#gommaged

3 - Gommage

One down - Five to go!

Maelle was a lot of fun to paint, and I think the Gommage stuff came out okay, definitely a foundation to work on in terms of Gommaging the others (apart from Monoco - as I don't think Gestrals Gommage...?)

Speaking of Monoco - He's next - and sticking to my monochrome and crimson palette, Monoco should fit right in. He's basically monochrome with a crimson-ish mask/face anyway. No need for the Gommage.

Inspired by the fic I wrote for that very same day: Petals Lost In The Wind

@gommaged : please. i need you to trust me.

please, please, please 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;

She does not want to think about it. She ought to be grateful to whatever power or magic has allowed the trembling, unsure breath of life to grace her being once again; chroma restored, blood and heart renewed, albeit skin remains marred by an hideous, white scar across the midriff — a sign of being impaled perhaps, or maybe stabbed repeatedly by something or someone she does not want to name. It's a miracle nonetheless — the perfect illusion, the certainty that most of what she remembers during sleepless nights and she relives through nightmares are nothing but harmless shadows of a distant past.

It's best to keep believing it all a senseless though gracious miracle, rather than to succumb to fear and paranoia. She's lost everything; the paintress who would spend her days in the atelier and would chase the sunset and dawn by the harbor, who would dance at festivals and laugh without a care in the world, drunk with nothing but simple love and affection, has no place in the new Lumière. And while, no, she's no relic of a bygone era yet — she does not want to remember what once was. Who she used to be and what to do. The inflicted pain and the immense grief, brewing for decades, in solitude.

So why ? Why torment her, still ? He must wish to say something important; one has no reason to indulge in the past, in its pain and misery without just cause. Oh, but she recognizes him — from somewhere, somehow, the two have met before. Long ago, up in the clouds of the continent. It's but a flash in the blurry tangle of memories and made-up images that crowd her mind and heart, but she is not wrong.

Her lips slightly part as if she's about to speak, but then Clea swallows it all down the moment she lifts her gaze to look into the man's eyes — oh indeed, she remembers them well. One seldom forgets one of the first pairs of unfamiliar eyes that peer from the bars of a gilded cage after years spent alone — her only company being fear and the cursed art meant to deliver only death. She blinks, a beat of silence. ❛ I do. I trust you. ❜

Her fingers stop plucking at the flower's petals, and Clea finally turns to face Gustave more openly. The street is almost deserted. No one would hear what he has to say -- better not to have others stir in agitation, nor to eavesdrop. ❛ Because I know Maelle does the same. ❜ Her sister in nothing but appearance, that girl — the girl she has to be grateful to. Her true sister is long gone now — as are her father, and mother too; Verso, the only family she has left in this new life, has less and less time to spend in her company, these days. ❛ But mostly, because I remember. I remember some other things— ❜ such as the compassion in his gaze, as she allowed Art to destroy her and release her from her endless duties.

There is sorrow that lingers within his gaze as he stands in what remains of Lumiere. The city Alicia and Aline came to love. What represented a fantasy, perfect in its entirety. A world he wished existed outside of the canvas with Verso alive.

He meets his gaze. ❝  Trust me, I take little pleasure in the choices I have to make. ❞

morning after starters / accepting!

“are you trying to tell me you aren’t out there regularly seducing women and spending the night with them? no, i wouldn’t believe it for a second.” a wry smile spreads on sciel’s lips as she shifts to be able to see gustave’s face. they’re still in her bed with only the blankets covering their bare bodies. but sciel does believe him; she knows this isn’t something he usually does, just like how it isn’t for her either.

merde, this is going to get… complicated.

the paintress looms in the distance, shrouded in melancholy and blanketed by the stars. astarion couldn't help but feel some shred of pity as he gazed upon herᅳ a pity dredged from deep down, mind you. deep, deep down. only when a year ticked over did she ever budge and he had spent far too many nights watching. he didn't have enough fingers to count.

what quietude he was afforded this night was soon interrupted. although, truth be told, he was thankful for it. he had spent far too many years with only himself for company. or worse. stood by the cliff's edge, astarion turns his head some to acknowledge gustave and the others. not a scratch on them. he couldn't tell if that equated to a successful mission or otherwise. they were far more formidable thus far than previous expeditioners, that was for sure. nevertheless, his lips curl in amusement.

“ well, more or less, ” he quips, gaze lingering only briefly on the man's mechanical appendage. “ and not a scratch or bruise to boot. why, i'm almost impressed. ”

So… painting someone Gommaging (can we use that as a verb?) is more difficult than I thought it would be.

I’m starting with Maelle for my Clare Obscur Lore videos, as - let’s be honest - it’s a game about her. Or Alicia. Or both. You know what I mean!