#{lysandre.}

Send me 💭 for a thought my muse has had about yours || Accepting

@fleurladari

          "...I want to know what happened,"

          "What was the final thing that made him abandon the good and altruistic person he once was. Before Team Flare, before looking into the weapon. I... I've always wondered if it was one grand and incredibly selfish gesture at his expense, or many smaller ones piling up. Or maybe it was just a tiny slight that hit him at the worst time. Maybe he found out something about the very foundation of our society that he thought was unfixable. Corruption, systems too engrained in the everyday person's life that they can no longer be separated without destroying the other. A betrayal, even. If it was a by a close friend, an acquaintance, a stranger, family— who and what was the final straw...?"

          "I've just... never understood that part of him. I— I do not understand a lot about him, but that is the one that bothers me the most. What was the final straw that made him truly believe with every part of his spirit that this world, and every living thing in it, was beyond saving...?"

and then yea . fleurladari .

lysandre v: :| this feels terribly directed.

Xerneas' trust issues bingo || Accepting

A quiet clap, soon silenced as he approached.

( fleurladari )

@fleurladari

     It is at the peak of an arabesque, the final movement in a short choregraph to keep unused skills so sharply refined, that a voice cuts through to the trainer’s ears. Low but familiar, a simple question which accompanies itself with a soft clap, as though the man, himself, knew just how easily one dancing could be torn from the moment and dragged back down to reality in a way that could prove to be harmful for working muscles. She had been practicing, with no more than her Floette and Brazien watching, seated and shimmering gazes looking on gleefully. A secret pastime, not to mourn the budding career that had been stopped without her input or any humanity, but instead clutch onto the remnants of the artform, and the blonde’s deep love it, in what way she could. The leg once lifted behind Serena’s form sweeps back down to join the ground, the tips of toes finding time to rest as weight is placed back on the entirety of the dancer’s feet. Both arms are soon to follow, relaxing back at her sides. It should be no surprise, that Lysandre of all people would be the sort to have seen ballet—the rich, contributors or not, do tend to view it as an occasion to get dressed up and network.

     She just did not think the way he finds out about her affiliation with the art would be like this—her, dancing behind lines of trees and flowers that could graze the trainer’s kneecaps.

          “Oh, thank you. I—I did not know you were nearby,”

     Comes her response, decorated with a smile both genuine and forced, if only to hide the sparks of dread that fester in her stomach. Would he ask why—how? Would he be able to tell from what was seen alone just what academy she had attended? That she is no mere hobbyist of ballet, but instead one trained to a professional level? So many questions, and yet none are ones that the young woman particularly wants to answer. No, for how could she relieve the agony that comes with memories of being forced to move to this region. Slate blue eyes flicker off to the side for just a moment, grounding mind and soul as the right words form. Hopefully, it would be enough to satiate any curiosity by giving a general, perhaps expected answer.

Relationship Meme || Accepting

👨‍🏫 one muse is a teacher/mentor for the other muse

🧠 enemies as narrative foils

{ ooc. HOW DARE YOU... YOU KNOW THIS IS MY FAVOURITE DYNAMIC FOR LYSANDRE AND SERENA

I absolutely adore the concept of him acting as a mentor to Serena throughout her journey, and through that they realise they have a lot more in common ideology-wise than one would think (just uh... minus the ways to solve things of course). I MEAN LIKE... canonically Lysandre is the only team leader to ask the protag to join them multiple times across the story-- it has to come from somewhere!

And it also sets Serena up to be a True narrative foil to Lysandre and makes the ending to the flare plot, especially when he threatens (and is implied to succeed in) forcing immortality onto the protag so she can experience the pain of endlessly waiting for a beautiful world, SO MUCH MORE TRAGIC AND PAINFUL...

Leading on from that too... post-x the turmoil of trying to figure out what advice from Lysandre was Actual Legitimate Help or twisting of the truth to push her towards joining flare... excellent. A++ 👏👏

@pulchramundii

          “Seances?”

     This wicked man. A fool so poor in soul, the ghost almost cannot stand it. How much more misguided and driven by ignorance can he be? She hisses the word, a mix of acidity an mock offence blending into a voice far more full of emotions than deathly white features. The look on his features, the deep breath-- it must all be part of an elaborate ruse, the medium thinks. A carefully spun net set to try and latch onto the woman’s empathy, so he might attempt to tear her down. Well, not this time. What right has Lysandre to inquire on such a thing? To pose the question as though the blonde might be one to bend to his will, and that the power he speaks of is not a blessing from the divine?

     He must not know of dear, young Serena. No, for this man would have asked her instead.

