at this time and in his state, Verso still finds ways to make the situation light and to crack his jokes. Clea clicks her tongue, his joke rewarded with a gentle prod of a finger against his bloodied nose—just to see if he broke it, or might 'sober up' as some gentlemen mentioned pain as quite the healer. "Paris might fall before you get a bad side."
She listens to his words though, somewhat expecting the cause to be disagreement, and finding rowdiness to be close enough. Her answer to his tale is an eyeroll. She's noticed his absences after a short while. If he finds peace out there, then all the better. Clea and Alicia both could remain cooped up and busy in their endeavours indefinitely. Verso... not quite, at least in comparison. "At least make sure you don't get hurt, hm? Maman might not be as open about your wanderings if you return home with wounds and blood."
In truth, neither would Clea. But he doesn't need that honest admittance. Instead, she lowers her hand to his bicep and tugs gently. They can clean the blood at least. Maybe ice the nose. Better he looks cleaned up than rugged like this—and blood only looks good in a Canvas, really.
"sketching," she answers his question smoothly. "I couldn't sleep. Instead of lying awake, I got up to draft compositions." There is something in how exhaustion makes an artist looser and less caring of their linework. It helps, even as Clea may find the sketches awful tomorrow—theyre just sketches, some attempts to figure out an art piece. "And you're not exactly quiet going up the stairs, dear brother."
Gustave considered himself a patient man. Many times he had put up with the like of Maxime and his drunken ranting, his miserable pity party as if he were the only one in Lumiere suffering through the Gommage. The only difference between him and Clea Dessendre was that Clea was completely and unmistakably sober. Apparently, his patience could only be extended so far when the person is just downright insufferable.
Despite her claims, Clea wasn't particularly good at making him believe she truly cared for her sister. He could set aside his irritation at the fact that she didn't seem to hold "his kind" in high regard. (Could it be because they weren't her creations? Somehow he doubted that.) Gustave couldn't care less what she thought about him or the rest of Lumiere, but he couldn't excuse her attitude about Maelle.
"Have you ever thought that maybe your attitude might be part of the reason she doesn't wish to leave?" Gustave asked, folding his arms defiantly. The woman could look down on him all she wanted, threaten to erase him and the Canvas. Though the thought scared him to death, he wouldn't allow her to intimidate him. Maelle was and will always be more important.
Rude, possibly a little harsh, though he certainly wouldn't say it was uncalled for. "She's a smart girl," he added. "She's more than capable of seeing reason, but you need to be the one to speak to her. Now, if you're too cowardly to do so, I can find a way to explain to her why I suddenly know what she's been hiding from me, but what makes you think she's be more willing to listen to me?"
His hefty proclamation and defensive gesture makes a part of Clea bristle. She fought hard not to outright scowl at Gustave, though her icy glare makes it through, hard edged and sharp. The gall of this paint stain to insinuate such nonsense. She'd concede that Verso was far closer to their baby sister, but that's the extent of it. Their family is perhaps the epitome of familial love and care. They're liable to ruin each other if one dies—and Verso is an unfortunate indication of that.
Clea moves closer to Gustave, head tilted up but in no way cowed by their difference in height, nor whatever threat he might be able to conjure. "I am the reason Alicia is here, instead of spending yet another month in bed." Clea's voice is low, her tone carrying a mix of her rage with what the Writers have done, and her own grief barely concealed within the fury. "Do not make accusations you know nothing about. My sister is loved. If you bothered to ask about her real, actual life, you would realise how foolish you sound."
She lingers in his space a beat longer, without blinking or hesitation. Then, she takes one deliberate step back. A scoff leaves her lips. "Smart, but what child decides our playground should be her coffin? The same place Painted by Verso? The same one who died saving her? She didn't care about this Canvas before. Can you discern what I'm saying, or did I overestimate your competence?"
Though Gustave does speak some truth—perhaps it is better they speak. And the chances of Lumiere turning into a battleground? Not zero. Alicia also has most of the chroma of this place in her grasp. The fight would be tedious. Clea isn't patient like Renoir. And she needs him focused on the war, and not fretting about their youngest. And in truth, though she'd never admit it, Clea does need assurance that Alicia will not expire in the night. Alicia's death will be their downfall, if this continues.
"Tell her we met, or not. It's not like I'm hiding my presence." Clea turns away, exhaling a longer breath, and letting herself calm down. "You're her father figure here, or brotherly figure." There's a slight shrug in Clea's shoulders, for she doesn't quite know how these family dynamics work within Lumiere. "We... I know Alicia mourned your death deeply, courtesy of Renoir. She held your busted arm too long for you to be worth anything less."
We ain't dead yet. Just had a rather busy time with work and the muses being elusive. After playing and finishing the main part of Control, I do feel some ideas kicking around so... I'll get to writing responses soon. Hope y'all are doing alright o7
Continued from here @paintedxghost
It's an odd dichotomy to notice how demanding Renoir is of reports and information yet feeling so little of what it amounts to. Simon suspects Verso knows whatever it is Renoir keeps hidden, for they are rather adept at switching conversation or changing meaning once he or one of the others wanders too close.
"We get to the monolith, and then what? Our supplies are running low, and there's little foraging we can do." Simon glances past Verso to the small lone islands before the monolith. Tiny things, compared to the island masses they've passed already. "That's not even considering our losses, be it those escorting survivors to Lumiere. I've noticed Julie's group has yet to return."
Strangely, there's something about the concept that bothers him, and not only because of her interpretation — but more because it portrays a world where romance seems transactional, and he can't quite define why it gets under his skin but it does. " That sounds less like romance doesn't exist and more like those particular gentlemen are boring louts, " he snorts. " If I ever court anyone —— " and the idea still leaves a cold knot in his stomach, even if he is of the age where it would be entirely normal and expected, " —— I'd never stop. The romance is the fun part. "
Not that he's had much more experience, but of the two of them, he's probably more likely the one who has pictured his wedding and all the romantic kerfluffle from an early age. Still: he considers her for a moment or two, and all at once it strikes him that there may be something more to this than she's letting on.
" —— do you really think that it's a means to an end, or are you worried that it is? " He knows his sister well; they're different souls, it's true, but they're cut from similar cloth. They were thick as thieves as little children, and though life has pulled them apart to their own respective interests and hobbies, that doesn't make the past vanish. Still, he considers: " And it shouldn't be a means to an end. It should be something that people want to keep doing. If it's a means to an end, they're doing it wrong. "
Verso isn't wrong, she supposes. Clea sees through most of them and finds they desire all the benefits and money a relationship with her can provide. Or to potentially slip into good standing with their parents if they treat her and Verso well. It makes interactions feel more hollow than usual. Perhaps Verso is fortunate in that men choose who they pursue, rather than being pursued—and having to decline them gently or deter them with cold sharp words, or ignore them long enough.
Her pacing slows long enough for her to turn the other way, answering Verso with a curt hum. "It looks to be. You've seen the ones trying to get my attention." And if not seen, then read, in the few ridiculous letters she's bothered to share with him. Older gentlemen, younger yet shy, some brusque. None of them truly notice or acknowledge who Clea is, and thus the assumption of an easy, dreamy girl comes to mind. The mere thought makes her frown. Perhaps she does worry it is shallow, for that indicates enough how she is perceived by others. The thought is stuffed away in favour of considering Verso's statement.
"If it were so fun, I can see why some persist. It looks more miserable from my view." She spares a glance to Verso. "I'm inclined to think 'fun' is relative here, else you would be in the house less often." The words are spoken normally, without edge or contempt. She isn't that petty, and Verso can take as much time as he likes to figure it out; as is the case with Clea. She can feel the pressure though, to at least try and show some interest in someone.
@topaintandwrite (continued)
Her fury is fair. The fire took more than just her brother. The Dessendre family was in shambles, physically and mentally. Trust broken beyond repair by people they had been cordial enough with up until recent years. People he could barely refer to as "coworkers", but that he was affiliated with regardless. Her fury was understandable.
But that definitely didn't mean it wasn't annoying.
Help how? Admittedly, he wasn't entirely sure himself. Gustave had known the Dessendre family for many years; Verso was his friend. Tensions weren't just unbearable between the family and the Writers. His relationship with them had essentially made him an outcast -- not that he really cared. Just as painting had never been Verso's real passion, writing had never been his. Gustave hadn't technically been involved with the faction for quite some time, but the fire -- the murder of Verso Dessendre -- finally severed those ties.
Gustave folded his arms, biting his tongue to keep himself from stooping down to her bitter level. He certainly didn't appreciate being lumped in with killers, but if he allowed himself to snap back at her neither of them would accomplish anything. "I know you've devoted yourself to solving your brother's murder and bringing those responsible to justice yourself," he states. "How exactly is that going for you?"
His measured response is met with a stare, one perhaps familiar in how distant it seems—long days make focus fleeting at times. She supposes her desire for justice is obvious enough. The Painter's council is trying not to get dragged into war, not while Paris feels so delicate. The Writers themselves are odd in their choices of burning one house, then keeping quiet before starting to prod at other less protected artisans. Testing, perhaps. Where does that leave Clea, besides picking up the pieces and standing in for her parents? If she doesn't try, then her brother's killers get away. Simple arithmetic.
"Slower than I'd like." Clea answers, a bitter tone clinging to her words. She knows who Alicia's old friends are and where they frequent, but not who put them up to the task. Patience in the face of her brother's death is... difficult. The one she did catch hadn't yielded the answers she hoped for. The mere remembrance of it makes her palms itch, and she clenches her hands to mitigate the sensation. She cannot quite talk about that, not without knowing Gustave is truly separate from the Writers as he and Verso had claimed before. Or that he won't decide to warn future quarry of her plans.
"Did you have the decency to sneak in, or will we hear of inter-artisan mingling as this week's gossip?" Clea turns away, gesturing for Gustave to follow and heading for the dining hall. Chasing him out will be pointless, she knows. And if he is truly separate from the Writers... Well, Clea knows the value of help. She could use some, particularly with one more familiar with their craft. If he's not helpful... she will preserve cordiality with him, if only for the sake of her father and dead brother.
@topaintandwrite : "You have finally caught my attention." - R Simon, though his identity isn't obvious due to a deliberate change in tone, posture, and that his face and form is obscured in dark clothing. (Assassin time)
MOTHER, WE ARE YOUR DAUGHTERS 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
The other pair of footsteps has accompanied her for three or four streets by now. She has counted each turn of the corners with even breaths, with a cold, detached lucidity — enough not to obviously alter her stride upon realizing she was being followed to begin with, enough not to plunge into fruitless paranoia. Though her first, instinctive thought was to make for Rue de Rivoli as swiftly as she could, abandoning its desolate and rather labyrinthine side streets for the open and well-lit main artery, something makes her hesitate. A single, stolen glance over her shoulder — the stubborn shadow persists.
So she comes to a momentary stop, ready to turn around the now umpteenth stone-lined corner — resolved to abandon that detrimental fit of independence and wish for safety and privacy, to step into the lamplights and hopefully hop onto the first empty carriage to bring her home. It is the dead of the night, but she is certain it won't be difficult to find a couple of them running on the late shift. As she moves, Clea cannot help but turn her head to the side, glaring briefly at her mysterious pursuer; to make it clear she too has her gaze on him. He's dressed to blend in with the night, it seems — and it proves difficult for her to clearly focus on his features, on his chest in search of a familiar golden pin to reflect the distant gaslight, on his hands for anything he may be carrying, or readying.
It's right as she almost disappears behind the corner that his voice reaches her, and she stops mid-step. It's a raspy yet calm sound, and its suddenness instinctively brings her hand to clutch at the bag at her hip, ready — though the stranger, the man by the voice, keeps his distance. It's hopeless to pray for enough concentration to attune to chroma, out there; in a situation possibly requiring self-defence out there in the streets, her longest hairpin would probably suffice to buy her enough time to flee to safety. She's ready, uncertain of his next move — until the echo of his very words has her still, frozen in place. Finally— ?
