#simioso

Clea doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she takes the time to consider his words. It could be a multitude of reasons-- less fish to catch translating to less income, the turn of season looking to be far colder than last year, which would put a strain upon Simon's father and the community living by the docks. It could simply be the pretention of nobility to the commonfolk. Or perhaps there was something she overlooked, ever busy with her craft and requiring to be dragged outside sometimes for 'enrichment' as Verso would often tease.

"Perhaps you still believe something good will arrive. Even if the timing is rather poor." Clea's gaze lingers on the floral pattern of her cup, before looking up at Simon, the usual sharpness in her eyes absent.

@simioso : "In my dreams, I tell you everything I’m too afraid to say aloud." / FIRST ADMISSIONS?? yes

various spiciness 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;

She wishes to grab of his shoulders, to gently shake his massive frame -- to change his serious smile and make it bloom into laughter. He takes himself too seriously, at times — the inflexible man in and out of the training ground, with or without a sword in hand. Endearing as it is to Clea, it comes with some drawbacks. He needn't fear it, nor her, really; that night is one of festivities, levity, and dreams. ❛ Oh, you big, cruel man, ❜ she jests with an exaggerated sigh, crouching enough to flick some of the salty water at her ankles in his direction.

The sea looks black and mysterious, though the moon is bright and hanging high, full above their heads; its distant reflection seems leagues away from the shores of Lumière — and from the ruckus and music around them, both coming from the festival by the harbor. The light of lampposts adorning the beautiful northern harbor of the city barely reaches the few brave souls that have come to cool their tired feet in the water.

❛ To say all that, while expecting me not to be curious about it... ❜ They haven't even danced that much this time, actually. He seemed hesitant to join; and she's always thought it was one overrated activity anyway. But the young woman would be lying if she said the initially icy waters haven't provided some well-deserved relief after hours on heels. Her shoes now lie far off, abandoned minutes prior, somewhere on a stone step, and the hem of her dress is drenched and heavy.

She gazes at him again. His hair is tied up, like hers. Half of his visage is covered by the thick veil of darkness around them. A step closer to him, while water splashes around her feet, bubbly sea foam follows her like a silent maid. Clea's lips curl into a knowing smile, then. They're somewhat alone — no one around them would pay them any mind, not with the night and the music playing in their favor. Oh, could she retouch that scenery like she does an imperfection on a canvas — to color pitch-black the moon and stars entirely, their silent spectators, so as to not bear witness to that special moment between them.

“BITE THE FUCKING HOOK YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE– Fishing is the WORST thing in the world. FUCK FISH!” Whoever said fishing was a low-stress hobby was a liar, and Verso would have absolutely thrown his rod into the river had it not been for his big companion.

Fragments of chroma needled at the nape of her neck,      occluding the more rational parts of her brain with unequivocal force.      Not quite the warm welcome she had envisioned,    but then she still lacked the salient talent to enter a Canvas without repercussions           —        and,      apparently,    without losing her way.      ❝Ah—    Sorry.❞        More knee-jerk reflex than genuine apology,         Lara quickly settled on a more comfortable distance.       ❝I didn’t realize someone was…      hiding out here.❞

it was slow, it was steady. she had initially wanted to throw so much information at him and try to get any in return, but all it took was one look from verso for her to not even TRY to push that agenda. she was learning more and more about what was... appropriate for the situation and what wasn't. and for something like this? well, she was under equipped but ever eager. and so, here she was.

one of the journals open -- expedition 65, one of the least depressing ones. about the grandis. a PEACEFUL ending (if you could truly call any ending on the continent peaceful in these times) and one that she thought he might enjoy. her voice soft and unwavering, slow and steady before she reached the end. it was only when she finished that she realized the time, the sun dipping down beneath the horizon and she turned to give him her full attention in the green glow of the journal.

@simioso : it's nice to see two siblings who love each other so well. / said with some amused irony, probably after verso did something dumb

an offer from a gentleman 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;

Clea decides to stay quiet for another instant, involuntarily allowing Simon's words to land more pungently, more precisely on the heart of the matter: the incident has been trivial, unimportant to anyone but the girl herself — mostly gone unnoticed by the many guests of the event too, it seems; her brother has played the fool so often, in so many harmless and even amusing variations and situations, that this one hardly stands out from the rest. Besides, the sea of memories Clea can summon at will supplies her with worse incidents, worse examples. It's perfectly normal — he remains her little brother, after all.

And yet — the past, or the triviality of it, does not cancel the flush of her cheeks, or the wet stains blooming on the left side of her chest. The wet linen of her bodice, smelling of bitter champagne. White wine on white fabric.

To think his intentions, and their moods, have all been more than positive — ! He had waltzed towards them with three glasses precariously balanced between the slender fingers of a single hand. Such a well-intentioned effort failed spectacularly the moment he had tripped on the lifted corner of a carpet beneath their feet, the contents of one or two of the flutes reversing in a playful, and graceful, arc right against his sister's new evening dress. No handkerchief, no dab or any other flustered attempt from either sibling succeeded in staunching the blooming, cold stain; instead, it seemed to smear further, in hopeless and hilarious fashion.

So much so that he had excused himself from that pitiful scene in a fit of stifled laughter when Clea had whispered, shame eating at her mind given Simon's testimony and proximity during the whole episode — "Enough, I'll fix it myself. Go do something else. You know my aim is true, so sit away from me if you ever think of joining the table in that new attire of yours."

❛ He meant well, I know it, ❜ Clea rolls her blue eyes, somehow glad their friend finds the whole skirmish between the two Dessendre's that amusing. ❛ But he shouldn't have run. Alas... ❜ she looks down at the stain again, a hand waving in defeat to point at the damage. She is not sure the servants won't tell Maman, once she hands them the modiste's latest work for the eldest child of the house — but, in the end, that will remain a problem for tomorrow morning.

❛ He's grown used to these threats, I never mean it. But he kept laughing right in my face like that— ❜ she justifies herself to the tall boy, though it feels unnecessary; perhaps he too has also had good laugh at the whole episode, while she was focused elsewhere.