whispering-brushes

[whispering-brushes]

its been a hot minute, how are you?

-⏮, formerly 🎆

"Summer is a time of... many things. At least the way people want to go outside now for some reason means I can spend my time painting in... mostly peace." A meow comes from just nearby. "Mostly. It does mean that getting particular nature scenes can be... difficult when going outside is such a popular thing and people are in the way... and I know that the cats are unsupervised if I haven't asked someone about the matter beforehand. So everything needs to be secured."

(Hi!! Mun here. I have been. Slammed with schoolwork and being not well for the past while. But I'm done with college now so. Much more free time ahoy!! May my braincells work with me and behave. I like writing and I want to have space for it!!)

[whispering-brushes]

hi hi!!! gifts you a plush of runaway edgar

- 🚂 anon

Welcome to the Edgar plushie crew! Blue, green, white all huddle in a section of his bed to keep each other company, and he can't help but thread a finger into the ponytail every so often.

[whispering-brushes]

Emma starts and stops speaking all too quickly, and her eyes land on his arm. It's small, but red blots, stains, where once the shirt was white. He must not have even noticed that his sleeve was torn at this point, adrenaline coursing, flooding, hot tears pricking his eyes.

"..." She didn't mean to. Nobody means to. He... he's scared, he wants to believe her, he wants to yell at her to go away and shut her out. He wants the screaming inside his head to stop. Most of all, he wants to not feel like he is in danger.

Emma's voice turns quieter, and Edgar is given a moment of quiet, of examining himself. He slowly covers the new injury with a hand, processing the new red, the new pain that slowly filters in, even if it is much less than the pain of the initial moment. He knows he'll say he's fine. He knows better than to think he is. His eyes are averted, cast to the floor.

"...just... try not to do that again, all right? I... I never know what's going to happen when people get close to me, let alone when they..." He struggles to finish his sentence. He feels weak, and he hates it. He doesn't want to be hurt again. Edgar doesn't even know why he's saying all this much. Maybe because he wants, somewhere, to be understood. Just a little.

*KNOCK Knock knockknockknockkno—*

Mister Valden, are you in there?! Emily told me she hasn’t seen you all day! And— there’s an alarming amount of cats running around!..

You didn’t turn into one… did you? It couldn’t be!

*there’s some scrambling noises outside the door— and a very agitated meow*

"Hello?" Edgar's voice is clearly annoyed, especially as the knocking continues. Then, of course, he listens to what Emma is saying. "A day isn't that long... and no, of course I didn't—" He grumbles, before opening the door, though a "Agh— Maple, I know someone's there, don't leave, I don't want to have to find you—" can be heard.

And then, there he is, the door open, cat ears on his beret, kitten in hand. He's frozen for a moment, looking at Emma. "...It's a long story. If you decide to come in, watch your step. They're faster than you think, and you will trip over them if you aren't careful."

[whispering-brushes]

"Of course. Praise shouldn't be reserved for the people in front of me, right?" Edgar pauses, looking aside. "Ah... I am hardly a baker myself, but I've had to pick up a few things here and there. Having to cut off certain people means I need to take on things I never used to."

Edgar pauses. Oh, portraits. Those have never been his best subject, and the way his ears ring ever louder when he is near completion most certainly does not help. But... should he say no? He knows what it feels like to have those memories and only be able to cobble something together in the moment, ever further from the reality that once was. (Even remembering the details of what kinds of things his sister used to enjoy, or the particular notes of the lullaby his mother sang him, all of that fades with time.)

"..." Edgar looks down, brows low in concern. "...I... suppose I can paint portraits. They are far from my favored area, as often I try to depict interests, feelings, colors associated with them, rather than the physical appearance. I will listen further and see if I can complete your offer. This sounds important to you... I have no desire to take a job I am unqualified for."

( @whispering-brushes )

Edgar breathes in, then out, before knocking on the door. His expression is flat, and yet, his posture is drawn upward, just like how he has learned to keep himself. There is a slight unsteadiness, though, partially due to his exhaustion and partially due to the fading embers of sickness. (He had been... encouraged to wait until he was feeling mostly better. It was all his patience could take to not get out sooner.) But, here he stands. And all he can do is wait for the door to be answered, and hope things do not go sideways.