—Finally, he's said. The word implies patience. A duration of watching that now feels suffocating, like a boulder falling to weigh on her back. A daring, aggravating thought — deeply and almost violently uncomfortable one to indulge. The implication indeed has her blood boil, against the most rational part of her mind that prays for her not to react. To reach for the sounds of the main street, and head home. The escape would give her identity away, despite her obvious precautions to hide some of her features — but it seems too late to play pretend, or hide.
He too has stopped in his trail, just before following her around the corner, and she has that momentary stalemate to assess him with lifted chin and squared shoulders. She offers him silence, pondering how much to possibly give away. She concludes the answer must be very little, though by the way he addresses her and knew where to find her, it's clear as day they are not playing on equal terms. How bothersome. ❛ Have you followed me just to unveil the extent of your diligence to me ? I'm honored, Monsieur, but I suggest you save this devotion for someone else, ❜ she speaks carrying a flatness to her voice she usually has to reserve to dull guests, at events.
The remark is deliberately flippant. She is too tired to come up with something wittier; and that small defiance makes Clea feel more secure, on slight higher ground. No alarm to show, no true contempt to harbor — yet. Plus, he has caught her in a rather eventless night, considering her recent lively hunts — even her informant had little of importance to report, tonight. It's the silhouette's sureness that bothers Clea the most. A gravity woven in his words — a warning meant to unsettle her. ❛ And what has caught your attention enough to excuse your behavior ? Following a woman through alleyways at night — to what end ? Speak your message, if you even have one. ❜
Were it any other situation, Simon might commend the bravado Clea holds—the calmness of her wanderings towards the main roads, the glare that may make others hesitate for a moment and even the dismissiveness of her answer as though he is some strange, obsessed suitor. Now, it only tells him how unprepared the heiress is. Striking at others requires one sort of mindset. Defending yourself from retaliation... people do not tend to think about that. People hardly expect to get caught unless they've fumbled a crime and done it in some dazed, dream-like state. Unfortunately, they're both very much aware, present.
He cannot quite give her grace anymore. One hunt was expected. Perhaps three or four acceptable—Verso's death was a group effort, from what he understands. But Clea's targets have wandered from what they might find acceptable as retribution, nevermind the body count. If Simon does not warn her, then his father will. Guilt will fester worse within if Simon lets that happen. Better he is the one to menace her, and perhaps make Clea think twice about her future hunts.
Simon simply steps forward, adjusting the brace fastened over his left wrist to ensure the small bolt there will not misfire by accident. The coat he wears obscures most other equipment, save for a short blade poking from his right side. The coat gives a certain bulk to his frame that differs his silhouette from the usual lean and strong appearance he has. There is no pin to be seen—the Hands of Paris do not align themselves with any particular group or alliance, only what is good for the city overall. His shoulders stay curled down and inward, and he moves without the expected grace of a noble, but that of a thug.
"Murder, Ma'amselle." Simon says simply, with a cold, clinical edge honed over the years he's donned this persona. "Normally, guild business does not concern us—we expected revenge. But your targets have drifted from those responsible."
Oh, it will kill a part of him to hurt her. But it is better than letting vengeance devour her and leave a husk of a woman behind. Better to spill blood now, so the Writers do not decide to slaughter her outright.
He inhales a quiet breath, forcing his muscles and body to loosen for a moment. Then, he breaks into a dash, intending to close the distance between them and grab Clea—at least one hand to the throat, to prevent a scream while he drags her to the alley wall and away from the corner turn. Not too violent—this is supposed to be a warning. His eyes will narrow, if only to make his irises look dark gray or black within low light. The scarf and leather hunter hat cover most of his facial features and hair.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" Verso asked, looking up from the sketchbook he was reluctantly doodling in. The more time he spent "drafting," the less time he had to sit at the Canvas for another tedious painting lesson. - @paintedxghost
Clea finishes shading a small region of her sketch before glancing up, taking care not to smudge or ruin the ideas settled in her book. "Perhaps not to the point the newspapers would have us think, but yes. Ghosts exist in some form or another."
They would be poor artists for not being open to such ideas, however slight. There is something to be said about how art and other works can exist well past their creator's age, and how some pieces retain a sense of haunting.
One brow quirks upward as she regards Verso. "Why? Was Monoco looking off somewhere again?"
