cleameur

[cleameur]

ugh she's SOOOOOO pretty!! just designing some diabolical looking creatures before bedtime, as one does teehee

[cleameur]

A FRESH SPILL OF BITTERNESS BLOOMS IN HER GUT and she recoils at breakneck speed, as though it’d been sharp talons raking across her skin instead of her mother’s gentle touch. ❝ don’t. just── don’t. ❞ quickened steps create a measure of distance between them, adding to the ever-yawning rift that has long settled in the middle. forever standing on opposite sides of an uncrossable gap rough-hewn into the rocky sediment, well beyond the point of building bridges. aline does not get to simply turn their lives upside down without repercussions, then expect to be welcomed home with open arms. no, she won’t allow it. ❝ you lost any right at the doting mother act the second you decided we weren’t enough. ❞ her tone is glacial, caustic, rife with condemnation. A GUILTY VERDICT CARVED IN STONE.

her eyes bore into features that look too much like her own, too much like verso’s. stormy echoes of a bygone era staring back at her. clea can’t bear the sight of them a moment longer. ❝ do you even realize what you’ve done or are you still so lost in make-believe that you fail to understand the gravity of your actions? ❞ visceral anger licks at her heels, urging her on. ❝ forcing my hand, making me get involved in something i wanted no part in and defiling verso’s memory in the process── ❞ an abrupt pause. THE NAME CLOTS IN HER THROAT, turning to ash. it shouldn’t matter, she tells herself. the darkest parts of her soul poured into nightmarish creatures and unleashed upon a world that was once full of whimsy and fun. it had to be done, there was no other way. not after her mother resolved that she'd much rather play house with her vile creations, than confront her grief head-on. what happens to the canvas now makes no difference, verso is just as dead regardless. her little brother lying in a bed of dirt instead of living, being his perpetually annoying self and aggravating her to no end. what she wouldn’t give to hear the earnest melodies of his piano trickling in through the manor one more time.

she shakes her head wordlessly, palms smoothing down the flyaway hairs framing her face as she tries her best to appear unaffected. anything to stem the emotional tide welling up inside. then, still keeping a wide berth, she continues. ❝ never mind the fact that you’ve all but permanently tarnished your reputation within the painter's council. ❞ reconciling the competent woman who raised her with the stranger standing before her feels like an impossible task. two images superimposed over each other. she’s little more than a dry husk, FRUIT HOLLOWED OF ITS MEAT, leaving behind a carcass where her mother should be. how embarrassing, that she would permit herself to fall apart so spectacularly, while the rest of them had no choice but to pick up the pieces, clea most of all. ❝ was it worth it, at least? your precious painted family? were they everything you hoped for? ❞

i'm just as much of a monster as you are.

these violent delights prompts | accepting | @cleameur

SHE LOOKS AT HER DAUGHTER AS IF FOR THE FIRST TIME. its not the woman she has become that stands before her, but the child. a little girl with long auburn hair, bare feet, and a pout on her mouth as she glares up at her maman — chastened by something she has said. it startles her so thoroughly that she nearly trips backwards. not the vision, but the words that tear from her lips like a curse. its pure instinct to reach out, hands fluttering uselessly before falling to her sides. they were well past the realm of physical affection, aline half expecting a slap across her outstretched hands for having the audacity to even THINK of embracing her.

clea is grown again when she blinks, looking thoroughly ired and impatient by aline's silence. her desire to hold her doesn't wane, nor does the debilitating shock of her words. worse insults have been flung her way over the years, but its the way clea's knife pierces herself before flinging it at her that rattles her so. another hesitant step forward, reaching again. brushing an errant lock of auburn from clea's shoulder, palm hovering anxiously at the side of her face that dares not breach the unspoken rules between them. " you are not a monster, mon chérie. " perhaps aline herself was, she will not refute that claim, but clea. . . ? brows drawn together, she allows her other hand to come to clea's face, framing it perfectly between them. she is small again then, with tears welled up in her sky blue of her eyes as aline wipes them away. a monster indeed for whatever harm she had caused to create this chasm between them. she cannot reach her, close as they stand together. all of her children, so so far from her, drifting further still while she is left stranded on a nameless craggy shore.

her voice takes on a firmer note, the barest hint of desperation buried in its inflection " you are not a monster. nor have you ever been one. " she bridges the gap momentarily, allowing her hands to finally hold clea's face. thumbs stroke the apples of her cheeks like the wings of butterflies, so soft and then not at all as she pulls back just as swiftly, not wanting to incur her eldest's wrath.