"Black tea, if I recall correctly? I shall have that ready in a moment. Do help yourself to the lemon shortbread on the table; I do hope it is to your liking."

[whispering-brushes]

"You've remembered my tastes well." The painter nods, before entering, visibly keeping his posture upright and proper as he seats himself, examining the shortbread. He seems hesitant to actually take one, but eventually having one. As expected, it functions well on its own, but it might shine even better when paired with the tea available shortly. "Mm. Good balance of flavor, not too aggressively sweet or sour, everything holds together and the crunch is quite nice. Good work." He seemed to smile slightly, as though satisfied.

( @whispering-brushes )

Edgar breathes in, then out, before knocking on the door. His expression is flat, and yet, his posture is drawn upward, just like how he has learned to keep himself. There is a slight unsteadiness, though, partially due to his exhaustion and partially due to the fading embers of sickness. (He had been... encouraged to wait until he was feeling mostly better. It was all his patience could take to not get out sooner.) But, here he stands. And all he can do is wait for the door to be answered, and hope things do not go sideways.

"Black tea, if I recall correctly? I shall have that ready in a moment. Do help yourself to the lemon shortbread on the table; I do hope it is to your liking."

[whispering-brushes]

Hello Edgar, how are you at the moment?

firework anon who is missing their emoji bc of computer

"As busy as I can keep myself. Well, while still ensuring I can have some space to think. It is more than difficult enough as is, but sometimes the brightest inspiration happens in the idle moments. So I suppose it's fine."

[whispering-brushes]

It is, in fact, very hard to take seriously. Especially when Edgar is annoyed as he always is, and especially when he has suddenly become a little bit of a catboy. Maple. A name he remembered from his past, and a name of trees which create sweet syrup and bright leaves. (Ah, naming the kittens was hard, finding something that felt right when he couldn't tell if he knew them.)

Still, as Emma fawned over the kitten, he fell into a soft smile. "Yes, she is. She nuzzles into my open hand quite often, and goodness knows she has crawled onto my chest when I go to bed. She's definitely one of the more social of the group..."

It did not take long for Edgar to process the gesture, and to flinch in response, which led to Maple clawing him in a desperate attempt to hold on before fleeing into Edgar's room. Somewhere in the pillow maze. His expression, while very tense, and leaning into something even more angry than the typical annoyance, had a tinge of fear, with wide eyes and with a wavering voice, cat ears laying back flat.

"I-! No, I didn't ask for this! I just woke up and it... I don't know! D-don't touch me!" His arms raised up protectively, crossed high, as he looked around himself, then back at Emma, though not quite making eye contact, instead landing slightly past, as if to the hallway in case he needs to run.

*KNOCK Knock knockknockknockkno—*

Mister Valden, are you in there?! Emily told me she hasn’t seen you all day! And— there’s an alarming amount of cats running around!..

You didn’t turn into one… did you? It couldn’t be!

*there’s some scrambling noises outside the door— and a very agitated meow*

"Hello?" Edgar's voice is clearly annoyed, especially as the knocking continues. Then, of course, he listens to what Emma is saying. "A day isn't that long... and no, of course I didn't—" He grumbles, before opening the door, though a "Agh— Maple, I know someone's there, don't leave, I don't want to have to find you—" can be heard.

And then, there he is, the door open, cat ears on his beret, kitten in hand. He's frozen for a moment, looking at Emma. "...It's a long story. If you decide to come in, watch your step. They're faster than you think, and you will trip over them if you aren't careful."

[whispering-brushes]

On Edgar's Fourth Birthday Letter

A quick note before I begin this breakdown of my opinions: There will be heavy citations of the original text. And I do mean heavy. Like, I will go paragraph-by-paragraph, while occasionally bringing in other sources from Edgar's lore as needed to make my case. This will be especially prevalent when I need to compare/contrast how Edgar talks in other cases, or how a contradiction may be present.

I am fully aware that my interpretation is not the only one, nor is it the be-all, end-all of Edgar understandings, but I'm attached to him for reasons I don't fully comprehend and I want to see him done justice and frankly, this letter upset me and the longer I thought about it, the worse it got.