Continued from here @maskedvisages
His response prompts a sigh and shake of her head. Leave it to Verso to maintain his humour despite his rough and no doubt drunken shape. He is fortunate she was restless tonight, and took to sketching instead of tossing and turning fruitlessly in bed. He's stayed out late enough times that the family doesn't worry much. But if Clea is awake when he returns like now, then of course she would come and see him.
"I'm not your keeper, nor am I that petty." Clea moves closer. At least, she's more mature about her pettiness now. One hand clasps his face gently to inspect the scuff—and either the dried blood or random liquid lingering. The other still holds the lantern low, so as to not blind the both of them. "If you insist on staining your pillows, then go right ahead. I'd suggest turning around to wash your face at least." Clea's lips draw to a slight frown, finding the mixing smells of wine and alcohol and whatever else that den had to be unpleasant on Verso. "Was there an occasion, or are bars becoming a new favourite place?"
Continued from here @paintedxghost
With how often that sentiment is stated, it's become something of an inside joke between them. At least, it makes Clea exhale something of an amused huff. Growing has given them wisdom, and Clea understands he is not one for lingering in front of an easel, toiling away with paints and pencils. No, his fingers like to drift across the piano instead. His mind is thinking of music instead of compositions. A younger Clea might chide him. An older one doesn't care as much. Though, it would make all their lives easier if he had half of Clea's talent and motivations for Painting.
"That will be a sight, if you manage either of them. I'm not sure about immortalising your face, though." Clea draws her legs to rest beneath her, having settled on a lone chaise within his room. "... Beyond what I do now, I suppose I'd love to travel. To disappear for a time and explore other places and cultures." She eyes Verso then, with falling curls and all. "As nice as our holidays have been with our parents, it would be nice to visit the borders of Europe, or even past it."
Though she's made peace with not being able to witness every art piece and creation on earth, why contend herself with such a small part of it? Not when their circles discuss American painters more and more. And even those coming from the South or East with their different culture and perspective makes for fascinating reading—and the rare discussion, when Clea finds one sharing in the arts and is open to discussion.
~ Dust and Ink
"Oh Clea, hi!" The reply came with evident relief, an unmistakable warmth in her hazel eyes. Even if she was able to match the courtesy of the greetings in words and gestures, however, Zyra's body language betrayed her underlying restlessness, her fingers trapped between tiny folds of fabric from her skirt and lightly rubbing them.
"They had to convince me to leave the stands, to tell the whole truth. I've seen a lot of the people around us at least once for sure, and they've always been gentle when they came to the shop - of course they have. But beyond the counter? The idea of ending up just awkwardly standing somewhere for the rest of the time terrifies me! Not everyone would approach the niece of the farmers for company, I suppose. Especially since I never show up around for much more than work."
Regaining control over her downpour of thoughts took a few moments. A chuckle escaped her eventually, and she gave a light shrug while tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Speaking of awkwardness..." she exhaled at last, calmer, almost amused at how quickly her resolve melted away at the sight of a friend. But she was already feeling better, and the bright smile blooming on her lips was clear evidence of it.
"I'm very glad I met you right away, however, especially considering that we haven't seen each other in quite a bit now. How have you been? How is everyone?"
Her smile widens somewhat, with an amused huff escaping her lips. They are kindred spirits when it comes to their duties. And in truth, had it not been for her family, she might still be painting away, arriving later when the festival was in true motion to catch up with everyone else, or Simon thought it prudent to find her, before she misses the entire event.
"There's comfort in simply idling. We don't always have to be busy or waiting on another." How people handle stands all day is beyond the Dessendre scion. No doubt, she'd be far more restless in waiting than creating. But there has to be some people dedicated to vendoring as there are those dedicated to artistry and fieldwork. For the latter point, Clea supposes Zyra is correct there. Barring gossip or mystery, people are often polite enough not to pry on one's personal life. And Zyra is hardworking enough not to warrant much beyond an assumption of labouring too hard.
