#luminarm

STARTER : @luminarm !

From her vantage point at the edge of the cliff , Lara could almost make out the edge of the barrier . It felt surreal , still — seeing the godlike figure of the Paintress sitting at the foot of the monolith , bent over as if sleeping . The painted number above her head gave off enough light to read by , though Lara couldn’t exactly bring herself to focus on any one page of her journal . Not that it mattered ; without a way back to her own reality , her notes were hardly useful .

❝ How does it work , exactly ? ❞ Not bothering to comment on Gustave’s approach , the tomb raider dropped her journal on the grass beside her .    ❝ Is she sentient at all? ❞

Experience had taught her that things were rarely that easy , but then she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this world either . Perhaps she had to shift her viewpoint . ❝ And your … lumina converter , was it ? What does it do ? ❞

" what are you thinking about ? you seem a million miles away. "

There was a sense of uncertainty there,  Lara noted,  lingering in the gentle brush of his hand against her thigh.  It was distracting in the way a minor burn might have been  — not something one would rush to get treated,  but a small source of irritation nonetheless.  Her mind snagged on it,  slipping past the gentle crease forming between his brows and the light pressure he put on her injury,  always this side of restrained.  She wasn’t sure what to make of it;  how to respond.  Whether she should take note of it at all or let the matter drop entirely.

❝There’s a needle and thread in my kit,❞   the tomb raider offered,  resting her fingers in the spaces between his own.  The gauze felt damp underneath her hand,  blood seeping out of the fabric as she pressed down.  Not an arterial bleed,  at least —she’d checked before coming here,  not wishing to turn Gustave’s apartment into a genuine crime scene— but a steady one nonetheless.  Not something she could simply ignore for once.  ❝In the inside pocket, all the way at the bottom.❞

She hadn’t expected to need it.  There had been no reported Trinity activity in the area,  and she hadn’t gone in looking for trouble.  A quick in-and-out;  trying to fill some holes in her own research,  understand where she had gone wrong in Syria.  Worse,  she’d been entirely distracted when she’d felt the blade sink into her upper thigh — causing her to take the blow head-on, barely missing her femoral artery as she’d flinched back.  A costly mistake,  and one she couldn’t stop reprising in her head.  Had she been distracted by the mechanism of the door?  Deafened by the shot she’d fired in the hallway,  half an hour earlier?  Could things have gone differently?

Empty questions,  she supposed,  with no perspective for answers.  Perhaps she should focus on the present instead;  make sure Trinity would never get the drop on her again.  ❝I’m… sorry. I suppose I should have called ahead.❞

“ you are right, mon ami. i wasn’t sure if anyone would recognize me at this point, ” she grins, admiring the many flowers within the hanging gardens.

“ for many years, i performed for the lumiére opera house. not anymore, considering … ” she trails off, referring to their impending doom of the gommage, as there weren’t nearly as people to watch theatre anymore. soline did appreciate the fact there were still people that appreciated musicality even as the world came crashing down on them. petals whiz past them as the breeze goes by, it’s at least a nice day. one of the last few, she supposes.

There was an exasperated sort of warmth there, Lara realized, hiding beneath the mild cadence of his voice. Irritation that lacked any real fire, no matter how hard he tried to make it so. She valued it as much as his wordless hospitality, the way he continued to provide a safe haven for her whenever she needed it; whether she called in advance or showed up unannounced.  ❝Whatever you do, do not tell anyone these are real.❞ Her voice sounded foreign in the small space, strained as she carefully added another aryballos to the shelf. It was hard not to notice how much care had gone into them, the consideration he’d put into displaying the artifacts. ❝Owning them is, technically, a felony.❞

She hesitated a moment longer, studying the polished wood, before rejoining him in the kitchen. Her skin felt tighter, somehow, stretching uncomfortably with every breath. A fragment of her fatigue more than anything, she wagered — something she couldn’t entirely place, but didn’t feel particularly inclined to dismantle at two in the morning. ❝I’m not sure yet — Egypt, perhaps.❞ Until the Manor was officially habitable, she felt rather unmoored; a ship passing in the night, forever moving from one shore to the next. The only home she regularly passed through, realistically, was Gustave’s — and even then, her visits rarely exceeded a day or two.

The more reclusive part of her recoiled at the notion, the lack of boundaries existing in the space between them. She had forgotten what is was like, almost — since Jonah had gotten married and moved away, leaving her without a friend to confide in. But then this felt different, too; she just couldn't pinpoint why. ❝If you’d prefer postcards—…❞

i don't worry, i ruminate. they're distinct actions. @luminarm

she SNORTED. honest to god, terribly unladylike (not that that's ever stopped her in the past), stupid sounding snort. eyes looked over at him incredulously from across the campfire, lips twitching into a smile because for a moment lune couldn't tell if he was being SERIOUS or not.

"you BROOD," she countered with a point of her finger in his direction, a laugh escaping her lips for the first time in... when did she last ACTUALLY laugh? probably right after they fought, after he had the audacity to try to say 'fuck the mission' to her. he always had a way of being able to wrestle a laugh out of her even in the moment where she thought it would be impossible to even smile.

"i'm coming in. try to stop me." | lune stop being a workaholic challenge. @luminarm

merde. a scowl made its way onto lune's face as eyes refused to lift from the map. she considered IGNORING him, pretending as though she wasn't there... which would've been an impossibility considering the fact that they were currently camped on the continent and there was nowhere else she could possibly be. she weighed her options, decided she didn't like ANY of them, and let out a sigh.

"i'm FINE, gustave," came her voice from inside of the tent, just slightly muffled due to the fabric between them. she knew she had been in a bit of a sour mood, more obsessed with their path than usual (which was saying something). but this was her fault, even if the others haven't said anything. she was their navigator, she decided where they were going to land. and she wanted the beach -- lune specifically wanted THAT beach. well, look where it got them. most of them dead or missing, the survivors left with more questions than answers. if only she had been less rigid in her choice, if only she had KNOWN... a small shake of her head, as though she were trying shake her thoughts away.

LIKE AN UNMOORED BOAT, flitting in and out of the tide with no hope of being salvaged, her sense of self feels fragmentary, splintering in its existence. ready to sink into the seafloor at any given moment. foreign hands she doesn’t recognize lay palm up in her lap, marmoreal grey tarnished with gold, still itching with the phantom urge to carve those same familiar patterns, painting destruction out of nothing. OVER AND OVER AGAIN. it rings painfully in her skull, the low susurrus of a command that could be her own, but it isn’t. she can see her now, as memory flashes behind her eyes, the other clea. no, not other, that would be herself. the real clea, the person in whose image she was made, a static copy, frozen in time. it all happened so fast. one second she was there and the next, she wasn’t. why? a noise registers nearby, but it sounds distant, underwater. is someone talking to her? the thought is plucked loose in an instant, blotted out like a dying star, when another violent stab bludgeons through the far reaches of her mind, decanting shadows every which way, a labyrinthine mire filled with smog.