Thanks to the mycelium for looking at my initial thoughts and trusting that I was onto something, and that I wasn't just being overly negative! I do think Edgar would look up to Patty, but it was the matter of how we got there, how the thought processes were, some of the things Edgar was caught saying that were. Utterly incorrect. There's unreliable narration and then there's completely whiffing the actual feelings on Sarai. We'll get to that. (That part is the most egregious to me, and yes it did have me seething.) No time to waste, let's get this thing going.

The most beguiling aspect of this manor lies in its uncanny ability to strip human nature bare. The fierce debates—charged with wagers and resolve—the intricate webs of plotting and rivalry—are far more captivating than any play the outside world could conjure. The burning desires that smolder in their eyes confirm the truth of my choice. This place, indeed, stirs the depths of inspiration in ways unknown to common men.

So, we're starting off with Edgar discussing how people seem to act differently in the manor. Bear in mind, Edgar left his home due to getting sick of the gossip and hypocrisy he had to deal with on the daily. As such, I do not believe he would think that the plotting and such would boost his inspiration. If anything, it would sap such a thing further. He came to Oletus to leave that behind, why did it follow him? The appreciation of honest desire and admitting the truth of one's nature is one thing. The ever-present scheming and trying to act for one's benefit alone is another entirely. (Also, calling the thing he tried to run from "far more captivating than any play the outside world could conjure". I disagree.)

I cannot fathom what price the organizers have offered, but I can feel the urgency in their blood, a palpable desire to claim victory in this shadowy game. Though none among them possess the faintest grasp of the true essence of art, their ignorance does little to hinder my progress. Amid the clamorous din, I draw ever nearer to the creation of my masterpiece.

There is absolutely a heavy amount of arrogance here in the "none among them possess the faintest grasp" and the talk of everyone's ignorance, how it doesn't stop him. And in it all, the concept of that singular masterpiece. Something that feels incongruent with how Edgar is trying to get back on his feet, create in a way that he finally enjoys. I'd say the masterpiece would be secondary.

First off, the idea of 'real art'. Who was it that introduced the idea of such a thing but Sarai, on that letter in deduction 6? (A tenth birthday present, no less.) There is a reason Edgar is so dismissive of people who claim to know. Such definitions end up being all too self-serving and contradictory upon any length of thought. Such people who make definitions make them only for power's sake, only to claim they are superior, not out of any interest in art or creation. So, it stands that when Edgar speaks of 'real art', he holds about as much stock in the idea as a colander holds water.

That said, he does seek inspiration, though 'inspiration', too, is not meant alone. It means a place where he is not exploited for his talent. It means a place where he can truly see and experience how life is as beautiful as he knows it to be (as taken from deduction 10, which is paraphrased in my blog title!). It is the lightness he feels when he sends that parting letter to his father.

Also, "cannot fathom the price". It is said in his character introduction that he didn't come for the prize money. So if that was mentioned in his letter along with other things, he should know that it's a possibility for the others.

Yesterday, Miss Nair offered me a shade of mauve that seemed to dance with the dimming twilight. This morning, Mr. Baden, ever generous, bestowed upon me indigo. Yet, Miss Dorval's color remains elusive. I had hoped to find in her the final, vital hue—the one that would complete my work. This woman, claiming to be led by divine forces, may yet be the key to unlocking the sublime and the eternal. Though I have little interest in the god she speaks of, the ritual she performed in the candlelight last night possessed a haunting beauty—an aesthetic allure that mesmerized me.

Okay, we have to talk about Edgar and his color comparisons. These are very different from how Edgar speaks of the colors his mother and sister, and eventually Sarai, gave him (or rather, Sarai's color that he took for himself). The colors of those three, in his first birthday letter, are the colors left behind in their deaths. Colors of sickness, colors of neglect. And then, a color that came from fear, but now speaks of freedom.

It's very different from Vera and Jose, as it's difficult to see what methods of death would lead to mauve and indigo specifically (also the specific shades are telling). There could be symbolism in mauve being the first synthetic dye and indigo being a common blue dye that comes from a powder which starts green before its processing, but... I don't know, I think it was matching Vera's outfit and Jose with the sea. It could be anything, really. The point is the usage of the people around Edgar giving colors is very different.

In addition, he can't quite place Patricia. That elusive color might be telling, but there's also how he mentions that he doesn't really care about the trappings of religion, and yet the ritual is beautiful. And yet it fascinates him. It's not said what happens in this ritual, but he could be talking about the way lighting can affect so much, with how a few candles can accentuate features in such a striking way.