          “What an insult. You underestimate me. I am no mere ghost-whisperer at the disposal of souls who yearn to exploit my ability for their own gain,”

     It would be easy, to vanish from view right then and there. Put an end to the conversation before it could begin. Yet venom coats her lips a blood red, and a projected stare burrows too far into a heart she deems lacking. Gods above, Sarana prays that the Fates do not send her to warn him of his dangerous path again after this.

          “I do not summon the dead. I do not have ‘visions’. I do not force spirits from their peaceful lives to fulfil the wishes of the likes of you. In my life, and I suppose now still, I saw them as you see those along the streets. I spoke to them as one would, too.”

     Arms cross, lace-covered nails drumming against fabric-- without a scratch, without a sound. 

Send “Who’s this?” for your muse to pick up a photograph of someone from my muse’s past, and my muse will tell them who they are || Not accepting @renaissanceduroi

         “Hm?”

     It is a sound, soft but inquisitive, that accompanies the trainer’s turn—a gentle inquiry, saved for those whom her mind is stilled by. Eyes flicker between aging features, and an equally preserved photo in the man’s grasp. The yellowed edges, pressed between melted sheets of plastic, the dots of colour that the blonde can barely make out as fluorescent lights blare upon its surface—she would know it anywhere. It is an image of her youth, of times simpler but not free from stress. The meadow of Floaroma Town, sprawled out before the first glows of sunset, a young girl in amongst the sea of flowers perhaps half her height—gracideas and bluebells; daffodils and roses of the celestial kind. Hands cupped, and held up to the sky, serving as a humble perch for a creature hidden by the grains of older technology. But they are small, light in colour, and holding a flower unlike the others in the rest of the photo, dyed in the shades of shadows and blood.

         “That’s... A pokemon I met a long time ago. The quality is not so good-- we didn’t have expensive cameras... but I would visit her when I was little. We were close.”

    Serena recalls the gifts, the laughter, the joyful trills. Jumping off the back of a Rhyhorn and clutching onto the hem of her skirt, just so she might make a dash towards the fairy-type and greet her sooner. Whatever the visitor was, even from such a young age, and the other with such a tiny form, had the girl known she was something beyond comprehension—a creature to be respected, radiating power and a profound mix of warmth and sadness. Cautious steps bring her towards Lysandre, if only to peer over gloved hands, and look upon the obscured details of a friend confined solely to her own memories.

         “She was always in the meadow. None of us knew what sort of pokemon she is... but we welcomed her, anyway. It was clear that she had a connection to flowers... so some thought she was a messenger-- a herald of peace sent by the Shaymin.”

    Whatever could have happened to her, Serena wonders? Was she truly what they suspected, or merely a pokemon not native to the region dropping by a place dear to their heart? It would make sense, she muses, for her own Floette—did she not strike some deep chord within the trainer? A pang of familiarity?

@fleurladari

    It is a question that brings the new trainer to a halt—the sort that causes brows to furrow, lips to purse, and for shoulders to so very slightly fold in on themselves. Perhaps, to him, it is a question without weight or seriousness, a standard inquiry to pose at someone in her position on a very shallow level, yet it is one that cuts deep. A question with claws that sink deeply into the blonde’s heart, twisting and turning as she attempts to make sense of it—to feel whether or not it is best to leave them lodged there and stable, or to rip it free and let insecurities flow once more. What does she want? What does she wish to accomplish? What is it that she yearns for along this unplanned journey?

    A cursory glance throws itself to the Fennekin in her arms, and then to the Flabebe hiding amongst golden curls. Is what she wants for herself, or to be the cause of change for the creatures now so dear to her heart? To ease her grief, or help them grow? There is an urge to lie, and say that she travels with the goal to conquer the pokemon league—to regurgitate an expected dream of today’s youth, no matter how much Serena disagrees with the concept of battling for the sheer sake of it. Yet she is nothing if not naively truthful, loyal to her bleeding heart and morals. And Lysandre, why he would surely be able to see through such things, should it even be attempted.

    What a vexing little situation.

    Her silence comes to an end only when Serena feels it has been dragging on a little too long, motivated not by obligation, but instead to silence her own thoughts. To hush the cries of wanting to return to her old life, to be pursuing the career she had spent eighteen years chasing day in and day out. To do what she loves; not what others think the blonde ought to do. To dance—not battle. To tell stories hundreds of years old, not contribute to a cycle of violence fuelled by money and pride. She stands alongside her pokemon, not to fight, but to find support and togetherness in a world so callous and unpredictable. Indeed, have their bonds not formed on the desire to protect and nurture?

    When brows relax, and pale features take to their oh-so-characteristically neutral expression, what escapes from Serena is one, simple sentence: