#fantombe

[inkflowd]

" i won't allow you to die. trust in that. " @fantombe

she was quiet, her gaze on verso bordering on SOFT. they'd come so far, they were so... SO close. she'd been gommaged once already, learned the true nature of their world, felt both VINDICATED and ashamed. lune was right when it came to her gut, her distrust, her suspicions... but she wished that she wasn't. she wished that SO much was different.

after all, was her life just... nothing? she wasn't real so did she not MATTER? verso's words echoed in her mind, the corner of her mouth twitching and almost pulling into a smile before it fell. "can someone truly DIE if they were never alive in the first place?" she found herself asking, although lune wasn't quite sure if she wanted the answer or not. hand flexed out in front of her as she looked down at the scars that marred her skin. were they not real? the memories that were attached to them, were those not real either?

"i... want to trust you," came her quiet admission, eyes flickering back to the man. she felt so VULNERABLE now -- she felt so... small. his family akin to GODS walking amongst mortals in this canvas, leaving lune to wonder if at any moment they could all just change their minds and snap lumiere out of existence. it made her sick.

"and i did. trust you, i mean. merde -- i was so STUPID..." hand moved, covering her mouth as a self deprecating laugh escaped her lips. it would all be so funny if it weren't so tragic. hand fell, revealing a bottom lip that trembled for just a second before lune managed to compose herself.

"how can i trust you now?"

[vtriol]

a sign of recognition when his eyes land on a tiny sculpture nested in the shelves. their hands hadn't touched it in a while but he remembers the classic smooth head and the stiff feeling of the bristles, acting as hair. “ do you remember my gestrals? ” he asks. confident in the answer.

the manor is well-kept, all things considered. everything dusted, not a book out of place, yet less foreboding than thana fontenot remembered from childhood. they've kept their face impassive and calm, hands tucked politely behind their skirt as verso dessendre guides them through the long corridor. this visit is formal, officially between a painter and a musician, but the light in their eyes at the sight of old friends is difficult to mask.

in the quiet air of @fantombe's question, thana's heels click sharply as they step towards the shelf and, with the care of holding a newborn babe, pull the gestral from the shelf. there's no dust here, either, when thana glides their thumb over the small mask. it pains them, knowing that this gestral has a name they once knew, but at least it has not been neglected.

thana turns to him, the sculpture still in their hand. “ of course i do. what was this one's name? ” they look to it warmly, then hold it out for him to take. distantly, they wonder how the gestrals might seem now that they're older; taller than the youngest gestrals, surely, and less willing to dive into their antics on a whim. but perhaps the canvas is no longer, and questions like these are futile.

biting their lip, they scan the room for more of these hidden statuettes, then ask, “ are they ... still around? ”

[krohft]

Settled as she was in front of the fire , Lara could see the color variations in the chroma — the gentle shift from green to purple as she let it swirl in her cupped hands, to blue , back to silver. It was beautiful , she supposed , in the way all destructive things were . Her palms stung wherever it touched her , leaving red marks along her knuckles and the base of her wrist , but she couldn’t bring herself to let it spill past her fingers . 

Idly, she thought of Verso . He’d mentioned something about using chroma on himself at some point , but she couldn’t recall his exact choice of words . Judging by Monoco’s occasional disapproving grunts , he’d likely warned against it .

❝ How does this work , exactly ? ❞ Lara wasn’t sure she grasped the general concept of chroma yet , but she’d seen what it was capable of . If she wanted to survive the Nevrons , perhaps learning to use it —in whatever capacity she could— would prove valuable . ❝ It feels … alive , almost . ❞  ( @fantombe ❤︎ )

[meteorea]

me wojack pointing at you

POINTING BACK!!!! POINTING BAACK!!!

(that's me and cloud btw)

[obsclair]

it is a tender act of deflection, an attempt a self-flagellation — lune hopes to create a divide between her and @fantombe after realizing how damning gravity had been to them both.

what starts as midnight revelry and the found comradery of the damned becomes ritual, a need ... she is unsettled without verso now, left alone to battle the thoughts that manifest in the darkness of this newfound continent. lune knows that when this world is quiet, and she is alone with the weight of everything she carries, that it is verso's presence that makes it bearable.

she shouldn't let it continue.

