lyrabelle

[lyrabelle]

OLIVIA COOKE as CHERRY in THE GIRLFRIEND (2025)

[lyrabelle]

Marisa Tomei and Christian Slater in UNTAMED HEART (1993)

[lyrabelle]

marbevoch on ig

[lyrabelle]

WEDNESDAY 1.01 Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe

[lyrabelle]

a few thoughts about callaia's clair obscur verse (spoilers below!)

specifically her outside-the-canvas / 'th century paris ver.: ive been hella inspired by my friends' takes lately, so i wanted to throw my gorl into the mix!

in this alt timeline, callaia is an up-and-coming violinist. instead of having a father hard on her to join the expedition, she has a father who is just as strict with her talent--instead of battlefields, its the concert hall. she grew up with music drilled into her spine, and while she genuinely loves to play, she's become a perfectionist because of it. The bubbly charm she wears in other verses? it's still here, but it peeks out in bursts: when she's picked for first chair, when someone compliments her playing--she's not shy. She is more direct. Serious. But there's a bit of mischief under it all. (she's game to sneak out to parties, have fun with friends that sort of thing).

also been toying with friends about the idea of there being like a group in the same vein as The Painters and The Writers--name pending. but its with music (shocker). Artists who aren't just good at their craft, but touched by something. Callaia could be one of them. her music doesn't just like stir emotions, she has the ability to bend it. example: if someone longs for a lost loved one, her song can make them feel their presence? if someone's numb with grief, she can pull that sorrow to the surface. When the craft is most refined, they can alter reality too.

anyways a lot to explore!!! and im excited.

[lyrabelle]

Callaia  sees  the  glint  in  Aurora’s  hand  before  she  is  even  finished  talking.  Eyes  light  up  like  a  child  spotting  something  shiny,  and  without  waiting  for  permission,  she  reaches  out  and  snatches  the  parchment  playfully.  “What’s  all  this  then?  Divine  secrets?  Buried  treasure?”  She  scans  the  words  quickly,  brow  raising  at  the  tone  of  it:  serious.  A  bit  desperate. 

“Oh–Selune’s  lot  were  clinging  to  whatever  scraps  they  could  find  when…Ketheric  tore  through  this  place.  Can’t  blame  ‘em.  Shadows  crawling  through  the  thinnest  of  cracks,  Justiciars  turning  the  land  cold.  Anyone  would  be  scared.”  She  says  it  without  emotion,  more  of  a  matter-of-fact  than  mournful.  Not  because  she  doesn’t  care–because  what  good  does  caring  do  now?  She  shrugs.  “Nice  to  know  someone  was  trying.” 

Callaia  sinks  down  beside  Aurora,  curling  her  legs  to  the  side  as  she  does.  The  parchment  still  in  hand  like  she  hasn’t  quite  let  go  of  the  story  yet.  When  Aurora  offers  the  bottle,  she  takes  it  without  question  and  drinks  like  she  needs  warmth  more  than  taste.  Her  gaze  flickers  back  to  the  altar. 

“Wonder  what  it  felt  like,”  she  says  in  a  quieted  tone.  “Being  here.  Back  then.  When  the  dark  became  permanent…  Thinking  you  were  the  last  one  praying…”

She  exhales,  catching  herself  thinking  too  hard.  She  tilts  her  head  toward  Aurora  with  a  lopsided  grin  before  stealing  another  swig  before  handing  the  bottle  back  to  Aurora.  “‘Course,  you  lot  don’t  scare  easy,  do  you?  Lathander  this,  Moonmaiden  that…I  used  to  think  it  was  a  bit  much.  But  I  think  I  get  it.”

She  begins  plucking  at  a  loose  thread  on  the  rug,  not  looking  at  Aurora  as  she  speaks. 

