(no subject)

[envers]

🎼 ARRIVAL

For a heartbeat the world feels too dreamlike — the dome too vast, the light too sharp. Verso's mapped the Continent a hundred times in his head, but never this place. His pale gaze flits, unsure where to rest: the other stunned arrivals, the colossal tree's impossibly high canopy that hums like a distant song, or the attendants gliding towards them.

The press of faces steals Verso's breath, old reflexes clawing at him. His fingers twitch, ready to summon his sword and dagger... only to falter as the truth settles in.

There are no weapons here. Only cool towels and steaming tea. Before he can even begin to name the feeling, someone steers him to a moss-cushioned bench and the moment softens...

ARRIVAL PROMPTS

A. Verso returns their hosts' politeness with a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. As the attendants move on, the practised civility slides away and he lets his gaze sweep the crowd for a familiar, impossible silhouette — fur, a painted mask, a great, lumbering shape.

He murmurs half to himself, "Merde. Monoco... where are you?"

Of course he read the letter. But still can't say for certain what he agreed to.

Verso hadn't much bothered with the fine print. He suspects Monoco skipped it with equal enthusiasm. Now he can only search for someone, anyone, he knows.

B. Later, once the attendants have guided the newcomers into their mingle — and he's reunited with his old friend — Verso splits off to cover different corners of the greenhouse. Petal dust glitters on the path like powdered rose gold. Lantern light slants through pink glass and throws soft shadows across arching hedges. Somewhere nearby a water whisper from a hidden fountain adds a constant, calming murmur.

He wanders down a curving lane lined with low beds — lavender, mauve foxglove, a ring of tiny, bell‑bright flowers whose scent pricks at the back of his throat — and finds a stranger paused over one plot, their eyes fixed on a single blossom. The bloom trembles in the warm air, its petals lit by the dome‑light.

Unable to help himself, Verso steps a quiet pace closer, voice low and easy to match the hush of the place.

"... You, uh, okay?” he asks, offering a small, half smile. "It's a lot to take in, I know."

🎼 DRESS UP

Verso takes the scene in at a glance. Silks unfurl around him in a practiced dance, lace easing onto as many shoulders as required while scissors whisper and pins find their place. The air is thick with perfume and the steam of warmed fabric. Attendants move with the trained motions of artisans serving as confidantes. Mirrors multiply the changes until a dozen reflections promise a small, civilised spectacle.

Equal parts salon ritual and backstage theatre, it's the kind of ceremony and indulgence he hasn't seen since before the Fracture. It's all too courteous, a little flamboyant, obsessively attentive to appearance. The music drifting down the corridor feels like an overture to the final act. A doorway into a world where appearance is its own currency.

He can't say he's missed it, exactly. But he wears it like a familiar cloak that's uncannily tailored at the shoulders, heavy with expectation, and somehow easier to bear than he expected.

For now, at least.

DRESS UP PROMPTS

A. "I'll help with that clasp. Just tell me one strange thing about your home while I do it."

Verso tilts his head, one eye half‑squinting in amused curiosity. It's a strange little exchange, he knows, but most people here are out of their depth. A single, peculiar detail can anchor a conversation. And it's useful — a quick way to read who you're talking to, where they're from, and, by extension, the powers that brought them here.

B. He watches an anxious, hesitant guest and, with a subtle nod to an attendant, leans in.

"If formality's not your thing, tell them to loosen the sash." After a small beat he adds, soft and practical with a wry quirk of his lips:

"... And breathe slow. These things, ah... fit better when you relax."

🎼 BANQUET

By the time he's led into the hall, the dirt and grime from his travels are wiped clean, replaced by a uniform that speaks of daring and royalty. His tailor insisted the crimson sash and the single red rose at his lapel would add the right touch of boldness and warmth.

He watches the Princess closely and files their speech away: earnest, anxious, and very much in over their head. Brave enough to open their doors to strangers, just so they can ask everyone to hide the mess they've created. Like a scene straight out of a ridiculous play.

Verso doubts half the room can pull off what Calanthe's asking, but he is sympathetic. He knows the painful art of wearing calm like armour while chaos churns just beneath the surface. Still, if anyone can project confidence until the lights go out, it's him... for better or worse. And since he's already agreed to help the Princess, help is exactly what he'll give.

He raises his glass with a smile — part amused, part exasperated — and lets himself be pulled into the evening.

BANQUET PROMPTS

A. He feels for anyone who looks like a last‑minute extra shoved into the lead role — the sort who'd rather be on the wrong end of a Chalier's spear than trapped in a ballroom. So Verso leans in, aiming to give a useful lifeline to a potential neighbour.

"Here's a trick... If you need out of a conversation, excuse yourself for a drink or another plate. People rarely question it."

He nods toward the buffet with a small, knowing smile, the corner of his mouth twitching with a hint of mischief as he lifts his glass.

"Works every time. Unless the food's awful. Then it's abandon ship."

B. Verso's on his third glass of wine, fingers curled around the stem. He lets the string quartet's waltz wash over him, body moving as if led by the music itself. Each note flows through his mind like familiar keys, and he can almost feel the melody beneath his hands. The subtle tempo shifts, the balance of strength and softness...

Even among strangers, the music feels like home.

He hadn't cared for the fuss of tailors and attendants escorting him to the banquet hall. But now the festivities stir a bittersweet ache in Verso's chest. The people of Lumière once had festivals, parties — real reasons to celebrate, long ago, erased by the Fracture. It's like drifting through a dream he hasn't touched in sixty-seven years. A happy dream, but a dream all the same. One he knows can't last.

He turns slowly, searching the face beside him, and hears himself speak.

"... May I, ah. Have this dance? I won't step on your toes. Promise."

🎼 HOUSEWARMING (Forget-me-not)

Verso crosses the common area with the care of someone curating an exhibit, pauses beneath a lamplight, then — almost without effort — sets an elegant piano in place, as if he's summoned the thing from memory.

He settles beneath the lamp, a slender figure still in his banquet finery. His fingers move with the easy restraint of someone accustomed to salons and opera houses. He begins with a slow, crystalline Pavane — a melancholy piece spun for an imagined princess of a bygone age — the sort of music that invites private, leisurely conversation with whoever you're sitting next to. It's near-familiar to anyone schooled in Belle Époque music, but strangely off by a shade... as if from an alternate world.

When the Pavane's last suspended chord dissolves, he pauses a breath, then slips into lighter arpeggios: fragile notes like daylight through shutters, a wandering melody of rose petals on cobbles and the soft nostalgia of walking arm‑in‑arm. He bathes the room in a Parisian reverie, then eases into a piece he calls L’Amour d’une Sœur. It's a tender, intimate song he seems to play as much for himself as for anyone listening.

He asks for no rapt attention, content to let the Pavane and what follows warm the room like tea. And if a couple of strangers can pluck a shared memory from a half‑phrase... then for now, Verso is satisfied.

HOUSEWARMING PROMPTS

A. Eventually, he lets the last phrase die on the keys. The note lingers, then fades into the faint, warm scent of rose sugar drifting from the late‑night platter. Lamplight pools on the lacquered wood, and the piano's finish catches a pale glint as he looks up.

"What do you think? Shall I continue, or would you like to have a stab at it?"

B. Even after most have turned in, he stays in the common area, a half‑cooled cup of tea at his elbow. The steam has long since faded. His gaze is flat, fixed on either nothing, or on some private shard of a memory. Hard to tell which.

If he notices someone nearby, his attention sharpens. He inclines his head and asks, quietly curious, "So the flowers 'chose' us. What's your read on that? You think it's literal? Or just like... a colourful turn of phrase."