[cleameur]

if you ever feel safe please remember that im out there

[cleameur]

what if i said this was a tentative mains/exclusives call? i know this isn't everyone's cup of tea so no worries if it isn't yours! i've just personally come to the conclusion that my absolute favourite and most inspiring dynamics are those that have been extensively plotted and developed over a longer period of time, to the point where our portrayals become deeply interlinked. so if it sounds like something you'd be into, please give this post a like and i'll drop you a message in the next few days to discuss further!! we don't necessarily need to have written together before, just as long as there is genuine interest <3

[cleameur]

HIS REBUTTALS LAND LIKE HOT POKERS, knocking something loose within the torpor of her apathy. she latches onto them without forethought, overcome with the urge to deny his claims, rejecting them all in an instant. ❝ what are you insinuating? i’m not the one in the gilded cage. ❞ uncertainty casts its shadow across her face, resolve unspooling at the seams. she doesn’t know the specifics of his situation, nor does she need to. it’s patently obvious that the half-man sitting across from her is little more than a chained up lapdog at the whims of the newly self-appointed child god. a mockery of free will dressed up in fanciful pantomime. they are categorically not the same. clea finds the mere prospect abhorrent. impossible as they can feel at times, her actions are her own and no one else’s. she could stop at any point, right? leave everyone high and dry, floundering about with no direction. CUT OFF THE LIMB SO THAT THE BODY MAY LIVE. and what has her family become, if not a rotting, gangrenous appendage, oozing with grief? a vain hope crushed swiftly underfoot. she has done far too much to turn back now.

❝ and don’t speak to me as if you know anything about my family. ❞ the operative words cleave the air clean down the middle. my family. hers, not his, never his. there’s no question about it. a ruthless severance, a purposeful otherness. us versus them. LINES IN THE SAND SHE IS UNWILLING TO CROSS. she will not grant her mother’s illusions any more credence, just as she won’t entertain the nonsensical notion that there is any tangible level of approximation between herself and the doppelgänger. ❝ try as you might, you can’t possibly understand what’s at stake. not just in here, but out there too. especially out there. ❞ her forehead creases with stress marks, the weight of the world heavier than ever, but she refuses to buckle under it. a steadying breath fills her lungs, the set of her shoulders squaring minutely. clea can’t allow her thoughts to linger on her sister’s deteriorating health or the crumbling state of the council and most definitely not on the ever-evolving conflict with verso’s killers. ❝ besides, even if i wanted to take a more direct approach, i can’t. not yet anyway. ❞

she veers the conversation back to the topic at hand, voice steeped in matter-of-factness, carefully divested of any residual emotion. ❝ alicia has been rather busy, already acquiring quite the collection of pets. ❞ so many of aline’s creations made anew into her sister’s own self-serving image. all of her favourite toys strung up to fit some storybook narrative, choreographed against the woefully stifling husk of reality that is lumière. LIKE TALLIES, COUNTING UP TO HER IMPENDING DOOM. marionettes ready to be propped up and puppeteered at will, with alicia as both playwright and protagonist. ❝ while most of mine have been erased. i wonder whose fault that is, hm? ❞ a knowing glance is shot his way, complete with a judgmentally raised brow. ❝ i have a plan, of course, but something tells me you won’t approve of it. ❞

it has felt,    to the repainted portraiture of mother's grief,    both an eternity and the blink of any eye since he had first met this woman,    hackles of the feigned and the physical raised against each other while truths spilled,    psychological warfare against those who had never had a choice in their creation at all.    verso,    whose tethers manifested the moment clea had intruded upon this canvas and the life her mother had painted so meticulously into her son's only oeuvre :    the symbol of child's pride,    now transformed into something unrecognisable.    but this botched canvas is the only life anyone here has ever known,    save verso.    isolation,    without a mother and a father and sisters who once knew the same life,    who once knew the true lumière,    before it had been shattered and cast into every corner of the easel and spilled across marble floors to rest in its cracks.

it could be disastrous.        ❝    i know.    ❞        she could   …       ❝    i know.    ❞        you don't necessarily care           ❝    but don't   …   don't you dare accuse me of what you know is wrong.    you painters,    always creating,    always destroying what you don't like.    it would be easy for you,    wouldn't it ?    if you believe i was your enemy.    ❞        words tinge a bitter flavour over his tongue.    he repeats the words of his father,    an eternity and a second ago.    of course,    it's easy for you to think that,    isn't it ?    easier to betray us if i'm the villain ?    [   …   ]   easier for clea to believe she is the only righteous creature in this world,    an intruder into a world that no longer recognises her for what she used to be.    restless fingers stir near the loose buttons at the edge of his shirt.    he knows precisely how it feels,    to be considered an outsider in a place that used to feel like home.    her family's doing.

(  at times,    he wishes he could control even a droplet of chroma in this canvas.  )    his soul desperately clings to what little control he has left of his world.    in vain ;    his numb fingers slip upon a wall devoid of handholds.        ❝    you're blind.    ❞        alicia has robbed him of his own individualism time and time again.    but he has his words.    when he does not have his mind,    at least he has his words.        ❝    if i wanted her dead,    i would have let renoir kill her at the stonewave cliffs too.    i needed my our   …    ❞        again,    he fidgets,    gooseflesh prodding needles out from the back of his neck and shoulder blades.        ❝    …   i need your mother out of the canvas before anything.    and if i could have,    i would have forced alicia out too.    of course i want to be free.    don't you ?    ❞

[cleameur]

elektra, sophocles (tr. by anne carson)

[cleameur]

A LOVE STORY WRITTEN IN THE STARS, as predestined as a supernova’s light coruscating through the unfathomable vastness of the cosmos. celestial bodies gravitationally pulled together by sheer force of magnetism. kismet, fate, ancient and eternal. it has to be. for what other explanation is there? every time she is around him, simon inspires the hazy quality of a dream without fail. HER VERY OWN BEACON IN THE DARK, forever haloed by the warmest sunrise imaginable. clea would rearrange the entire galaxy, if only to plinth him at the epicentre of it all. it’s no wonder then, that he has this impossibly gentle way of assuaging her worries, the voice of rationality to her jittering thoughts, quelling her mind before it wanders deeper down the path of despair. the true north of her compass, not once leading her astray. ❝ you’re right. you’re always right, simon. ❞ a nod, the crease in her brow softening by a small degree.

❝ we’ll talk to her tomorrow. maybe verso too. i’m sure he already suspects something is amiss. nothing ever escapes his notice. ❞ she tries her best to project an air of confidence, though her forehead instinctively presses harder against his, all but closing the scant space between them, CHASING HIS PROXIMITY LIKE IT'S VITAL TO HER WELL-BEING. most days, it very much feels like it is. whatever has been plaguing her maman must surely be manageable. it isn’t abnormal for her to overwork herself, after all, caught up as she can get in her own art. she just needs a break, a chance to relax, without the ever-looming pressure of her responsibilities. clea understands perfectionism and its plights better than most, how it can be equal parts conducive and unhelpful. but they’re a family, and so she would never allow any of them to carry that burden alone. she gives simon’s hand another squeeze, reassured by his presence, the builder’s callouses, years of craftsmanship etched into his skin, grounding her here, in this moment. ❝ thank you, it’s been driving me mad. i thought… i thought i was imagining things. ❞ gratitude wells in the timbre of her voice, softer than gauze.

then, her palms begin to move gingerly, traveling the expanse of his chest until her fingers find purchase on the lapels of his jacket, curling around the fabric. at once, he sends her pulse aquiver, like there’s a startled robin locked inside the birdcage of her chest cavity, wings fluttering against its prison. ❝ i don’t know what i’d do without you, my love. ❞ whisper quiet, featherlight. she cranes her neck ever so slightly, drinking him in. A MOST PICTURESQUE COMPOSITION, reverent brushstrokes limned in golden thread. affection dusts her cheeks a raspberry pink at the sight. then, with all of the bashfulness of a first kiss, clea leans in, a coy smile playing on her face before she slots her mouth against his. molten, adoring, puzzle pieces finding each other after too many aeons apart. the contact resembles a solar flare, sun sparks sputtering every which way. she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that there is no safer haven than the bracket of his arms, this pocket of peace where their twinned hearts beat in tandem.

@cleameur from x.

it suits her, somehow: the gentle guilt, the dog-eared confession at her side, the way she bears even literary theft with elegance and the smallest crinkle of contrition in her brow. he smiles faintly; he imagines its prose is the sort that bleeds - silently, gracefully - into the spaces between thought and dream, until one can't tell which is which. he's seen that look in her eyes lately: as though the words have found something inside her she hadn't meant to reveal, and it curls around his ribs with a strange weight.

but he feels it the moment her voice breaks around her mother's name - a subtle fracture in the gentle architecture of the evening. the world doesn't stop, of course - the blooms still stir faintly in their beds beneath the archway, lulled by some unseen breeze; the sky remains stained in its perfect bruised-violet. but something in him reels. clea's concern doesn't surprise him as much as the shift in her tone. there's a hesitation there, a rare crack in her composure, and it pierces him more cleanly than any blade. he doesn't respond at first, just studies her - soft, uncertain, lovely beneath the ivy-stitched archway. then his eyes drop to the stolen culprit by her hip; (how fitting that even her thefts are romantic) but then the thought curdles - tragedy, sudden absences, questions that whisper too close to the shape of a prophecy. a flicker of something sharp passes through him; not suspicion - no, never of clea - but a warning, like a knife pressed flat to the skin without cutting. just … cold.

he leans in and touches his lips to the crown of her head, slow and reverent, like a penitent. the city around them, so carefully tuned, suddenly feels too quiet. his thoughts coil tightly around her words; he doesn't know how to name what he senses - only that the world has started to hum off-key. but her closeness steadies him in a way nothing else can - not the rules of swordplay, not the tranquil that seems to coat lumière like syrup over fruit - just this: her pulse beneath his touch, her breath a tremor against his collarbone, her voice catching on concern like a thread snagged in a seam. clea's fingers tighten around his like a question too afraid to ask itself, and he hears it all: the worry behind her quiet, the quivering edge hidden in her calm.

simon briefly closes his eyes. he remembers watching aline move through the halls of the academy - brilliant, composed, always with that faint afterglow of purpose about her; there was something arresting in her quietude, as though the world leaned toward her just slightly, listening. lately, though, she seems thinner in some intangible way - not in body, but in presence - like light left behind a curtain. he hasn't spoken of it, but there's something about her strange, distant silences; none of it wrong, but none of it entirely right.

"I've noticed," he murmurs at last. his voice doesn't rise; it folds into the hush between them, like parchment into a drawer. "she's … quieter than usual. slower to answer, perhaps. and sometimes--" he hesitates, choosing the words carefully, "--she seems exhausted."

(she seems like she’s listening to something the rest of us can't hear.)

he tilts his head slightly, resting his temple against hers - a loving communion. how can he explain the sense that something at the edge of all this is beginning to… unweave? her worry is sacred; her mother is the axis around which her life spins.

"I'm sure there's nothing too concerning," he says, convincing himself. "I'll come with you," a pause, for reassurance. "if you want to speak to a physician, or to her. whatever you need, mon coeur.”

because whatever happens, he will hold her through it - all of it; every breath, every question she dares to whisper into twilight - he will carry them all, cradled into the warmth between their hands.

[cleameur]

# verleseau. independent, private, & . selective rp blog for verso dessendre,   from sandfall interactive's clair obscur : expedition 33.   characterization relies upon canon, but is heavily headcanon-based.   written by kat,   she/her,   29.   i am not affiliated with any developers of the game.   & .   CURRENT PROGRESS : COMPLETED.   as always,   please read the rules outlined in my carrd before you follow !   i ask that no minors interact.

tableau que je ne peux voir ; fermer les yeux, reste le noir. may everything be decided before their very eyes, between the bars of their prison.

[cleameur]

sometimes when i feel particularly self-hating or insecure about my writing, i have to remind myself of the time i was visiting shakespeare's childhood home a few years ago and nearly got hit in the head by a loose brick that fell off his house. it truly only missed me by a couple centimetres. like bro's ghost was really out here trying to personally eliminate me i fear

[cleameur]

AN EXERCISE IN RESTRAINT, growing more tiresome by the second. the pinpricks of irritation gradually erode any semblance of consideration clea might have been inclined to afford, evident in the way her fingers rub at the bridge of her nose in an increasingly exasperated manner. for creations with supposed free will, they certainly seem to choose being aggravating over anything else. this one appears rather dense too, so intent on pursuing a pointless cross-examination and needling for information she clearly doesn't even want to hear. ❝ are the hysterics really necessary? ❞ a flippancy-ridden question, rhetorical in every respect. ❝ no, you idiot. what i was trying to say before you so rudely interrupted me, is that i don’t doubt your existence has felt real to you, only because you lack any other frame of reference. ❞

she takes a deep breath, as though trying to flag her temper, having already suffered more than enough of these foolish antics. ❝ aline is nothing if not a master of her craft, but replicated human likeness is still just that, a copy. it will never compare to what’s out there, beyond the boundaries of this canvas. the sooner you accept that, the better. ❞

@cleameur liked for a starter! -> bloody motherfucking asshole - martha wainwright

"you say my time here has been some sort of JOKE."

[cleameur]

as the two of them draw nearer to the mouth of esquie’s nest, her steps halt to a stop, strife with hesitation. ❝ this is a mistake. i don’t know why i let you talk me into it. ❞ comes the half-hearted admonishment, though her usual edge is dampened by an unfamiliar air of reticence, of guilt. ❝ he doesn’t want to see me. i know he doesn’t. not after what i’ve done. ❞ or rather didn’t do. how her visits became rarer and rarer until she’d ceased entering the canvas altogether, too old to still be playing children’s games. clea must’ve been taller than verso when she’d last laid eyes on françois. sun-bleached memories she can hardly remember. to face him now feels like an impossible ask, a willing drop from a vertiginous height. she can’t do it, won’t. hands clench into tight fists at her sides, shaky despite her best efforts to conceal her nerves. ❝ you go ahead. i’ll just wait out here instead. ❞

she wears her nerves on her sleeves.    if he looks just right,    the harsh glare of the early afternoon sun betrays oppressive webs across porcelain-painted skin,    that spread before his very eyes to wrap around her throat and tie her arms against her sides.    she wishes to see him.    verso knows she does.    nothing makes a soul quiver quite so openly than suppressed longing for something once lost.

but,    while unsister’s frank verity falters,    verso grows bolder.    a confidence he has not felt since his rebirth.    he steps up the platform the opportunity presents without hesitation :    he has witnessed how tormented the turtle had been,    without his best friend and most fastidious companion.        ❝    no,    no no.    you’re not getting out of this that easily.    sorry.    ❞        his tone reflects nothing of regret or sorrow.    he knows that she knows that she’ll not be the case.        ❝    he’ll want to see you.    trust me.    i’ve been here more times than you have these past few   …    ❞        ‘centuries’ flares like wildfire at the tip of his tongue.    he lets it burn back,    dying like ash at the front of his throat,    where he swallows it back down.        ❝    …   decades.    believe me,    i know.    esquie and i even       ❞

ah ! no,    no,    he would rather not disclose their little endeavour to impart that carving upon the turtle.    verso dismisses the thought with a wave of his fingers,    brushing past her and making his way into the cave.        ❝    follow me.    you may as well.    i'm telling him you're here regardless if you follow me anyway. so ... your choice.    ❞

༉‧₊˚. ` discussed .  /  𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 .

[cleameur]

THE FIRST MARKINGS OF CONSTERNATION coalesce in the furrow of her brow, lips pinched downward in something resembling a grimace. she circles the table impatiently, drumming her fingers against the wooden surface. scattered plans and schematics fill her vision, making it all the harder to not feel like some war general of old. clea wishes she could claw at the manor walls until the wallpaper peels back in tattered strips and the stone crumbles into dust, brick by brick. anything to exorcise THIS WRETCHED GRIEF EATING HER ALIVE. sometimes, she can still hear the funeral toll while roaming the empty halls of a home that has long stopped feeling like one. grave dirt between her molars. an ever-present phantom pain. but she’s not so delusional to think that would be productive in the slightest. no, this is her battle to fight and she’s past putting stock in the competence of others.

❝ you’re afraid, aren’t you? just say so. ❞ there’s an unmistakable challenge tied up in her words, INFLAMMATORY BY DESIGN. ❝ disappointing, really, but not surprising. i don’t know what else i expected from a musician of all people. ❞ a low blow, perhaps. thana is many things, but a weak-willed, brow-nosing sycophant is not one of them, she knows as much. still, it seems like every avenue at negotiation has been exhausted, given their current standstill, and clea would never sink to such pathetic depths as to start begging. ❝ if justice for verso isn’t enough of an incentive, then by all means, go. i have no need for cowards. ❞

❝ i don’t know why i bother with you, honestly. ❞

“ what a clever retort! ” they reply, tone strained with exasperation. despite their mutual attempts at forging this alliance, the pair's stubborn-headed similarities result in more biting words than any substantial progress. seated in the vast foyer, lit by firelight instead of sunlight, thana crosses their legs and picks a microscopic piece of lint from their skirt. still, this is their latest in a series of meetings, so they haven't yet driven the eldest dessendre away. the opposite must also be true, but thana chooses not to distract themself with that line of thinking just yet.

to remain composed, thana scans the room again, for what might be the hundredth time since this conversation began. they then look to @cleameur, eyes clear and focused. “ you bother because your sad excuse for allies haven't shown up when it counts. a one-woman war is just an invitation for slaughter. ” the words hang in the air, and thana tries not to linger on that thought. his ghost seems to haunt with every word, every step, while clea is trying to sprint across the finish line in hopes that the race will quiet it somehow. “ the fontenots may—may—have time for this retribution of yours. but, really, what would i get out of breaking neutrality against the writers? ”

[cleameur]

thinking about how clea’s perfectionism must have started off as mere juvenile curiosity, this overly inquisitive nature, innate from a young age. a precocious girl that constantly awed the adults around her with how clever beyond her years she was. just one of those children that wanted to know everything about everything, absorbing any and all knowledge she could get her hands on. i can see her sneaking into aline’s atelier and watching her work in secret so she could memorise her techniques, way before she ever picked up a brush herself.

it doesn’t stop at painting though. she wants to do it all, know it all, voraciously so. an undeniable hunger for greatness. it’s not just art, but the world at large that she draws inspiration from, using each and every single new discovery and imbuing it into her craft. she genuinely loves nothing more than broadening her horizons at any given moment. and then, verso comes along and all she wants to do is share it with him. a very young clea being so incredibly excited to teach her little brother everything she’s learned so far, from painting, to sculpting, to music and beyond. i just know she was delivering university style lectures to verso when he was only a toddler. "no, you can’t play right now, you have to listen to me, this is important!!"

but something shifts the more she grows up and matures. this perfectionism twists, its novelty sours. it suddenly becomes more of a hindrance than anything else. there’s this palpable race against time, that brings with it a slew of self-imposed pressures to maintain the standards she’d established for herself. because how is she supposed to achieve everything she’d set her mind to, when her lifespan is only a blip in the universe? the realization of her own mortality is sobering, but not because of any fear regarding death, but rather the fear of failure. the vastness of human creativity and the impossibility that comes with trying to consume it all. so much beauty and art that will forever remain unknown to her, despite her every wish to collect, document and immortalise it within her own work. because at the end of the day, she is just one person and no matter how hard she tries, it will never be enough.

a huge misconception about gifted children or young prodigies as a whole, is that it all comes naturally to them, that their talent alone can elevate them in whichever field they’re pursuing. while that might be true for some, i don’t think it is for most and it certainly isn’t for clea. she works so incredibly hard and she doesn’t ever do things by halves. not even in the midst of a war does she allow herself to create anything subpar. her nevrons are deadly, yes, but also beautiful in a monstrous way. they showcase a level of care and thoughtfulness not only towards her craft, but perhaps also towards the memory of her brother and everything they made together. i might be reading too much into this, but the fact that her nevrons are created to match and complement each of the different biomes of the continent is rather poignant to me. there’s no function over form with her. she does both, always.

[cleameur]

hi. fuck ice. here is how you can help families affected by unlawful deportation

edit: and FUCK LAPD. here is how you can help bail out protestors who are in the trenches, facing mass arrests and putting their bodies on the line.

[cleameur]

Grief is no excuse. We're all grieving. CLAIR OBSCUR: EXPEDITION 33 (2025) dev. Sandfall Interactive

[cleameur]

A LITANY OF STRESSORS multiplying in spades, like wildfires to a pine forest, lit kerosene to dry leaves. they press around her on all sides. these harrowing, inescapable black holes, that notch themselves between the knobs of her spine as they carve destruction, eroding everything in their path. clea doesn’t know how much longer she can carry this ever-present anvil around her ankle. but she has to, she must. TO FALTER NOW WOULD BE CALAMITOUS. she will see this through to the end, whatever it takes. a truth felt with crushing absolution, writ in the sunken grooves beneath her eyes, in the way her lashes seem to always droop at half-mast, shoulders drawn tenser than a tightrope.

so profound is her despondency, that she all but filters the outside world out completely, along with simon’s consolatory words. ❝ hm? ❞ she blinks distractedly. once, twice. angled cheekbones catch in the low light as she shifts in her seat. then, realization dawns on her at last and it’s as though he’s seen something he wasn’t supposed to, coaxed open the rusted doors of a mausoleum and dredged up her shortcomings to the surface for everyone to gawk at and dissect. the ensuing shame cracks her already tenuous composure like clockwork. cause and effect. HAIRLINE FISSURES SPLIT INTO CREVASSES. ❝ such an astute observation. i’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me for not exactly being a bastion of social etiquette. ❞ her anger is imminent, akin to a darkened thundercloud on the horizon that heralds the strike of a storm, apoplectic in its making.

❝ i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a rather urgent crisis at hand. not all of us can bury our heads in the sand and choose wilful ignorance. ❞ as much as clea wishes she could skirt her duties or better yet, pawn them off entirely, she cannot. plain and simple. not when everything hinges on her success. there’s no fanfare or pageantry in the wake of her efforts. why would there be, when it’s what she’s expected to do? THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD FOISTED UPON HER like she’s some beast of burden, her family’s very own pack mule. how long until she gives under the pressure? until the last remaining battlements come tumbling to the ground? fragile masonry pulverised into rubble, into ash.

clea can’t let herself linger on that possibility, nor on the proverbial guillotine all but slashing into her flesh. instead, it’s the battering ram of her ire that stands at attention. basal and rapacious, FROTHING ARSENIC ON HER TONGUE. eager to turn the verbal lashings and self-flagellation she so often directs at herself onto someone else for a change. it’s easier, she thinks, than accepting simon’s genuine concern at face value, his feeble attempts at lifting her morale through stalwart support and conversation alone. ❝ so what do you imagine you can do? ❞ a scoff that could be a snarl for all of its vitriol, polluting the air between them. there’s a nagging voice at the back of her skull, a warning bell that sounds a bit like regret. it’s undeserved, this reaction. a part of her, however small, can recognise as much. simon hasn’t done anything of note for her to take such umbrage with. certainly nothing that would warrant the full extent of her cruelty.

and yet, she doesn’t stop. can’t. her fingers run through her hair haphazardly, before she continues her tirade. ❝ eliminate the looming threat of the writers? ensure the safe return of my family before they lose themselves to that damned canvas? ❞ her tone rises several octaves, the accompanying gesticulations becoming increasingly frantic. no sooner do the bludgeoning questions find their mark than her hand collides with the unsuspecting wine glass perched before her in what feels like slowed-down time. deep vermilion blooms like freshly spilled blood against the linen tablecloth and she laughs, a hollow, joyless thing, not bothering to clean the mess. ❝ no, i didn’t think so. ❞ the rigid coil of her muscles goes lax at once, wrung out and deflated. SHE FEELS RAW IN THE AFTERMATH. empty save for the dull ache at the back of her sockets she chooses to ignore. ❝ you can’t help me, simon. no one can. ❞