" you and sciel seem to be getting along. i'm sure sitting with her would mean some peace and quiet instead of all of my ... questions. " she stares into the fire, inhaling a calming breath before continuing forward with her well-prepared script. " i can ask her if she's interested in — "

lune scowls into the face of the fire, a skewed expression that hides the sudden smile that threatens to emerge 'pon her lips. she is only human, one who still doesn't realize the profound solace of being chosen.

" hmm ... must be complicated then. maybe i can help ? "

[etoileobscure]

"You’re playing with fire."

✧ tension prompts - accepting

the warning cuts through the quiet, clinging to the raw edge of twilight. behind them, the ruins still steam - their latest skirmish with those creatures having left scorch marks in the earth and slicks of dark residue blooming in unnatural shapes across shattered stone. simon's blade is cooling against the stone, but his pulse still hammers against the quiet.

they'd made camp where the forest breaks into ruin - stone ribs rising from moss, trees leaning like old men huddled in counsel. the sky above bruises with dusk, a tide of violet and gold poured over the earth - a world so savagely beautiful to explore now, and yet so torn, rife with untold dangers and unknown horrors - a sublime contradiction.

simon stands where the ground dips near a collapsed archway, cloak pulled back, one sleeve dark with ichor. there's a thin cut above his brow - already sealing - and beads of sweat glint on his forehead. he feels the sheer weight of it all - the smoke still in his lungs, the way the monsters screamed - not with mouths, but with shape, their edges tearing through sound like fractured music.

he hears it as a warning, but also, perhaps, something closer to fear - not for himself; verso, for all his poise, has always been better at cautioning others than guarding himself.

in another life, he was a boy with a piano, not a sword. in this one - he's my warning, the fire I lit without meaning to; and now he's watching me - like I'm the match he'll one day be forced to strike.

he turns, slowly, drawing his glove off with precision, and for a moment he studies the fine crack in his gauntlet where the creature's talon kissed too close. "we've been in the fire." he says at last, low and taut with more than tension. "it's not a game - it never was."

his gaze lifts to verso's, eyes shadowed under dark lashes, a dim gleam of exhaustion and something colder.

"--those things," he murmurs, tilting his chin toward the battlefield behind them, "were trying to unmake us. and they nearly did."

he steps forward and the dying sun scatters amber across his cheekbones, catching in the sweat at his collarbone and the loose strands of black hair falling from his tie.

"I don't call it playing. I call it survival."

a crow calls somewhere distant. simon glances sideways, eyes dark and unreadable. his expression is difficult, as always - something between thought and hunger, restraint and ruin.

"I know what I'm doing," simon finally murmurs - half-truth, half-lie, all confession. the wind lifts the edge of his coat, the light is almost gone now.

"do you?"

[finalism]

@fantombe : even when i sleep, it’s still there. like a breath i can never release.

he's hurting so much. she can see it in his eyes. she sees the way it seems to seep into every muscle in his face. but maelle doesn't let it discourage her. now with her memories and powers back as a paintress, she can make everything right again. once papa is expelled from the canvas then everything can go back to how it was. they can finally be happy.

hazel eyes soften as maelle reaches out to put a gentle hand upon verso's arm. " hey, it's alright. " she smiles up at him in an attempt at comfort. " no one is telling you to be verso anymore. maman isn't here to put that pressure on you. " and maelle is very much aware of how much aline's disapproval can weigh on the soul. " you can just be...you. "

verso is dead. maman and clea seem to enjoy reminder maelle of that, reminding her that it's all her fault. so no, this verso is not the real verso, but they can still be siblings. he deserves happiness just like lune and sciel and monoco and everything else that lives in this canvas. they don't deserve to be erased just because her mother was blinded by grief.

maelle puts her hands behind her back and steps in front of verso with a brighter grin. " you can play in lumiere again. i've heard you and lune making music together. how does that sound? "

clair obscur / accepting.

[inkflowd]

all i can offer is what i know. @fantombe

her eye was practically TWITCHING. he was joking -- right? unable to hide the incredulous look upon her face, lune instead opted for not looking at him AT ALL. eyes settled onto her own journal. it was nowhere near as impressive as gustave's or maelle's... but it was hers. crude drawing of nevrons and native plants, borderline illegible notes in the margins about things now long forgotten. memories. losses.

she snapped it shut, knowing that she would be unable to write another word so long as THAT sentence was going to keep rattling around in her head. "and you offer SO freely," came her dry, sarcastic response as she resisted the urge to scrunch up her nose. a slow breath through her nose, slow exhale through her mouth.

"you know more than you're telling us. one day i think it's going to get us all KILLED."

[krohft]

please just let me help you.

Cold dread spilled into her veins , settling at the edges of her heart like acetone . A well - earned punishment , she’d once thought . The weight of the world settling on her chest until she felt she couldn’t breathe past the burden of it all , the responsibility she’d tried so hard to run from . Her eyes darted to the cave wall , trying to focus on the flickering light of the campfire . There was recognition in it , she thought , something to hold on to . Something familiar to ground her .

Verso’s voice was a strained whisper against the ringing in her ears , the remnants of a memory turned nightmare . She still remembered the little boy clinging to the edge of the church roof , calling out to his mother — and perhaps more so , she remembered the sound of his body hitting the fence before dropping into the rushing waters below . Such a senseless death , and one even Dominguez would have managed to prevent . He had known not to take the dagger . Perhaps he would have evacuated the people first , so the tsunami might run its course without causing too much harm . She had only seen her own interests , the fear of letting the dagger fall into Trinity’s hands .

Rubbing harsh circles into her sternum , Lara forced a breath into her lungs . She could feel Verso’s hands brush against her flushed skin , gently coaxing her into his warmth , but her mind was too scattered to jump to objections . In the dim light of the cave , he smelled like the first day of summer in an old forest ; like the sweet acacia her mother had planted in the aviary . It calmed her more than she wanted to admit . ❝ I’m sorry for waking you , I — … I’m fine , really . ❞ 

He didn’t call her out on the lie , but there was a soothing sort of grief in the way he tugged her close . Lara allowed herself to go with it , her resolve fraying under his warmth . He smelled like home , she realized . Like the freedom she’d fought tooth and nail for , only to be crushed under the reality of her own thoughtlessness . Except there was no punishment in it this time ; just the warmth and sweetness of fresh-cut wood , the gentle lift of his chest against her cheek , and the rumble of his voice as he whispered into the quiet of the cavern . Something real to hold on to . ❝ … thank you . ❞

[shad0wbringer]

🌧️  🍻

headcanon prompt / always accepting!

[ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ?

oh, well. that's a very interesting think about her since - sciel is presented to us as 'well-put', someone who is just there on the expedition bc she has very strong will to live but at the same time, she is well aware of the limitations of their fight. the more we learn about her past, that's what she makes me feel . so endearing. she's so vulnerable and her scars seems so permanent. the lost and grief of their husband and her could-be daughter is something she refused for so long to cope, or maybe it was just the begining of her journey of healing and dealing with this pain! i think, the cycle of healing and dealing with trauma is very complex, in her case - it's hard for her to be around children at first but she still works with sophie as a teacher. YET ! she decides to carry all of their bracelets during her last expedition. i think she passes the pain with phases, just like water or the ocean - despite of spite, she founds some peace in these kinds of thoughts. i don't see her like - having any type of 'bad blood' ; just as long she is able to understand and seek the truth. nevertherless, i think sciel is not able to forgive renoir fully. i mean, she understand him , she could. even when verso lies to them or maelle pushes her narrative, even when the paintress gommages… i think she mets her limit with him, how many friends died at his hands? she's able to see and experience that grief blind us, sometimes it's grief speaking and not ourselves. but i think, understanding something doesn't necessarily means actually move on from this pain.

[ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ?

oooooooooooooooo. sciel is very sociable fellow. i think she falls on the 'affectionate drunk type' most of the nights, she's enjoys waaaaaaaaay to much drinking since it's one way of drowing her intrusive thoughts and not herself. literally. but i think when thinks were more recent , pierre's death and her rescue, she was more inclinated to drink until blackout few times. she's very resistent at alcohol now but - was mostly thanks to gustave and sophie's help that didn't developed to something more serious but - she needs to be a little of self-aware in a healthy way.

[repeintre]

@fantombe asked: ❝ please, i don’t want to do this… ❞

Neither does Renoir, all in all. And for a moment, for a brief moment, something in Renoir hesitates, and falters: even the portrait of a ruthless man does not forget what it is to be a father, afraid as he is. And he still wants, even now, to see Verso be safe, be happy.

He also knows that if he must make the choices that ensure his children live, no matter how much they hate him in the process, he will still make them, and do not even think about them twice.

"You can stand aside." He offers. He extends a hand, an offer of peace. "You can come back to us, to your family."

He doesn't expect Verso to accept. He still wants to hope, and still offers that hand, because Verso is alone this once. And so, there needs not be more blood between them.