“You  were  in  Barovia.”  Her  voice  is  gentle…more  than  usual,  but  still  carries  her  usual  rhythm  with  a  sprinkle  of  walking  on  a  tightrope  between  genuine  interest  and  not  wanting  to  make  it  weird.  “Back  when  I  overheard–eavesdropped,  more  like  it,”  she  offers  a  sheepish  smile.  “When  I  heard  Llewelyn  mention  it,  I  think  I  shouted  something  along  the  lines  of  ‘The  Mists?!’  then  hightailed  it  back  to  my  tent  before  I  embarrassed  myself  further.”  She  laughs.  Weakly.  The  memory  still  fresh  in  her  mind  with  the  excitement  that  the  stories  of  the  curse  were  true.

Callaia  thinks  to  ask  for  a  story  from  that  time.  But  she  refrains  herself;  clocking  the  impulse  of  a  yearn  to  know.  She  leans  back  on  one  hand  instead,  as  her  smile  softens.  “Can’t  be  easy  stepping  into  a  place  so  similar.  To  be  thrusted  back  into  something  you  both  escaped.But  of  course  you  made  it  once.  You’ll  make  it  out  of  here,  too.”  Callaia’s  smile  brightens,  an  offer  of  some  assurance  or  something  to  that  affect  for  her friend  “You’ve  got  a  certain  light  about  you.  And  it’s  just  not  me  who  sees  it.”

A  pause.

“As  for  your  uncle,”  she  breathes  out  a  chuckle.  “Can’t  say  I  blame  him.  Astarion  does  look  like  the  type  to  seduce  and  run.  But  he’s  still  here,  if  that  means  anything.  If  Llewelyn  could  get  over  it,  surely,  dear Casimir  can?”  the  question  lands  rhetorically;  a  grin  to  follow  as  she  gently  nudges  Aurora’s  knee  with  her  own  in  a  friendly  manner.

AS FRUSTRATING AS ITS BEEN FOR AURORA TO RELEARN YEARS OF PRACTICED SKILL, there's a hint of self-satisifaction that creeps over her the moment callaia is on her feet once more, perfectly intact. "i'm just happy i could help," she flashes a genuine smile callaia's way, just as she rises from the floor and dusts the cellar's dirt off her knees. curling her arm around callaia's, aurora is more than content to follow her lead, scanning over old crates and empty glass bottles as they pass them. anything that looks like it might have alcohol in it, aurora collects and tucks under her arm. "will you tell llewelyn what you said? about me having good taste?" she teases with a laugh. "i suspect he might actually believe it if it comes from you rather than me." when they stumble upon a place of worship for selûne, she's got a reasonable little collection going, which she splays out on the altar ... just as her attention catches on a worn book in the moonlight. curiosity strikes her and she flips it open, scanning over what seems to be a note, left here by what she can only assume was the last person who'd seen this place. after a cursory glimpse at the note's contents, aurora holds it out for callaia to see. "looks like there was a clue down here afterall," she sinks down onto the worn rug, stars embroidered into the once-purple material. "i'd say that's cause for celebration? uncle cas might know a little bit more about these relics." aurora twists in her spot to snatch a bottle off the altar, leaning her weight against the cool stone and wrenching the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop. she inspects the liquid with a cautious sniff, before ultimately deeming it safe to drink.

"maybe that'll get his mind off of threatening astarion every couple of hours." there's humor in her voice, washed away only when she takes a sip from the contents: a surprisingly pleasant wine that warms her spirits. she holds it up to callaia, an invitation for the bard to join her on the floor.

[lyrabelle]

Callaia  didn’t  expect  much  from  the  conversation,  but  the  way  Rosalind said  it –

Consider  yourself  lucky…

– Gives  her  a  pause. There’s  something  in  the  tone  that  doesn’t  feel  rehearsed.  She  knew  that  voice.  She  had  heard  it  before,  when  they  were  circling  something  like  friendship–a  gesture  of  kindness  with  a  smile,  an  offer…But  after  the  fallout,  Callaia  rewrote  every  memory  of  softness  into  something  calculated.  Something  easier  to  stay  angry  with. 

And  for  a  second,  she  forgets  how  to  be  angry.  She  sees  the  girl  she  had  let  her  guard  down  around  once.  A  version  of  Ros  who  maybe,  had  things  gone  differently,  might’ve  been  a  friend. 

The  moment  doesn’t  last. 

The  casual  mention  of  Rosalind’s  time  volunteering  as  a  Flaming  Fist:  that’s  what  gets  under  Callaia’s  skin.  How  lightly  Ros  speaks  about  it,  like  she  stepped  into  it  so  briefly,  another  experience  added  to  the  roster  of  roles  she  can  try  on  without  consequence.  Meanwhile,  Callaia  had  grown  up  training  with  the  weight  of  it  on  her  shoulders,  long  before  she  was  old  enough  to  realize  she  could  just  say  no.  She  doesn’t  care  about  the  Fist.  Never  cared  for  the  tacky  badge.  The  thing  she  truly  cared  for?  The  years  she  lost  preparing  for  it.  And  hearing  Ros  speak  about  it  so  casually.  In  the  middle  of  everything  else  between  them–

“Oh,  wonderful.”  she  says  to  interrupt  her  own  thoughts.  She  presses  her  thumb  into  the  edge  of  her  plate  and  lets  the  quiet  stretch.  “Playing  soldier.  Getting  to  forget  about  it  after.”  Her  voice  is  measured.  No  heat  in  her  tone,  but  it  lands  heavy,  still. 

“Must’ve  been  a  hell  of  a  story.”  Callaia  lifts  her  head,  her  gaze  follows  and  lands  on  Ros’  face,  finally.  She  smiles.  The  corners  don’t  reach  her  eyes.  “A  shame  you  can’t  remember.”  There’s  a  brief  flicker  of  a  narrow  in  her  green  eyes.  But  it  shifts  in  a  blink.

She  regrets  it  the  moment  it  leaves  her  mouth.  Ros  had  been  trying,  in  her  own  awkward,  self-deprecating  way.  An  effort  toward  something  easier;  perhaps  a  peace  offering.  Callaia  had  seen  it;  recognized  the  softness  buried  under  sarcasm.  She  could  have  laughed,  shrugged  it  off–but  she  didn’t.  She  wanted  a  cheap  shot  at  the  upperhand  more  than  she  wanted  peace.  And  that  sickens  her.  This  wasn’t  who  she  was.  Wasn’t  who  she  ever  wanted  to  be.  But  she’s  sitting  in  it,  forced  to  reflect  on  who  she  becomes  when  she’s  filled  with  this  much  resentment–it  tastes  like  an  old  swill  in  her  mouth.  Bitter.  Cheap.

“From  what  I  remember  about  that  lot,”  she  says,  quieter  now.  “You’d  have  been  the  only  thing  worth  remembering.”  Her  words  aren’t  soft,  but  it  sounds  like  it  could  be,  had  she  put  more  effort  into  it.  The  half-compliment  comes  out  like  a  quick  reflex.  It’s  a  quick  fix  to  her  behaviour  before–an  acknowledgement  of  her  offer.  Nothing  more.  Her  shoulders  relax  into  a  slouch,  but  its  stiff.  Not  relaxed.  A  feeble  attempt  to  look  unbothered  even  as  the  taste  of  the  words  sticks  just  as  bitter  in  her  throat. 

she  was  a  coward.  rosalind  knew  that  as  well  as  anyone  else  -  as  well  as  callaia  herself,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  bear  the  brunt  of  that  cowardice  in  what  remained  one  of  her  most  shameful  moments.  perhaps  that  is  why  she  finds  it  difficult  to  focus  on  much  more  than  that  damned  stain  on  the  wall  behind  her,  rather  than  look  the  bard  in  the  eye  and  accept  that  her  disdain  went  far  deeper  than  some  petty  squabble.

