[Monoco has done a stellar job today, coaxing Verso's hair into a samurai bun that manages to look both disciplined and stylish. The lone white streak might look like a sentimental nod to the boy Monoco once knew, but sentiment isn't the driver here. It's a matter of taste! And Verso has plenty of it. (His previous colouring had been the aftermath of a Gestral barber's hack job — a creature who clearly chose violence that day — but we don't talk about that.)
A top hat swiped from the February-birthday set completes the look, lending him an elegance he's more than happy to admire in the glass. It's a fine balance: the dapper tilt of the brim balanced by the jagged grit of his scars. Daring, dangerous, and exceptionally well-tailored.
He hopes his appearance serves as a license for others to be just as bold. That's the point of an Unbirthday, after all. The joyous, reckless pursuit of fun. So, when the first guests drift through the doors, he greets them with a deft bow:]
Welcome to the madness. And a very merry Unbirthday to you. Tell me — are we in the mood for a drink, or... maybe a bit of Glamour?
II. PLAYING HOST
[Once the introductions are made and the Glamour is flowing, Verso performs his favourite disappearing act. He slips from the chatter to the piano, trading the labour of conversation for the safety of the keys.
He stays there a bit longer than he should, with all his fingers, posture, and the safe illusion of belonging. It's comfortable. So long as the music holds the room together, he remains a living ornament, meant to be admired but never truly addressed. Music is his passion, but in this moment, it's also his shield.
Then Monoco catches his eye, offering that tiny, reproving tilt of his mask. Verso briefly pretends the invitation is negotiable — Monoco is not, strictly speaking, his keeper — but the silent rebuke gets its message across. He lets the final chord linger, smooths his sleeves, and rises.
In the end, he'd much rather be useful than simply handsome wallpaper. Wallpaper is far too easy to peel back.
A fresh flute of pink champagne offers a welcome remedy, its Infusion bleeding the tension from his shoulders until he feels as effervescent as the melodies he just left behind. Topped with his fetching hat, the festive magic takes hold once again, neatly recalibrating his weary edges until the exhaustion feels less like a weight and more like a distant memory.
Duly bolstered, Verso moves toward the quieter corners of the room, a fresh flute of champagne in hand and his birthday top hat catching the light as he approaches anyone standing alone. With a conspiratorial smile, he offers a disarming confession:]
Sometimes I find myself looking for the exit, too. A bit awkward for the host, I'll admit. Fortunately, I've found that enough champagne and the right hat make crowds, ah... quite a bit more tolerable.
[A beat, and then—]
Are you just looking for a moment of peace? Or do we need to make a "tactical retreat"?
III. THE GIFT OF TODAY
[Later, Verso finds a momentary sanctuary at a side table near the Salon's edge. Here, materials for Bibliomancy — fine parchment and jars of shimmering ink — sit ready for the guests. For a moment, he's transported back to his old writing desk, the one where he used to compose music late into the night.
(He thinks of Alicia and Maelle. Of the rest of the 33's. He misses them all... but he aches for her.)
Verso has long since surrendered the capacity to dream for himself; in a body that feels like a borrowed suit and a world that's already ended, the concept of a future feels like a cruel joke. Yet, the embers of a different kind of hope still flicker within him — not for his own sake, but for Verso's younger sister.
With a hand that moves with the ghostly memory of a dead composer, he traces a single line:
"You'll never have to suffer a life you don't want."
The ink seems to bleed into the paper, the blessing pulsing with the desperate, quiet sincerity of a man who knows exactly what it means to have no choice at all. He leaves the note there — a small, luminous anchor — waiting for the right person to find it.
Though his Bibliomancy is unrefined, he bleeds enough raw intent into the script to briefly grant a stranger the power of a choice. It's a gift he struggles to claim for his own life. But if he can't fully own that magic anymore, he can at least be the one to pass it on.
He stares at the ink for a beat too long. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sets the quill aside and adjusts his top hat.
... Right. More champagne is in order.]
IV. DUELLING STAGE
[He does a fine job of it, too — keeping his energy buoyant and his crooked grin fixed for the rest of the day. In fact, by the time he reaches the Duelling Stage, any trace of his ghosts are seemingly gone.
Eyes glinting with mischief, Verso carves a path through the air with his wooden blade, the pine whistling a sharp, clean note as it cuts the light. He leans into a deep, lunging stance. One hand stays tucked elegantly behind the small of his back, his voice booming with a mock-seriousness that dares his opponent not to laugh.
Caught in the shimmering glow of a Meramantic stagelight, the glitter on his hat flares like a crown. With a flourish, he snaps the blunt tip of his weapon forward, pinning it to the space just above his opponent's heart. A billowing red cape flutters behind him.]