"I've been well, overall. Still finishing a few more pieces for the upcoming gallery." Clea spares a glance towards her family, eyeing their youngest. "We've arrived early to see what is being offered, and for Alicia to get used to the ambience, instead of walking into the festival in full motion. My parents are also doing better now." It was funny to think the fire occurred almost a year ago, and how they've managed to move past it relatively well—Verso has some lingering marks, and Alicia's scars have mended properly. She still hid her face with her hair and lingered close to either Verso or Maman's side. But coming out of the mansion for this... it's a sign of healing, and of better things to come for them.
"I've also heard the light show will be rather special. Simon has a hand in the performance this time." Clea returns her gaze to Zyra, the brief sly glint in her eyes settling back a quiet warmth. "Have you been well? And how is your family doing?"
Verso's vision was so blurred with hot tears and searing pain that he couldn't read Clea's expression from his poor position. He couldn't tell she startled, even if just for a nanosecond. Nor would he have been able to utilise anything of it. Another hand on his chest, shuddering as he felt past the cloth, he could feel the hole leaving him so utterly exposed was knitting itself back together. Slowly. Painfully. But eventually... He grit his teeth as he pushed him up to attempt to tear at the hands that bound him.
Immortality...
This made no sense. How could he possibly be immortal? What was going on, and why was this demon hunting them down like this? Where the fuck was Renoir when Verso needed him the most... Even if Verso couldn't take on this personification of death alone, at least stalling her like this gave his Clea and Alicia time to run and hide. The Fracture had destroyed so much, but with any luck that also gave them plenty of places to flee behind. If they had sense, they would just keep going...
He had no time to dwindle on questions, that no doubt would go unanswered. This doppelganger seemed too dementedly focused on her goal to spare him the time to answer them. He yelled out in pain once more as he forced himself back onto his feet, blood already beginning to dry on his upper lip and chin from where cruor had fled his body. "I-I told you..." He huffed as he plunged his sword into a Nevron hand that gripped him and twisting it, not taking his eyes of Clea for a single moment. "I'm not letting you...get to my sisters..."
He managed a deep breath. It came with a new, alarming wave of pain, but it was achieved nevertheless. His chest cavity closing up with a smokey black hue to it. "And if I'm immortal...that means there's nothing you can fucking do about it..."
She hears his cry before she spots his movement in the corner of her eye. Clea, having moved past Verso at this point, slows and turns her gaze back to him. For a thing experiencing his first brush with death, he handled the regeneration remarkably well. An annoying observation, for she really does not want to fight this mockery of her brother and she struggles to look at him properly. And if he is immortal, Clea doubts Aline will let him be erased for long.
The hands he slashes and stabs flinch and tremble in silent pain. The one with a blade run through begins to dissolve into streaky chroma that flutters in the wind. Clea sighs and raises her hands. The chroma hums and moves to her will easily, like second nature. One tilts downward, shifting the ground where Verso stands and invigorating the hands that now begin to claw harshly and grip tighter.
"There are worse outcomes than death." Clea speaks simply, already acquainted with the consequences of fire and smoke with what happened to her siblings. The familiar words bring a bitter smile to her face, for such conversation always happened in far nicer, casual circumstances. "Since you insist on fighting me, I suppose you'll find that truth out for yourself."
Two sets of hands retreat back from Verso, slipping down beneath the grass and exiting a little ways from him. The hands give way to more defined forms, with two Braseleurs clambering out from the ground. White liquid drips from their forms—the dominant Paintress colour, affecting the very weave of the Canvas. Their attention lingers on Verso, approaching with hammers ready and a menacing aura.
Clea's other hand directs skyward, and Serpenphare uncoils from its lazy hovering. It moves ahead—to keep an eye on the fleeing ones, to devour them and wait for its creator, it matters little. Clea isn't foolish enough to have both types of her pets attacking when the chroma will be wasted.
And with the great sky serpent set on its task, Clea turns a hand to herself and drags two fingers lightly from neck to collarbone, dampening her emotions. She will regret this later, Clea knows. But she also knows flinging Verso across the city would only delay him. He had to reality the futility of his decisions. Based on the sensation of chroma in the Canvas, she has a feeling Renoir will not be a dominating force. This will... drag. There will be multiple visits. All because of one grieving mother and one father too terrified to lose a second loved one.
🐝 * ― 𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑺𝑻𝒀 𝑪𝑨𝑵'𝑻 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺.
❛ i can't be the person you want me to be. ❜ ❛ i can't be the only one fighting for this. ❜ ❛ i can't be the reason you hate yourself. ❜ ❛ i can't do this anymore, but i don't know how to stop. ❜ ❛ i can't do this if you don't trust me. ❜ ❛ i can't hate you, and that's the worst part. ❜ ❛ i can't keep loving a ghost. ❜ ❛ i can't keep waiting for you to choose me. ❜ ❛ i can't look at you the same way anymore. ❜ ❛ i can't lose you, too. ❜ ❛ i can't make you love me. ❜ ❛ i can't sleep without thinking about what happened. ❜ ❛ i can't stop thinking about the way you left. ❜ ❛ i can't tell you the truth without losing you. ❜ ❛ i can't tell you to stay when i know you want to leave. ❜ ❛ can't you hear yourself? ❜ ❛ can't you just do me this one favor? ❜ ❛ can't you lie to me, just this once? ❜ ❛ can't you please just listen? ❜ ❛ can't you see that i'm trying? ❜ ❛ can't you stay, just for tonight? ❜ ❛ can't you stop pushing me away for five seconds? ❜ ❛ can't you tell i'm scared? ❜ ❛ can't you understand that i needed you? ❜ ❛ can't we go back to before everything changed? ❜ ❛ can't we just be friends? ❜ ❛ can't we just have one normal night? ❜ ❛ can't we pretend, just for a little while longer? ❜ ❛ can't we try again? ❜ ❛ you can't ask me to stay after everything you did. ❜ ❛ you can't decide how you want me now. ❜ ❛ you can't erase what happened. ❜ ❛ you can't fix this with an apology. ❜ ❛ you can't just show up here without calling first. ❜ ❛ you can't keep punishing me for surviving. ❜ ❛ you can't leave like that and expect me to still be here when you come back. ❜ ❛ you can't love someone only when it's easy. ❜ ❛ you can't promise forever when you can't even promise tomorrow. ❜ ❛ you can't save me from this. ❜ ❛ you can't say you love me and then disappear. ❜
His grin grew a tad sharper as Verso rocked back on his heels, straightening, hands clasped behind his back. "Maaaaaybe." One hand came up from behind his back so he could tap at his chin in thought. Then he snapped, as if the thought had just come to him. "I think I did see a headline on the cover about them." Verso tilted his head to the side and pointed his finger at Clea with a smirk. "I'll even let you look at it if you compensate me for it out of your sweets budget."
It seemed like a fair trade to Verso. "After all, I did the hard work of buying it right under Maman's nose. I still have to compensate Alicia for her help."
Clea quirks a brow at him, noticing now how the little devil is learning to drive quite the bargain. She shakes her head in turn, giving him a sharp look. "I know better than to deal without inspecting it. And I can compensate you. I didn't say you should use our little sister, that was your own choice." She pauses for a moment, letting the silence linger and be its own sort of power in the moment. "Papa always says we should be able to compensate helping hands ourselves before we even think of hiring extra help.
As the coldness of her invisible grip ebbed away, Verso stood taller. It was as if someone had been shifting smoke through his insides, but he ignored the discomfort. He had felt it before, when Maelle woke him up and trapped him forevermore. Oh how he howled. He unleashed as much anger as he could muster in those weeks - if not months. Clea and Verso's wrath may have even complimented each other back then. But then Verso went quiet. Started working in the shadows and blind spots to try and find a way to remove Maelle from the canvas. To save her life - and spare him the torment of living decades more. He wasn't even sure Maelle would let him go even if he did live that 'one lifetime' she wished to devour from him...
He knew the world was still on borrowed time. But he wasn't about to let a child decide what was best for the whole family. Despite all his fury - he couldn't let his baby sister die because she followed in their mother's footsteps too closely... Perhaps, somewhere deep down, Clea felt the same.