if  the  companions  notice  the  sudden  shift  in  demeanor  on  their  end  of  the  table,  they  don't  seem  to  let  on.  and  the  very  last  thing  ros  needed  in  that  moment  was  astarion  or  gale  cutting  in  with  so-called  words  of  wisdom  that  offered  nothing  more  than  moral  polarity.

she  almost  decides  to  just  accept  defeat.  to  tuck  her  tail  between  her  legs  and  excuse  herself  for  the  night,  but  cutting  words  finally  draw  her  gaze  to  callaia's  directly.

you  sound  practiced  enough,  like  a  better  person,  truly.  take  your  credit  and  pin  it  on  your  lapel  with  the  rest  of  your  accomplishments.

if  callaia  blinks,  she  might  miss  the  way  ros's  eyes  widen  for  a  fractin  of  a  second,  her  lips  tightening  before  her  jaw  betrays  her  composure  by  going  slack.

even  if  ros  could  remember  any  improvements  she'd  made  in  the  last  two  years,  it  would  hardly  matter  when  she  truly  had  nothing  to  show  for  it  aside  from  hearsay.  even  then,  improvement  didn't  do  her  any  favors  in  changing  the  past,  no  matter  how  much  she  wished  it  were  the  case.

she  turns  back  toward  her  meal,  but  merely  pushes  its  contents  around.  “consider  yourself  lucky,  i  suppose;  to  be  considered  tolerable  by  a  hawthorne,  because  i  assure  you,  i  hardly  ever  knew  the  feeling  myself.”

that  had  at  least  been  one  of  the  few  vulnerable  moments  she'd  shared  with  callaia  in  their  youth.  one  that  callaia  did  not  betray.  ros's  prized  façade  of  self-esteem  would  remain  in  tact  for  years  after  while  her  regret  and  isolation  ecalated  alongside  it.

she  needed  to  change  the  subject  and  avoid  every  possibility  of  causing  a  scene,  for  the  sake  of  her  own  self-preservation.  bringing  up  the  first  thing  that  came  to  mind  in  relation  to  callaia  was  all  she  could  muster,  her  voice  taking  on  a  more  vacant  lilt. 

“apparently,  i  was  a  volunteer  member  of  sorts  for  the  flaming  fist  when  elturel  fell.”  she  considers  those  words  and  manages  to  crack  the  smallest  smile  in  spite  of  herself,  because  it  sounded  as  ridiculous  saying  it  aloud  as  it  had  when  finn  tried  to  jog  her  memory  the  first  time.  perhaps  callaia  herself  might  find  it  laughable.  "though,  i  don't  remember  any  of  that  either.”

[lyrabelle]

[lyrabelle]

FRIENDS – 10.02: The One Where Ross is Fine

[lyrabelle]

KPop Demon Hunters (2025)

[lyrabelle]

SOPHIE TURNER as Debbie Time Freak (2018) dir. Andrew Bowler

[lyrabelle]

quick! which song from the clair obscur soundtrack is your fave? ill go first. mine is Esquie's bath and Flying Waters - Goblu :) i think they're just so fun.

[lyrabelle]

[lyrabelle]

INDEPENDENT MULTI MUSE BLOG

《DOSSIER.》 《PROMPTS.》 《ASK.》

Fantasy-focused. D&D/Baldur's Gate 3 inspired original characters. Dark settings, complex trauma, divine fallout, eldritch influence. created and curated by Toto (she/her, 31, est) STUDY IN broken oaths, failed saints, reluctant monsters, grief, weaponized loyalty, prophecies, found families, etc.

[lyrabelle]

Wardrobe of Becky Sharp, Vanity Fair

[lyrabelle]

LEGALLY BLONDE (2001) dir. Robert Luketic

[lyrabelle]

me: *keeps creating dramatic love scenarios in my head at night and can’t fall asleep*