aberratic: (Default)
ᴇɴɴᴀʀɪs "𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰" ᴛᴀᴠᴀɴᴇ ([personal profile] aberratic) wrote2024-07-11 08:08 pm

𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕

OPEN POST
FOR TEXTS, TFLN, RANDOM SCENARIO, AND OTHER MEMERY.

OTA | AUS WELCOME | NSFW OKAY


triste: (pic#18133047)

expedition 33 au.

[personal profile] triste 2025-12-22 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)
This particular group hasn’t made it that far across the Continent yet. They’re still near the Spring Meadows, and the weather is lovely and temperate, a deceptively easy start to the trip.

(He wonders when Renoir will catch up. The man always does.)

Still, it’s a nice evening. Beyond the green meadows, blood-red trees giving way to autumnal yellow, an eclectic jumble of foliage which doesn’t correspond to any real passing seasons. The Stone Wave Cliffs are somewhere off in the craggy distance.

Expedition 56 isn’t furious with him (yet), but: they’re reasonably mistrustful. It’s odd that this man is immortal and can’t die, considering that everyone dies, and he has no better answer for it than the fact that something strange happened to him after the Fracture. So they’ve been keeping him at a safe distance, although that hasn’t seemed to stop the blonde.

The forest opens up near the edge of the cliff, a star-lit clearing with the Paintress visible in the distance. Verso’s still standing there, staring quietly at the massive huddled white figure, when he hears Ness approaching. He hasn’t summoned the piano yet; he’s still considering options.

Whatever speaks to you, right now. What could that be? He’s actually not sure.
triste: (pic#18084418)

[personal profile] triste 2025-12-24 03:58 am (UTC)(link)
Verso arches an eyebrow at the explanation. (He is, in fact, far more familiar with chroma than the rest of the expedition; but he won’t mention it. It’s not exactly a realm of expertise he can safely discuss without tipping his hand.)

“Of course I eat dinner, it’s not like I’m inhuman,” he says, with a huff of joking fake affront. “But thank you.”

He accepts the plate and moves to sit down on a convenient nearby log, plate balanced against his knees. One hand absentmindedly rubs at the black inkstain on his wrist.

“How are the others?” he asks. Maybe a little nervous to be asking. He’s been giving them space and time and distance, holding himself apart and letting them come to him rather than forcing himself on the expeditioners too fast too soon. Letting some of the hotter tempers subside. (He’s still considering, perhaps, if it’s time to scrap this attempt and abandon them and try again next year. The jury’s still out.)