The effect of the ritual on Miss Dorval was unmistakable, even if it served only as a balm for her soul: where once she wavered, now she stands firm, resolute in a way I have never seen before. More curious still is the sight of the woman, who has long scorned the very notion of painting, stopping before my easel, her face caught in stunned disbelief. She demanded a discarded draft. The agreement to witness the ritual had been struck beforehand, and the content of my work bears no connection to it—there is no risk of secrets being exposed. But what did she find so captivating? I am consumed with curiosity...

Okay here we go. Let us consider. An agreement was made to watch the ritual. And Edgar honored it. So hey, Patricia's more confident now. And she's interested in Edgar's things. (Also, side note: the use of the word 'demanded' is. Telling of how Netease tends to characterize Patricia...) Perhaps Patricia sees that the agreement was honored, that Edgar engages with her, and wishes to engage with Edgar in return. Considering Patricia's background, it isn't surprising that she couldn't imagine painting, especially as a career. We don't know what the work was, but art can mean many things to many people. Perhaps what Patricia saw was different from what Edgar saw, and was personally relevant to her.

The rain persists, and so I am forced to shift my easel into the conservatory—at least there, I have space to breathe. Perhaps today, the Muse is at last upon me. Since the early hours, a growing sense of inspiration has coiled around my senses, fed by the stillness of my surroundings.

First of all, Edgar and the Muse. I know Edgar and inspiration are a whole Thing, but I feel like Edgar would see no need for a muse. After all, the world around him provides inspiration enough, beauty enough. He does not need one main subject or one singular driving force. It also is telling that, hey, being able to paint in the quiet is a comforting thing actually. Knowing that he doesn't have to deliver or appear any way for another is likely good for him, with how he's had to curate his presentation his whole life.

And then, the long-missed voice of Mr. Sarai cuts through the rain-soaked silence, and at that moment, my paintbrush and my heartbeat seem to beat as one. He said: "If you wish to create a true masterpiece, you must leave something of yourself behind."

That line that I hate. Edgar would not miss Sarai. The reason he killed Sarai was because he was hitting a boiling point due to Sarai's lying and lack of actual investment in him. His father had left two of his loved ones to die, and Sarai, who he thought understood, until he learned better. Until he saw through, as he saw through so many others. Sarai is used as a comparison for people who only covet the Valden family's power. As such... yeah he was not missed. The best I can give him from my Edgar is a "ugh, I hate that he was right."

In that instant, I realized what Miss Dorval took from me was not a mere scrap of paper but the very essence of my art projected onto the soul. That elusive color, the one I had sought so long, had always lingered beneath the surface. I had touched it, yes, but never fully embraced it. If an artist dares not surrender themselves to their work, how can the creation ever hope to achieve its true, final form?

And in the span of exactly one paragraph, we get here. The elusive color she sought from her was not actually hers, it was his own color. (Which. Uh. Is something, now that I write that down.) He is allowed to meet his feelings and the nebulous and unknown and vulnerable parts of himself and show them. It has not been safe to do so, hence why he never embraced letting his emotions become visible.

A rough draft is the roughest, barest part, the art before it is cleaned up to something palatable, but also the art before it is refined. It is at its rawest form, for the better and worse. How could he let himself embrace such things when he was never allowed to?

(I imagine my Edgar, upon recalling the words from Sarai, would reject them on reflex or be uncomfortable at BEST accepting them, at least being slow to do so. That man is not one to open up easily, even in his art. He is not one to let others see what's inside him at the drop of a hat. Or at least, he doesn't want others to.)

In addition, the final sentence, in context with Edgar letting himself be sacrificed in that manor game, is certainly something. He just made this discovery, this realization, and... proceeds to give everything such that there will be nothing left of Edgar Valden afterward. One might say this is because this is his singular masterpiece, and this will be success for him, but I direct such a counterargument to my previous discussion about why Edgar is not aiming for a singular masterpiece, but rather the ability to create and live for himself and within the world he loves. Besides, is it really his work he's surrendering to, or is he doing something else, like giving up after the place he ran from his old life to revealed more of the same ways of humans lying and deceiving for their own gains? I don't know if I have a good answer. Even so, it feels strange to me, the idea of Edgar taking that sacrifice. At least in my mind, he has something to live for, at least in the things the world can still show him that he has not seen yet.

[whispering-brushes]

(Hello! The askbox has been cleared and. I... have a few opinions on the 4th character day letter for Edgar.)

(Okay, I have a lot. Mostly negative. And quite frankly, I can and will go paragraph by paragraph to describe said feelings. I am considering putting such a ramble/thought post in here if you all are willing to read it! Since this is an Edgar blog and all that.)

(I will likely only vaguely take this letter into account for my characterization, as I feel that while there are some things that could happen, there are a lot of details in how we get there and the way Edgar thinks that just don't line up with my portrayal at all, as well as having other disagreements with certain parts in the letter when comparing to other parts in Edgar's lore. Overall, I just... don't agree with how he was handled this time around. There are so many parts where I feel like, well, he wouldn't say that.)

[whispering-brushes]

checking in on you buddy, how are you?

firework anon (my computer legit can't with emoji's AAA-)

"...Ah. The annoyance of when what you have won't behave. One I understand all too well. Every tool has its unique problems, I swear. Always have to double check if the paint is actually dry before you add the next layer or the result becomes a mess. That, and making sure the brush is, in fact, as clean as it appears. Nothing like the surprise streaks to catch you off guard."

[whispering-brushes]

heya Edgar, it’s been a hot second since I’ve popped up. I got sick so uhh yeah. I’m better now so I just wanted to check in with you

-🎆

"It's good that you are better. Sickness is definitely annoying to deal with, in how it throws your body and mind off, how you can't do things as normal. As for how I'm doing, I am... about as well as I can be. I had a portrait request from Richard the other day, and I am this close to complying while making the image so obviously critical of him if he thinks to look for more than a second. If I don't place my abstractions of him into his shape, anyway. I wonder if he knows I dislike creating portraits. That man has been so difficult to tolerate ever since he showed up, I swear."

[whispering-brushes]

who are edgar's favorite manor participants? I don't take you as a people orientated type of person and you probably don't interact with them much outside matches but answer anyway!

-🥐

"You would be correct, that I do not favor spending my free time around others. However, there are generally some categories that the types of people I favor fall under. There are those who remain kind, people like Kevin, Lily, Jeffrey, and Violetta. There are people who are firm in what they believe and refuse to let themselves be shaken, like Keigan, Brynhildr, or Galatea. Patricia is... I asked to see what she had devoted herself to, and she requested the same afterward. She hadn't been interested beforehand, so I imagine it was because I made the agreement and followed through. Maybe she already knows how I hate those who hold no sincerity. Each of us expects the other to follow on our words. It's an arrangement I am more than all right with, and I hope she sees things the same."

[whispering-brushes]

AUUUGHH OH GREAT SPAWNS I FORGOT ABOUT YOUR BIRTHDAY

HAPPY (probably late) BIRTHDAY EDGAR VALDEN !!!!

gifts some art supplies and a crochet blanket with shades of red

"The ask did arrive late, but while the day has passed, we can still celebrate that we are alive. Also, thank you for the gifts. The blanket color choices work very well together, and the art supplies will definitely see use."

[whispering-brushes]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EDGAR HAVE SOME CAKE AND ART SUPPLIES

-🎆

"Thank you. May your day also be good, and may the next year treat us both well."

[whispering-brushes]

a small crow plush appears beside the three Edgar plushies

just a silly little gift :]

- two time / 🚂 anon

Bird? Bird. And in very little time, the bird plush is sitting atop Censer's head. "...what? It matches."

[whispering-brushes]

hm. It's not really anon anymore, isn't it?

"It may not be, but the tags will still be kept as usual, probably. For one, you haven't stopped being train anon. For another, having to suddenly replace every tag would be a chore. Replacing the tags is not ideal, and even if it was, those asks were still sent anonymously. Best to keep it that way."

[whispering-brushes]

Hello! Made a silly doodle of one of my little gifts for you, Edgar! I just felt silly ^_^

- two time / 🚂 anon

"That's... basically how it looked when I was trying that on. It's clear what you're showing and who it is. With only so much line variation to work with, that's a skill in itself." He nods once, before looking away. "...I should find somewhere for this."