"I talk as if I know this world better than you ever could. Her subtractions and additions included." Verso folded his arms, speaking plainly. Maelle had connected Lumière back to the mainland for expansion. Painting over and removing what she thought was unnecessary for the city overall. Or rather, she tried her best to do so. Some things were far more stubborn than she would like, and Verso could feel it every time he was brought along on these trips. She called it a second chance for him to feel like this place was home. He called it 'keeping an eye on him'.
"I know where she'd go should she get scared. I know what she has in place for the day you, Renoir and Aline could try and pull her out once again. And I know all of those that would try and stop you. They think me a friend... I've been watching them on the daily - I've had no choice. I know the weapons they use, the Chroma manipulation she's helped them master. Just as I know the factories where those weapons are built. You may be strong, but I doubt you can evade a Gommage from a distance..." Verso frowned.
"I cannot take out Gustave's weapons without help. Without your help."
The severity of the situation was plain as Verso went on. Perhaps if this were 'years ago', he might have a more desperate edge in his tone. The plain and frank way he revealed the advancements of the Painted city said all it needed to. Alicia's removal was but one more task between himself and oblivion. Said removal relied on having allies not under their youngest's charge.
And Clea had no qualms fighting, so long as it could be quick. Hearing that Alicia educated the creatures here to use chroma as a Painter did... and that it had been weaponised brought her pause. Clea wasn't foolish to the idea—her Painted self was altered and made to craft Nevrons in her stead. That Alicia had learnt to Repaint and adjust the threads was both something to admire and curse.
Clea turned away from Verso with a scoff, and began to pace a small distance ahead of him. All of this because Renoir had been too tired to take Alicia with him, and halt this nonsense once and for all. Verso's legacy deserved far better than this. Their playground should not have been desecrated, nor pulled from the bowels of the family home.
"She was never going to leave," Clea states the words simply, bitterness lingering on the edges of her tone. Nothing is every simple with her family. The old man deluded himself greatly to think otherwise, to urge Clea to wait a while, then to try to talk to Alicia and bring her home. The years spent here made that impossible, if Verso was telling the truth. She's inclined to think so, given his composition, and that simple wish for death, denied for nearly a century now.
"A gommage is hardly a threat. But if the average person can wield chroma like a novice... It would be difficult, given Alicia controls most of the chroma here." Clea stops to look at him, mirroring his posture with her own arms folded. "You propose what... we erase these weapons and factories, and use that chroma to erase her protectors? If Alicia is as competent as you make her out to be, she will retaliate the moment those weapons fall. And I cannot say how much chroma can be harvested from them."
"i don't think romance is real. i think love is real, but not romance." - Clea @topaintandwrite
For a moment, Verso can only stare as though she's said something that is fundamentally at odds with itself. " You don't? " A hesitation, as though he doesn't even quite know what to say. " They're kind of the same thing, aren't they? Romance, you know — the gentle things, the —— "
And he gestures vaguely, fleetingly, that artfully expressive way he ever has of talking with his hands as though trying to summon words from the air. " It's all part of it. You can have love without romance, I suppose. Like —— family, or friends. But love of that kind without romance sounds terribly dull. "
Not —— that he's ever had much experience. Sure, he's had relationships; fleeting ones, usually, there and gone. But nothing so far has stuck, so one may wonder just how much of an expert he really is. But: he's curious now. " But why don't you think romance is real? "
Clea gives a curt nod, though she doesn't stop her slow pacing around the one cubby in the dining room, the fire lit and burning at a fine enough height. Though, it was curious how Verso seemed surprised by it despite... well, not having a suitor long enough to know such things, to her knowledge. Perhaps it is more the feeling side of Verso that speaks, an idyllic lens tinting his view, or basing it off how their parents romanticise and love each other.
"Most romantic gestures have heart while the gentlemen court, maybe. I've not seen it last, nor been given nearly as much thought afterwards." Her words are simple, the conclusion built mostly from observance of others, in how some of the other ladies talk, and her own experience with courting. Perhaps it is a harsh conclusion, given their parents are the epitome of two people in love, and they had their moments of disgustingly sweet displays, but she tends to see their love as a standard almost no one will reach.
"Is it real if romance is simply a means to an end?" She redirects the question back at Verso, pausing her pacing to regard him with a tilted head and quirked brow.