But blood there will be, when it's the only way Renoir knows of, to remain there for a little longer.

[demainvient]

which tragic death would you suffer?

the worthless sacrifice

you die to protect something you love. it does not matter in the end. if it's a person, they still die shortly after, if it's a war, you still lose. your death means nothing. the only people who could've appreciated it will be gone quickly as well. you will die thinking you have done something, when really you have done nothing. perhaps that is the saddest thing of all.

tagged by: nobody i got bored!

tagging: @uneautrevies @deuillum @fantombe @gerudospiriit

[uneautrevies]

@fantombe ♡'d for a starter !

she doesn't trust him. an ever watchful eye on verso. to survive from such early expedition , to claim immortality. none of it makes sense , in a world already full of confusion. it hadn't helped , that he had come too late. if he had shown up sooner , maybe he'd still be here. sophie knows it's an irrational grudge , but it does not stop her from holding it. it does not stop the anger that rises , that shows in closed fits and crescent shapes dug in her palms. but even then admittingly , they need him. and in all his tries , there is something slightly charming about him.

she stands near edge of camp , arms wrapped around her frame to keep warm. ❛ it must be lonely , besides the gestrals. ❜ her attempt at small talk already feels wrong. but in this moment , she's lost all warmness that once radiated through her. lost entirely. ❛ sorry , if that was rude. ❜

[mahmur]

her eyes are closed, not in sleep, in calming, the kind that listens inward. behind the veil of her lids, she holds a tender image: verso, hands hesitant, moving through her hair as if tracing the edge of some sacred script. each careful pass of his fingers feels less like grooming and more like negotiation, as though he is loosening the knots not only from her strands but from the light tension between them. he does not rush. there is care in the delay, reverence in the way his touch falters before it steadies. it tells her more than any confession ever could. this trembling devotion, this almost-unseen labour. it is not merely a braid. it is the unspooling of guardedness, of worries carried too long. and perhaps he does not notice this. or perhaps he does, and it frightens him.

his restraint is a language she has come to understand, a repeating pattern of held breath and inward retreat. she has watched him vanish behind the walls of his own mind again and again, retreating whenever closeness dares to reach him. and yet now, in this small act, he allows her near enough. it humbles her, this fragile permission, so easily withdrawn.

sciel remains still, offering her compassion in the language he might understand best: the tilt of her head, the soft surrender of her shoulders, the silent assurance that she will not press him further than he can bear. the flow of her body. thoughts drift into the space his silence leaves behind, not to fill it, to acknowledge.

❝ battling nevrons must seem simpler, ❞ she says softly, not turning around. her voice is a leaf on wind. gentle, meant to land lightly. ❝ but you’re winning this battle, too. even if it doesn’t feel like it. ❞ his hands still, again. she feels it in the shift of his focused breath, the brief stutter in the rhythm. for a heartbeat, she fears he will pull away. retreat, as he has so many times before. then his fingers move again, slow. not really in certainty, though at least in choice. warm and aching stir within her. he may not see it yet, but she does: how much strength it takes for him to stay. how his vulnerability gleams brighter here, than any triumph on the field.

as he works downward, gently parting each tangle, she feels gratitude rise in her chest. also the disappointment in knowing how rarely trust is offered freely. she can only hope verso is somewhat at ease, whatever haunts him in this moment, she hopes her company is reassuring.

and how easily trust can be broken. she wishes she could speak this recognition aloud, to place her reverence into his hands as plainly as he places care into her hair. words are too complicated, too misleading. they would tip the balance. so instead, she breathes, slow and deep, and lets herself lean into his hands, the barest movement, an offering not of body, of faith, instead ─ in him. the curve of her neck, the shift of her breath, says what she cannot: i trust you. stay, if you can. one day, he will see it clearly, hopefully. maybe he will come to understand that these imperfect, faltering moments. the ones shaped not by ease ─ by effort are the ones that matter just as much as those shaped by success and luck.

❝ tell me something you've never told anyone. ❞

to think that this moment was born of an innocent taunt and turn between the two expeditioners. what would life look like had he taken the necessary steps and countermeasures to avoid it? it's a question he frequently hosts within his thoughts. habitual to subject himself to impossible realities. he'd barely reciprocated any manner of banter from his compatriots since meeting with the mask keeper. since realizing the axon's true directive he's felt like a trespasser amongst his own.

he's about to close his eyes and simply allow this restless thinking to crash against the walls of his head when she talks to him again.

he clears his throat. her golden eyes were watching him over the hill of her shoulder. open and attentive. she'd been watching him descend in on himself — what could that have looked like to her? it was enough to make him nervous again.

his hope that his thoughts hadn't somehow spilled out was answered; sciel indicates her instructions as gently as a teacher to her student. equipped with all her patience. admittedly, sitting with his legs tucked like this made it easier to visit those preparatory days from his childhood.

a breath stutters through his nose. she'd made him laugh without meaning to. “ battling nevrons is .. well, an easier opportunity to come by, than .. this. ” he realizes now that his hands are already set to enter her hair. good. it was far easier to accept a temporary defeat than the blame. at least for the moment, until his hands remind him just how out of practice he really is with simplicity.

lower teeth rake over the peak of his lip, his thumbs shake and accidentally allow one of the trails he'd made to escape back to its owner while losing bits of the others. he resists the thrust of self-deprecation in his throat and attempts to retrieve the lost streaks of hair. now that he noticed the shaking it would not leave his hands. “ this feels more like an ambush. ”

sciel bends forward and he thinks he's lost their wager but she only gives him more room, employing the same treatment she'd used earlier. patience, she says.

he draws in a breath and slowly releases it before deciding that it was better to begin again. they let go of her before collecting another section in the middle. he feels her scalp as he draws back in and he pauses on that dangerous notion of trust. maybe she does trust him. his eyebrows lower seriously over his eyes and he begins to work his way down slowly. rather than making a braid as quickly as he could like he'd initially wanted just a flash of something to boast about, he decides to take some time laying down the foundation. they hadn't a brush so his fingers did the work of gently prying the tangled strands loose as he came across them.

he wants her to be able to wear this for a few days. at least at most.

[inkflowd]

letting their hand hover before finally touching. @fantombe

it was as though the world had lost its color -- a dullness to her vision that had taken over and weighed her down. the final message from her mother: that lune would CONTINUE the work. nothing of love, of fondness... not of perhaps a GUILT for how lune had been raised and conditioned. no. just a continuation of everything she already knew. it was that disappointment, that deep sadness that took the color away for a bit. just a bit. eyes fixed on the flames of their campfire, as though willing the light to find its way into her soul to WARM it. she didn't even notice him, not really. not until the physical touch finally sent the signals of electricity to her mind.

eyes blinked -- once. twice. flickered over as her head tilted to the side and drifted down to where their hands now touched, resting upon the rough bark of the log that they called their SEAT. it brought her back to the present, back to their MISSION. her mother's voice ringing in the back of her head, now just a ghostly echo as her gaze finally found his face. "i..." she started. stopped. for once, lune was SPEECHLESS. not an easy feat. "i should thank you. for... helping me find their journal." for getting even an ounce of closure, even if it wasn't what she wanted.

her parents were dead and she STILL couldn't live up to their expectations.

"i'm sorry. i should..." should what? focus? plan out their next path? her mind told her to work, but the rest of her finally argued and seemed to win out. maybe she didn't want to work... not right now. "will you -- stay with me? just for a while. you don't... need to say anything. if you don't want to."

[krohft]

for a moment, he stops breathing. as he stroked the side of her nose with his own he feels something sear into his breast bone. closeness, intimacy. he's become colder without them. while everything about her feels warm and present. does she dislike the feeling of his skin? is it as cold as he thinks he is? ( tried for a kiss and it turned into this oop)

This close to him , Lara could feel her heart stutter and race . Her body melted into every point of contact , every little caress , every breath skittering across her skin — trust and longing turning her malleable in his hands . It almost reminded her of Paititi ; the feeling of coming home , of being somewhere entirely safe . Somewhere she didn’t want to run from . 

Lara twisted her hands into the front of his shirt , gently tugging him forward , toward her . She wanted to close that last gap between them , but his hesitation made her pause — wondering , for a moment , if there was a reason he’d stopped when every fiber in her body longed for him . Praying there wasn’t .

❝ Verso , ❞ she finally whispered , moving one hand to draw gentle circles onto the side of his neck . Trapped as she was between him and the rock formation behind her, she could do very little to move toward him . She tried still , lifting her chin to get just close enough to brush his lips as she spoke but not close enough to fully breach the distance . Giving him an out , just in case he wanted to pull back . Knowing it would shatter her heart if he did . ❝ I’m here , I’m not leaving . Breathe . ❞ // @fantombe !!