✧ a thing for @cleameur

it had rained earlier, not enough to soak, only to gloss the streets - so the pavements of paris reflected the lamps like they were floating. the café's awning stretched overhead, striped red and white, faded at the edges, wineglasses glowing like votives; the city moved like breath around them, slow, warm, faintly scented after rain. somewhere far off a carriage clanked at a stop, but here, the world had slowed to the silence between pages. the end of winter clung to the trees like a promise still hesitating at the edge of fulfilment. simon sat with his coat folded over the back of his chair, a glass of wine in his hand, untouched. across from him - clea; her hair long and loose, as always, curling where the drizzle had touched it. she wore no makeup, and didn't need to - she looked like rain remembered her. he watched her across the small, candle-lit space. her profile was a study in restraint - brows faintly knit, mouth still - a beautiful face too often drawn by others; he wondered if she knew how many notebooks longingly bore her likeness in silence.

he let out a soft breath - it might have been a sigh. his fingers tightened faintly around the stem, and lingered like that. he studied the way the city moved in reflections across her eyes - the blur of lamplights, the shimmer of the seine just beyond. her eyes were on something past it - on memory, perhaps, or some of her many concerns. he could have spoken, he could have told her she was the axis around which his quiet spun. but he wouldn't. couldn't.

his gaze drifted to her fingertips - her hands were ink-stained. they always were. and the world held still when she was not looking at it. his thumb now ran slowly along the rim of his glass, the gesture unconscious, rhythmic.

"you're quiet." he finally exhaled, without accusation.

he let the flicker of candlelight paint her one more time. there were lines at the corners of her eyes now. her hands, though still, carried tension like thread wound too tight around a spool.

then, almost to himself, almost an apology:

"if ... there is anything I can do. for you."

he took a sip, not of the wine, but the moment, let it settle on his tongue. he would not say he loved her - that wasn't what they were. could never be. there had never been a confession, there was only this rhythm - somber outings, shared silences, his umbrella angling slightly more over her head than his own. but she was not for him - no.

as the bells chimed somewhere distant, the night held its breath. the city, meanwhile, continued as it always had - indifferent, beautiful, unbothered by the weight of tragedy two people could share.

[cleameur]

we can do memory lane another night.

THE VERY PICTURE OF ALOOFNESS, clea offers a throaty huff at his unabashed brush-off, expression caught somewhere between dissent and offence. ❝ need i remind you, astarion, it was you who enquired about my family’s standing back in the city? ❞ the bored tone she dons is accompanied by the barest of eye rolls, though her attention remains otherwise intent on the waterlogged sketchbook she’d found at the beach, trying in vain to wrangle it into something functional. in the end, she resolves to hurtling the wretched object away, only missing the guttering flames of the campfire by a fraction. POSITIVELY INCENSED, she settles back against the tree trunk, the sharp flush of frustration casting a shadow across her brow. she doesn’t have time for this. for playing adventurer with a band of misfits, nor for becoming entangled in whatever conspiracy they all seem to have been pulled into. there’s much bigger issues to contend with, chief amongst them being her brother’s death, which remains unavenged with each passing day she wastes out here.

had it not been for wyll recognising her, she’d likely have kept her identity secret, as a precaution. regrettably, being the eldest daughter of an affluent family of painters provides little in the way of privacy. anyone worth their salt owns a dessendre, either hanging in a foyer or some disgustingly ostentatious boudoir. THAT IS SIMPLY A PATENT FACT. which is all the more reason why clea is so confounded by the high elf currently sitting across from her. aside from his put-upon confidence and overblown ego, he appears eloquent enough, if a tad pompous. clearly well-versed in the art of obfuscation and weaving silvered words like silk, though he hardly strikes her as someone who’s pushing papers or waxing bureaucratic nonsense for a job. he claims to be a magistrate, but such a reputable position would beget notoriety, would it not? if there’s anything the elite love more than their gold, it’s gossip. and yet, nobody knows him. certainly not her or ravengard’s son. perhaps he’s one of those disgraced patriars with a sordid reputation, expunged from the upper echelons of polite society, but desperately clinging to their former glory. there’s certainly no shortage of them in the gate, after all.

still, INFORMATION IS A PRICELESS COMMODITY, too valuable a thing to leave unearthed and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get to the bottom of this. ❝ what of your parents then? are they also similarly involved in the legal system? ❞ she holds his gaze now, chin raised imperiously as she regards him with a critical eye. a bare, unflappable appraisal. ❝ aline⸺ my mother, she likes to keep a mixed circle. they might know each other. ❞