Your days of terror have come to an end, you most villainous of villains! Prepare for your final bow!
V. AFTER PARTY
[He sits with his back to the hearth, where the embers throw a steady, conspiratorial glow. The mahogany paneling drinks the light; the brass of the lanterns gleams like the last flicker of a fading star. He leans into his leather armchair, sinking into it.
Pipe smoke, spiced wine, and cedar. The scent unspools a sharp, singular memory: his father's voice, low and warm, drifting over a war story shared with an old friend. For a moment, Verso is small, tucked against his father's knees, where he feels safe.
Someone settles into the opposite chair, and the past recedes. Small mercies. Verso is acutely aware of his dwindling reserves. A total energy collapse is expected in his near future, he thinks. But he pushes it aside to focus on his guest.
Flashing a quick, crooked grin, he asks:]
... Well? What was your favourite part?
[The question is a bit vain, certainly, but a performance needs an audience. He's poured himself into this party and, even more dauntingly, asked others to help him carry the weight.
Now, he waits to see the result. He needs to know if the brilliance of the day is bright enough to outweigh the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion currently settling over him.]
Verso | Expedition 33 | Forget-me-not
+ Guest Book
I. WARDROBE WIZARDRY & LIBATIONS
[Monoco has done a stellar job today, coaxing Verso's hair into a samurai bun that manages to look both disciplined and stylish. The lone white streak might look like a sentimental nod to the boy Monoco once knew, but sentiment isn't the driver here. It's a matter of taste! And Verso has plenty of it. (His previous colouring had been the aftermath of a Gestral barber's hack job — a creature who clearly chose violence that day — but we don't talk about that.)
A top hat swiped from the February-birthday set completes the look, lending him an elegance he's more than happy to admire in the glass. It's a fine balance: the dapper tilt of the brim balanced by the jagged grit of his scars. Daring, dangerous, and exceptionally well-tailored.
He hopes his appearance serves as a license for others to be just as bold. That's the point of an Unbirthday, after all. The joyous, reckless pursuit of fun. So, when the first guests drift through the doors, he greets them with a deft bow:]
Welcome to the madness. And a very merry Unbirthday to you. Tell me — are we in the mood for a drink, or... maybe a bit of Glamour?
III. THE GIFT OF TODAY
[Later, Verso finds a momentary sanctuary at a side table near the Salon's edge. Here, materials for Bibliomancy — fine parchment and jars of shimmering ink — sit ready for the guests. For a moment, he's transported back to his old writing desk, the one where he used to compose music late into the night.
(He thinks of Alicia and Maelle. Of the rest of the 33's. He misses them all... but he aches for her.)
Verso has long since surrendered the capacity to dream for himself; in a body that feels like a borrowed suit and a world that's already ended, the concept of a future feels like a cruel joke. Yet, the embers of a different kind of hope still flicker within him — not for his own sake, but for Verso's younger sister.
With a hand that moves with the ghostly memory of a dead composer, he traces a single line:
"You'll never have to suffer a life you don't want."
The ink seems to bleed into the paper, the blessing pulsing with the desperate, quiet sincerity of a man who knows exactly what it means to have no choice at all. He leaves the note there — a small, luminous anchor — waiting for the right person to find it.
Though his Bibliomancy is unrefined, he bleeds enough raw intent into the script to briefly grant a stranger the power of a choice. It's a gift he struggles to claim for his own life. But if he can't fully own that magic anymore, he can at least be the one to pass it on.
He stares at the ink for a beat too long. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sets the quill aside and adjusts his top hat.
... Right. More champagne is in order.]
V. AFTER PARTY
[He sits with his back to the hearth, where the embers throw a steady, conspiratorial glow. The mahogany paneling drinks the light; the brass of the lanterns gleams like the last flicker of a fading star. He leans into his leather armchair, sinking into it.
Pipe smoke, spiced wine, and cedar. The scent unspools a sharp, singular memory: his father's voice, low and warm, drifting over a war story shared with an old friend. For a moment, Verso is small, tucked against his father's knees, where he feels safe.
Someone settles into the opposite chair, and the past recedes. Small mercies. Verso is acutely aware of his dwindling reserves. A total energy collapse is expected in his near future, he thinks. But he pushes it aside to focus on his guest.
Flashing a quick, crooked grin, he asks:]
... Well? What was your favourite part?
[The question is a bit vain, certainly, but a performance needs an audience. He's poured himself into this party and, even more dauntingly, asked others to help him carry the weight.
Now, he waits to see the result. He needs to know if the brilliance of the day is bright enough to outweigh the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion currently settling over him.]