dans la force

[betenoir]

WHO: Renoir & OTA
WHEN: December
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: Meetings
WARNINGS: Spoilers (YT Link)





Closed by Request ⚔ Contact Me ⚔ Tagged for Spoilers

Spoilers include the end of act II and involve act III

Comments

Open | Art and Emotion

[betenoir]

[There are reasons you are here, she tells them every month. Your presence is needed to save your world. But he would sacrifice his world to rescue those who are his world, and he would sacrifice others to preserve and secure the future for his family. Which family is the one to be rescued, though? The one from tomorrow or the one from today?

What about yesterday? Renoir finds himself unable to think about recent events and retreats to thoughts of bygone days. Who cares to live in the present? Reality changes all the time but his mind is where he can be free. His internal world is one he can save; every memory and dream he is sketching on the page. He wonders if anyone will remember this place once they leave and chooses to immortalise everyone in his sketchbook.

There are numerous places that will see people being captured in charcoal and pencil. One of the cafes that kindly remain open into evening hours, inside the derelict church where white and yellow lilies bloom, the roof of the apartments or somewhere on the chocobo ranch. One might notice him sketching bots and birds. Or catch him sketching them.

But his fears cloud his mind and encourage him to paint. Those nearby might witness him summon an easel and canvas from nothing. Others might notice him brushing broad strokes on the canvas or detailing a spot of colour.]

[artofrevenge]

Though referred to as a city, Etraya feels larger than Edo or Kyoto. Without that title appended to it, Mizu would consider it perhaps a han. Away from the large straw statue and small arts and crafts set ups, the festival it feels like, Mizu sees the place in its more day to day. Important before she establishes a routine. She walks slowly, dressed still in her sixteenth century clothes, to take it all in.

It surprises her to see someone making art out on their own. Mizu first assesses the area for any of the self-propelled metal tools that set up the festival. Seeing nothing of the sort, it appears the man—an older, white man—draws of his own accord. It's charcoal in his hand, something simple, but Mizu knows better than to underestimate such simplicity. Calligraphers need little more than ink, brush, and paper to make a masterpiece. Not that she'd expect this man to be making a masterpiece. Or, she hopes not.

Mizu approaches, wary though she has reason to be of a white man of his age. He looks so much like Fowler, save for the color of his hair. Mizu asks, "Why draw here?"

The cafe doesn't strike her as something worth remembering.

[betenoir]

If not here then where?

[There is a tone of awareness in his voice, the acknowledgement of the presence of another person. Their shadow casts near his place of work and his low and warm voice continues on, his gaze lost in the page.]

I find peace in imposing order on the chaos of the day. There is nothing more satisfying.

[One might consider art - the act of creation - to be a form of meditation. For him it holds deeper meaning; a connection to the truth of himself he cannot easily share with others.]

[artofrevenge]

Mizu has yet to see the limits of the city, all of its neighborhoods and connecting areas. They're more diverse and changing than any city she's seen before. However, the fact remains that anywhere and everywhere they might go remains within the city. What makes one part of it better than another? Mizu doesn't have an answer for that, so she has no answer to the question. She supposes it doesn't need an answer.

She focuses instead on the second thing he says. Mizu makes a small noise of acknowledgement as she considers it. It sounds strange, to impose order via art. Not its purpose, yet she cannot deny that she first made her sword to impose purity in her soul where it's lacking within her. It was wrong, but it was similar.

"Can you truly impose order through your art? Or are you simply revealing what order we may otherwise miss?"

The world remains the same, but they may see it differently after looking at what he's made.

[timefracture]

You know, if you ask, I would pose.

[Clara, head tilted as she turns to face the man who'd given her a ticket clear of the Fae world, flashes a warm smile. She's been hoping to run into him again, and it's a happy coincidence that she's happened to meander into the same cafe as he'd selected. She was a nightowl, and now that she was free of the restrictions of the fae, she had taken to exploring the strange city at all hours.

Spinning, she walks over and sticks out her hand.]

Clara Oswald. Nice to formally meet you without the need of a disguise.

[betenoir]

Renoir Dessendre.

[There are several familiar features with his glamour. The height of the man is enough of a suggestion. Then there is his low but warm voice that drives one away or invites one to sit down.]

Please accept my humble apologies if I refuse to shake your hand.

[He rests his instrument on a stained piece of cloth and reveals his open hand, fingers and palm stained with liquid charcoal.]

Holiday stuff, forgive me!

[timefracture]

Ah. Of course.

[She drops her hand and smiles back before leaning against the counter and folding her arms to strike a kind of sassy pose.]

Did me a real favor, cluing me in on what was going on back in the fae-realm. I appreciate your intuition. I was getting a little tired of the pointy ears.

[cactusy]

You couldn't find better subjects? The situation must be dire.

[She's joking as she peeks over at his half-done sketch of her, not genuinely self-deprecating, but it's true that she doesn't look her best in her slouchy hoodie, jeans, and worn-down facial features. Despite the late hour, she's leaving the cafe with a espresso-sized to-go cup in hand, Bear the Belgian Shepherd leashed and heeling well next to her. Shaw takes another look at his sketchbook, hmmming thoughtfully.]

Gotta say, though, you're pretty good.

[betenoir]

Thank you. Please, accept my gratitude for the compliment, but know it came after decades of practice. I daresay there is still much to learn.

[The idea of praise has him pulling back from his work, retreating from the discomfort of being perceived by turning his attention towards analysis. His gaze moves from her towards her dog, a fine beast if ever he saw one.]

Will you tell me your name, monsieur?

[Of course he won't. He's a dog. But there is something about his man that enjoys the company of a loyal companion.]</small

[cactusy]

[He may not be able to speak, but he still knows when he's being addressed: He immediately sits facing Renoir, tail swishing furiously across the ground, and lets out a friendly bwoof.]

Bear.

[Shaw supplies, resting her hand on the dog's head.]

I would've drawn him instead, but that's just me.

Open | Beautiful Weave

[betenoir]

[One cold winter morning, crisp but bright, sees Renoir claim a perch on one of the benches throughout the city. Inside a vintage theatre or outside a lounge bar, or sequestered in a park, an urban oasis between looming skyscrapers, he can be found strumming a guitar. People might hear a warm and passionate song nearby - or find themselves plagued by silence when his finger slips from the string.]

[rudelanguage]

[weird how the emptiness of this bubbled city is almost relaxing compared to the lively fae realm; Knife's never been more consoled by empty streets before. they usually meant something dark had passed through, or the place was bracing for it...but they've been tensed up, coiled and hyper alert for more than a month; there's no more energy to do it. not right now.

the chill air is easier to bear with a fur coat. it's not perfect, but it beats feeling overly exposed to the wind. in Antigone's visage, she drags a canvas tote she's stuffed full to bursting of foodstuffs from the mart, intent on subsisting for countless days without having to resurface. the only sound is the drag of the material...until she can hear the nearby plunking of music.

irrational dread coils around her gut, but there's nothing for it to electrify in her, no adrenaline to make her jitter. it's all she can do to just keep scooting along, and in that scooting, the music grows closer, and she slows to a sluggish halt a couple meters from the musician.

she blinks dimly and then squints over, one ear cocked his way, the other back, processing. gears need a bit more grease to turn, but she doesn't feel a spike of alarm of the unfamiliar.

Don't I know this guy?]

[betenoir]

[Their presence is barely noticed while his fingers strum the guitar and his mind focuses on playing the correct notes. There is nothing in the moment but the music. His emotions come through his choice of note and song, the warm and passionate music that makes one feel less of the cold.

His body adjusts to having the weight of the instrument balanced on his knee. But the old wound pulses and pain claws into his bones.

The music stops. He lifts the guitar and stretches out his knee, and in that moment realises he had an audience.]

We meet again.

[They are one of the more recognisable faces round town.]

[rudelanguage]

[...yeah, no, yeah, she knows this guy. his face, coupled with the voice...yeah.

Ren-NOIR-not-Reginald-Fuckshit. yes. got it.]

You, uh, survived all that crap, huh? [Must've been a good-ass glamour; I didn't see no wrinkles nowhere.]

Open | The Louvre

[betenoir]

[One hall is filled with paintings whose artists are his contemporaries. From works by Cézanne to Monet, Renoir lingers before each piece with a peaceful but passionate demeanor, nostalgic for pictures he has never seen.

Today he stands before The Scream, trapped in stasis by his emotions, same as the figure in the painting. Others might notice him observing Amour In Plaster or Vituvian Man, lost in a connection with the former and unable to stop himself sighing at the latter. That is one drawing he looks away from in disappointment.]

How lifeless.

[Come unsociable hours, he allows himself into the backrooms, where he is assuredly making noise while rooting out works that have been removed from display. Does he have the right to be here?]

[godsandbats]

[It's the rare time that Kirk is out not for food or errands for his scientific research. Instead, he's dressed in civilian clothes and simply enjoying the art. Through his red sunglasses, he looks at Renoir]

How so?

[A polite question and one without harsh judgement. He's simply curious]

[betenoir]

[Renoir leans onto his cane, staring at the ground until he pulls his gaze towards the frame.

His gaze seems to look to a world beyond.]

True beauty lies in imperfection. In searching for perfection, he has lost sight of what it means to create. He cared only for what this drawing could achieve.

[godsandbats]

Da Vinci was also a scientist. He was exploring many ways to understand the world, both literal and artistically. Given the limitations of his era, it’s impressive in that sense.

[Though then again, the scientist aspect of it is precisely why Kirk is politely disagreeing]

backrooms

[loveandsin]

[ They've been away from Etraya for some time due to the mission. It was not long before the mission sent them to the fae world that Vincent helped move objects to the new museum and offered to assist with the work here under Clea's training and supervision. He's not a careless man, so he's suited to handling delicate things with respect. Much of his work includes moving any objects in or out of their displays per Clea's wishes, and when he's not doing that, he tries to keep things organized. Seeing as he likes art, this felt like a decent way to spend some of his time.

Being after hours, Vincent did not expect anyone other than Clea to be around, though it's possible she brought on some more help and did mention one other, who Vincent has yet to meet.

He wonders if the man digging through things is that person. Vincent is imperceptibly quiet as he approaches but keeps a careful distance behind the stranger. ]

Looking for something?

[betenoir]

[Renoir handles the frame with the expertise of an experienced man. His gloved hands are holding the piece in an upright position, though he has not removed it from the floor, and one look at his cane might suggest the reason.

The fingers of his left hand curl around the frame with a reverence unbecoming of a tall figure dressed in black.]

Only something that might sate my curiosity.

[He leans his head to his shoulder. She never did learn to display exhibits perfectly.]

[loveandsin]

[ There's a knit of Vincent's brow at the response. Hm. On the contrary, he finds the black attire to be rather stately on the man, but it does not make the situation clearer. ]

And are you permitted to do so? Does nothing on display satisfy your curiosity?

[ Vincent is still trying to determine whether the man is allowed to be here or not. Given how insistent Clea was that Vincent follow her every direction when handling the art, he knows she wouldn't let just anyone in the backrooms. ]

Backrooms

[repaintress]

My bowing to necessity is not an invitation to rifle through the museum like it's your unorganized drawer of woodworking tools.

[ Or to be so loud about it. Those pieces aren't on display for a reason.

Clive is gone, which has reinforced to Clea the ephemeral nature of this place. If she were to vanish and the Louvre to remain, the man in front of her and Harold are the only ones who could prevent the museum and its treasures from falling to ruin.

That does not mean his presence pleases her. She'd prefer he leave. ]

[betenoir]

[She chastises the disorderly state of his workbench, neglecting how inside and outside the canvas, his mind knows the position of every hammer and nail. If a child were to rummage through his tools and move them to test his patience, he would be mildly unamused, but for a moment.

He understands why his fingers are combing through undisplayed work. These paintings make him nostalgic for a museum he never visited in person. But she understands his primary concern is for the art, and her display has little sense of engagement.]

You bow to necessity because you cannot admit you understand little about engaging others in discussion.

[Were she able his presence would not be necessary. There are already people assisting her.]

[inemeraldfaith]

[Aerith would not consider herself an artist by any means. She's not. Maybe she houses the soul of one, however. An argument could be made for that.

She loves looking at all of the art, though. It's like wandering through a foreign world, which ironically is exactly what it's like being in Etraya. So many things are still new to her. At least, however, there is no need for overarching rules of fae or other like experiences.

It is a chance happenstance, standing at The Scream next to Renoir and overhearing him. The opinion isn't meant for her, of course, and she seems to know that. She wouldn't even have to address it, but by sheer idea that Aerith can only be Aerith, she can't seem to help herself.]

Hmmmm. Not necessarily, right?

[She moves from one side of Renoir to the other, as if thinking maybe a different perspective will make her understand a little more why he feels the way he does about it.]

I dunno. Art's subjective, right? Sooooo... everyone feels a different way about it. And takes something different from it.

[betenoir]

[Renoir hears her voice, curious and expressive, drawing out words while she processes feelings and emotions. He also hears her footsteps and steps back gently to afford her the room to view the piece from his perspective.]

Yes. Yes, we experience different emotions, mademoiselle. But there is always some common thread when the artist is painting their own feelings. Resonance, if you will.

[To be trapped in a moment without the joy of one's family, to endure their suffering as though they are the man inside this painting. They would all resemble a living corpse.

In any case, he continues his speech.]

Besides, lifeless does not always indicate criticism, no?