etrayalogs | dans la force

[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.]

[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.]

[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?]

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.

[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?]

[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]

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.

[ 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?

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. ]

[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.]

[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.

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]

Edited 2025-12-23 23:48 (UTC)

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.]

[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.]

The artist pours his heart and soul into his work. This is a technical piece of work. I cannot call it art.

[Kirk might recall his belief that art is about emotion, and realise he is saying this work has none.]

[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.]

[...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.]

I bow to necessity because people disappear without warning and the care of the pieces is more important than our feelings.

[ Nothing more. Clea would grant access to anyone with the appropriate knowledge - there is nothing special about the being in front of her in that respect, other than that he thinks such access means he does not have to display basic respect or politeness. ]

Your attempts to shame would be more effective if they weren't contradictory.

[ But what about her mother and her expressions aren't contradictory? ]

[Renoir brings the guitar towards his knee, but decides to rest it gently on the surface beside his seat. There is something to be said for swimming around that other world undetected. Now here he finds himself the centre of attention.

He rests his palm on the back of his guitar. He has only himself to blame.]

Indeed. Though wearing that mask was stifling. I trust the month found you well?

Edited 2025-12-24 15:26 (UTC)

[Antigone squints, wondering if he's making fun of her. but then, it's not like she was scampering around letting everyone know she'd been having a terrible go of it.]

I mean. I didn't die, so. So I got that going for me. [one eye stays squinting as she cocks her head.] Starting to think that...that I'm the only one who almost got eaten. And I dunno what to do about that.

[Kirk nods. He has a general idea of where Renoir is coming from, especially now that they've had a couple of extensive conversations about art]

Fair enough. There was much more focus on on the technical and real world accuracy as opposed to creativity.

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.]

You could start by taking a seat and removing that burden from your shoulders. [His low and warm voice invites her to settle.] A problem shared becomes someone else's problem, non?

[A problem shared creates a connection, regardless of enthusiasm. But does he have anything better to do with his time?]

[Renoir closes his eyes. Even in technical expression, he finds this work lacking in imagination and meaning.]

Then I suppose that is why a scientist like yourself considers himself a fan, no?

[Kirk nods]

I'll admit my admiration for him is more of him being a Renaissance man who explored many topics, as opposed to him as just an artist.

dans la force

Open | Art and Emotion

Open | Beautiful Weave

Open | The Louvre

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

backrooms

Backrooms

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject