[ Eating them is the whole point, but maybe he doesn't need to explain to sweet, innocent Clive that, sometimes, when you're very old and have nothing to live for, you eat weird mushrooms to pass the time. ]
Right. [ Like it's a fun little secret: ] Best keep it between us.
[ Because he's not sharing. Verso crouches next to the thicket, then, pulling out his knife and gesturing to a fungus with the point of the blade. Light brown, with small speckles. Or is it medium-small? ]
[ "Best keep it between us" isn't "I promise I won't eat the mushrooms that will make me trip balls", but. You know what. Verso's been remarkably trustworthy (cue laugh track) thus far, so Clive will assume that the psychedelics are for something other than casual consumption.
"Death or dinner" is a somewhat more pressing concern, anyway. Clive kneels next to Verso, brows furrowed in concentration, observing the small (medium-small?) spots with knifelike intensity. ]
D... [ hnrgh ] ...eath. [ With more conviction, this time: ] Death.
[ Verso waits patiently for Clive to make his decision, expression expectant, and nods in encouragement when he finally does. Gold star for Clive! ] And not a pretty one, either.
[ The agony of death by mushroom is recalled with a tone mundane enough that it sounds more like he's discussing the weather. Honestly, it doesn't even break the top five of memorable near death experiences. It's only notable for the quite frankly excessive amount of times it happened to him before he learned to tell the nigh-indistinguishable mushrooms apart.
He stands, twirling his parrying dagger idly. ]
You're looking in the wrong place. [ Then, pointing with the blade: ] There's a cave not far from here where the ones that won't kill you grow.
[ !! Invisible dog ears prick upwards, happy to have won (?) The Mushroom Game; they droop somewhat immediately after, when he considers the amount of trial-and-error that must have happened until Verso like, learned to stop dying via shroom poisoning. "Not a pretty one" doesn't conjure pleasant images, after all.
But enough of being patronizing over Verso's wellbeing (for now). Blue eyes flick towards the cave, expression settling into quiet contemplation. ]
You really do know your way around every inch of the Continent.
[ Not accusatory. Mostly, just trying to wrap his head around the immortality thing, especially since so much of his life (everyone's life) in Lumière has been so steeped in the inevitability of the end. The Gommage, as looming as the Monolith across the sea. ]
[ Modest king! In truth, it's hard not to know his way around. After so many years of misadventure, there's a story associated with nearly every foot of this place. Admittedly, he can't quite remember the story associated with this cave at the moment, given that it's been a good few decades since he set foot in it—but it's probably not important. Surely it's nothing foreboding.
Sheathing the parrying dagger, he gestures for Clive to follow him across the clearing and toward the cave's dark opening. Provided, of course, that Clive is willing to be taken to a secondary location by a strange man. ]
I'm sure you know your way around Lumière like the back of your hand. [ Home is home, he means. ] The Continent is like that for me. Just... bigger, and inhabited by more deadly creatures.
[ Wouldn't it be awful if there was a mime with an awful haircut looming in the depths of this cave...
Clive follows, because of course he does. His palm opens in the gloom, summoning a mote of fire that hovers near him, illuminating the multifaceted walls of the damp space in a warm, orange glow. ]
You'd be surprised by how many deadly creatures are also in Lumière.
[ A joke! But also one at his own expense: his mother was terribly abusive, so there's that for horrific monsters who were allowed to roam free in polite society. ]
Though, admittedly, there were less dangerous things that I could unwittingly put in my mouth.
[ Clive cannot be a dark-haired, blue-eyed guy with a savior complex and fire theme who's unhealthily devoted to his sibling, has mommy issues, and is voiced by Ben Starr. One of them is going to have to change.
The glow of the little fire mote dances on the walls of the cave, although Verso is already trudging forward without it to help light the way, footprints unintentionally covering up the much larger prints in the moist cave floor. He leads the way further in until they reach a collection of fungi growing in the damp darkness, crawling up the cave wall. ]
See? [ He knew they were here. Verso taps his temple—memory like an elephant! Sounding as if he's pleased to be able to be impart useful knowledge, he adds, ] You want to look for cool, dark spaces.
[ I forgot that they fucking materialize their weapons so pretend he did that before!!! He conjures the dagger into his hand, blade cutting through the mushroom stems to free them from the wall. ]
That's where—
[ Within the darkness of the cave yet unlit by Clive's mote, something... rumbles. Suddenly, Verso remembers exactly why these mushrooms, here had been so memorable. It's not because he has the memory of an elephant. ]
Oh. [ He glances back at Clive. ] I should have mentioned—
[ Unfortunately, whatever he should have mentioned will forever remain a secret, because he's cut off by being barreled into by a Stalact at full speed, smacking into the hard cave wall with a comical thud. ]
[ Clive is a dark-haired, blue-eyed guy with a savior complex and fire theme who's unhealthily devoted to his sibling, has mommy issues, and is voiced by Ben Starr, but consider: Verso is far more charming. And far more loved by Stalacts.
It's always fucking Stalacts. (Monoco, somewhere back at camp, shivers.)
It's always something that Verso has conveniently (?) neglected to mention, too. Clive blinks back his surprise, but conjures his broadsword (I forgot that they did that too, I also forgot that Verso conjures a whole-ass piano at some point, how does chroma even work) in a whisper of a moment, taking up stance against the Nevron who, despite not having features to emote with, doesn't look pleased about having its home invaded by these weird squishy creatures. ]
―Verso!
[ Clive, very upset about seeing his traveling companion get ragdolled against a wall, flares in anger― literally. Flames dance along the outline of him, skimming through his hair and streaking it in pulsing red (very Final Fantasy of him). He'd go check on Verso if he could, but the Stalact is pounding its giant feet very, very precariously near Verso's prone (?) form. First order of business is getting its attention and moving it away from him.
This Stalact should have been dead yesterday, to be honest. Clive kicks off from where he's standing, moving to the other side of the cave and blasting the Nevron with a ball of fire that expertly conveys hey, I'll kill you for hurting my friend. Gentle dog by day, ruthless soldier by night. ]
[ You know what it never was? That serious. Verso stumbles up, wheezing a little (because, admittedly, his ribs seem to be momentarily crushed) but very much alive. Of course he is; if there is nothing in this world to count on, there's his continued existence. The ball of fire whizzes by his head as he pops up—a little too close for comfort, but now is hardly the time to be criticizing Clive's aim. ]
I'm good, [ he croaks, more embarrassed than anything else. This Stalact just made him look like a total dweeb in front of Clive.
Verso extends a hand, sword materializing in his palm. His body is currently still stitching itself back together, though, and he's too slow; the Stalact glows bright red, bounding toward Clive bodily, ready to collide into him much in the same way as he'd done Verso. The difference, of course, being that Clive can't will his ribs back into being whole.
Long-suffering, Verso mutters a swear. ] Don't just stand there like a tree— [ Mon arbre, please!!! ]
[ It's always serious when someone's wellbeing is at stake. Even the wellbeing of an immortal who likes to microdose (macrodose) on psychedelics to escape the burden of his existential nightmare.
The Stalact is an unstoppable force; to meet it, Clive becomes an immovable object. The air around them bristles with heated chroma― for a moment, it almost looks like Clive is on fire.
And, well. He is. One second, two-legged and human-shaped; the next, two-legged and Nevron-shaped. A massive creature that looks carved from obsidian, horned and clawed and pulsing with flame. It grabs the incoming Stalact, grips one of its flailing legs―
[ The Stalact wails in both pain and confusion—these were supposed to be squishy intruders, not giant, flaming ones—and thrashes wildly. The abrupt dismemberment seems to give it a brief second wind, a last dying hurrah; it pounds wildly with its remaining legs, the entire cave shaking with the force of it. He can practically feel his bones rattle inside his body.
There's a faint cracking sound. Verso glances up. Mon fucking dieu, indeed. ]
Look ou—
[ The cave ceiling collapses on them in a deluge of dirt and mud and rock, burying both Clive and the Stalact underneath its weight. That takes care of one problem—the Stalact—but creates quite another. Clive, who I can only assume turns back into his human form upon going unconscious but swat me with a rolled up newspaper if I'm wrong, has just been crushed by a not-insignificant weight, and while Verso would normally go running for a healer, the cave-in has also shut off the exit. So, you know, not his best day.
Clive's beefy arm sticks out from underneath bedrock. Quite possibly making his injuries worse, Verso spends the next several long minutes painstakingly pulling him from the rock and depositing his limp body on the ground, where he toes at him to find that Clive isn't conscious (yet, he hopes; maybe being transformed into that creature acted as a buffer against the worst of his injuries). Again, not a great day.
Fuck. Well, Verso sits on the ground beside Clive's slack, prone body, leaning against the cave wall in the dark. ]
[ Things Clive should have accounted for: that. It's why he doesn't exactly love being angry on a good day― there are repercussions to blind rage.
Like, say, a cave-in. The kind of instant karma that would've been funny if the scale of it were a lot smaller. The last thought Clive (who does, in fact, shrink back into the human-shaped doofus he usually is when he gets knocked out) has before succumbing to darkness is a very eloquent, very uncalculated, fuck.
It's the same thought he has when he eventually comes to a bit later, every nerve in his body screaming bloody murder. A finger twitches, a meaty arm twitches, his leg twitches. ]
Fuck, [ he rasps. He feels like he got hit by a truck. (Get in line, honestly.) ]
[ I have made the executive decision to delay the magic mushrooms until such a time as Verso partaking in them will not literally kill Clive, because I need him alive to impart more suffering. So, instead, Verso spends much of the time while Clive is unconscious staring at the mass of rocks blocking their exit and trying not to breathe too much. After all, if Clive doesn't die of his injuries down here, he might still die of lack of oxygen.
When Clive finally stirs, he exhales the breath he'd been holding, shifting to crouch beside him. He doesn't dare touch him again in case Clive's everything is broken, so he lets his hand hover over his body instead, obviously wanting to make himself useful but uncertain how. ]
Hey. You're [ —alive is probably not the most encouraging thing to say— ] okay.
[ Hopefully, Clive can't see the grimace he's making in the dark, which implies that Clive is very much not okay. ]
You played the hero a little too hard.
[ Again, highly unnecessary, but— he supposes Clive really is every bit the person he portrays himself to be. Fiercely protective of those he considers friends, even immortal ones who have little real claim to that title. Now is not the time to scold Clive for that, though. Later, if he survives this.
Then, a poor attempt to lighten the mood: ] I thought I might have become the most handsome living person in this cave.
[ Clive's everything does feel broken, but the truth of it is probably that a lot of it is extensive bruising and like, torn ligaments. Becoming a giant Nevron has its benefits: namely, that he gets to tank his way through damage that would usually kill someone else instantly.
It still hurts, though. He tries to turn his head to get a better idea of where they are (which is still the cave), but just the act of putting pressure on his neck makes his entire body feel like it's on fire. Ha ha. Maybe his spine is fucked up.
He breathes in, out. ]
You can have the title. [ Verso is plenty handsome, not to mention that Clive hasn't registered himself for the competition, so. Verso wins by default.
Not the actual issue that they need to be addressing here, though. So, in his sandpaper voice: ] ―Founder, I'm sorry. [ "Founder" being the ~quirky~ substitute for 'god' that Clive uses, as if he's from some other fantasy world or something. Weird! ] I should have known better than to prime in a space like this.
[ "Prime" being the whole Nevron-shifting thing. Again, Clive is weird. He had like, no friends in Lumiere. ]
[ He's assuming. He has no idea what 'prime' means. Or really how Clive's abilities work. Are they entirely on purpose, or can he do it by accident? ]
You might have overreacted just a little bit.
[ It's lightly scolding at best, primarily because Clive seems to have paid the consequences for his actions tenfold. How little he's moving makes Verso's stomach clench. If there is an opportunity to get out of here, he imagines it'll be because Clive can transform again. Somehow, he doesn't look in the least bit 'transformation-ready'. ]
It's okay. [ About the priming. The overreacting. Verso has a pathological need to make others feel better, so: ] Once, I caused an avalanche in the mountains. I was stuck under there for weeks.
[ His fingers drop onto Clive's shoulder, very light. Not trying to move him, but expressing an interest to. ]
[ Verso has a pathological need to make others feel better by highlighting the frankly fucking absurd ways in which he's been hurt, which, unfortunately, has the opposite effect on Clive. He looks a little horrified by the thought of Verso being stuck under metric fucktons of snow for weeks (Verso please), but it only manifests as a light grimace. Even his face hurts. ]
I've told you once, and I'll tell you again, [ another wince, as he tries to sit up. It doesn't go very well. ] I find no joy in seeing you hurt.
[ But, yeah. That was extra. He breathes again, in and out, and shifts just enough to let Verso slide a hand under his shoulder to lift him if he'd like. ]
I'll be fine. I recover quickly enough. [ Hm. ] ...How long was I out for?
[ Verso blows a piece of stray hair out of his face. ]
It was... [ There's obvious hesitation here. A long time. Although he doesn't have much frame of reference for things that are 'good' for normal, squishy humans, he knows enough to know that it's not exactly healthy to be unconscious for that long. Once, he'd watched an Expeditioner get clobbered on the head by a Nevron. She'd woken hours later, irrevocably changed; unable to eat or drink by herself, unaware of where or who she was. The group had had to leave her behind after that.
Verso found her corpse decomposing in the flowers the next month. ]
...A normal amount of time.
[ Clive doesn't seem horribly brain-damaged, at least. Yet.
Lifting him is going to hurt, though, no way around it. Verso presses a hand to his shoulder blades, the movement quick as he tries to distract from the pain with: ]
Hey. I got so cold underneath that snow that my nose fell off. [ He hopes this is suitably gross to distract Clive. ] Had to reattach it with Monoco's help. I think it's still crooked.
[ One more word out of Verso about some awful mutilation he's suffered, and Clive actually might kill him. (Impossible!) Effectively distracted from the not-so-great implications behind "a normal amount of time" and the gut-churning pain of being pulled upright when every single cell in his body screams to be horizontal―
―Clive blinks. Bemused. Okay, maybe not as bemused as he should be, given recent revelations about Gestrals and how incredibly nonchalant they are about acts of violence, but still.
They're probably a bad fit for each other. Verso, combating the perpetual seriousness of the world by pretending that it's not so serious, while Clive takes everything the world throws at him with far too much gravitas to be even remotely reasonable. ]
Verso. [ Is almost a hiss. ] One more word about something awful happening to you, and I'll twist my nose off of my face.
[ Weak threat. ]
If you want to distract me from the pain, [ because there's a lot of it, ] tell me something that makes you happy.
[ Verso blinks, seemingly surprised that this latest misadventure hadn't amused Clive, either. The threat of Clive harming himself instead gets a laugh in the middle of all of this madness; merde, of course he'd sooner hurt himself than someone else, even in jest.
He must have no idea how difficult the request he's just posed to Verso is, though. Happy. It's been a long time since he felt happy. Distracted, perhaps—that's what all of those reckless adventures where he gets trapped underneath a metric ton of snow and loses an important facial feature are for.
Still, he has to come up with something, so he racks his brain. ]
There's this grove not far from the Gestrals' sanctuary. Trees as far as the eye can see. When the wind whistles through the branches just right, it sounds like music.
Edited (i forgor he literally already did that) 2025-09-26 21:46 (UTC)
[ Happiness is all they have to cling to. In the face of all this despair, the countdown looming at them from across the sea, the grief-stricken shape of an immortal being hugged into herself like a crying child, what else do they have?
Clive is an optimist, not because he has to be, but because he wants to be. So, he swallows the screaming of every raw nerve in his body and listens to the cadence of Verso's voice, carrying something that isn't morbid for once.
Trees, wind, music. It's nice. True to his claim about being helped by the mental image of something gentle, Clive relaxes under Verso's hands and closes blue eyes; tries to imagine Verso lost in a sea of trees, swept by music. ]
―You are a romantic. [ All the bluster about being handsome and charming, and it's a little bit of truth that makes Clive believe it. He tries to smile, but it hurts. ] ...Ow.
[ Clive's right. Verso has the heart of a romantic, tender and soft; it's just that it feels increasingly like he has to chisel through layers of protective stone to get to it. Still, Verso rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath despite the horror of their circumstances. It feels like a friendly tease, and it's been ages since another person felt enough camaraderie with him to rib. The well of loneliness is so deep that even this small drop seems significant. ]
Yeah, [ he quips, dry and deadpan and obviously still concerned. ] I just hide it to give the rest of you a fighting chance.
[ You know, because if everyone knew what a romantic he was, he'd be the most popular person in camp.
That well of loneliness is threatening to grow a lot deeper if he doesn't fix this situation, though; he glances at the wall of rocks Clive unintentionally brought down during the fight, then back to Clive. ]
Where does it hurt?
[ The tone of voice sounds well-worn, like it's been used a hundred times before. It's the tone of someone holding a wet cloth to a little sister's skinned knee, or pressing a concerned palm against her shoulder as she cries after a tumble. ]
[ The grand tragedy of all of this is that Clive actually does believe that, if Verso decided to open himself up a little more, he would be the most popular person in camp. Not just because he's a good-looking guy who can hold his own against a horde of Nevrons (even if that helps), but because he's a good-looking guy who has held his own against a horde of Nevrons alone, for decades. Sciel is already warming to him, nurturing and curious as she is, and Lune―
―well, Lune is Lune. She has her own walls, but she also loves a challenge.
If it matters to Verso, Clive thinks he's got nothing to worry about. Not in the 'being liked' department, anyway. The 'being stuck in a cave with a guy who can't move' department isn't looking great, but the way Verso approaches the problem only corroborates the idea that Verso is, in fact, very soft under the bluster.
So: ] ...My chest, primarily. [ No macho man bullshit here!!! Clive tries to touch at his hip for his supply pack, but finds it wet with all the tints he'd kept in there that are now hopelessly shattered. ] I don't want to know what I look like under my shirt.
[ Constellations of bruises in heretofore unheard of patterns, probably. He tries to smile again, and again, he only manages an ow. ]
Everything else is... [ Testing his hand, managing to furl an unfurl his fingers. ] ...Manageable. I'm sure you know what that entails.
[ Verso doesn't want to know what Clive looks like under there, either—under these circumstances, at least; he's sure Clive has perfectly serviceable tiddies under normal ones—so he doesn't check. He'd hoped that the issue would turn out to be a dislocated arm or broken leg, something that he could work around. Verso has plenty of experience popping bones back into their sockets (he's done it to himself enough times), but he can't uncrush Clive's ribcage.
Lune and their array of healing tints could, if they could just get back to camp. But— ]
I don't suppose you're feeling up to that transformation again.
[ Even if he can transform, will he still be injured in that form, too? It'd take remarkable strength that Verso isn't confident Clive can muster at the moment to clear their path back. He settles back next to Clive, leaning against the cave wall, shoulder-to-shoulder. ]
You'll be okay. [ Debatable. He very well might die here—but then again, death is its own comfort. It's Verso who'll be sitting in this dank, dark cave for the rest of eternity, only a corpse for company, if they don't find a way out. ] The Expedition will come looking.
[ This, at least, he believes. Even from a merely practical standpoint, they won't want to leave behind any valuable members of the group when their numbers have dwindled so much as it is. He believes less that they'll actually know where they are, given that Verso and Clive didn't have the foresight to tell anyone.
It's a waiting game. He glances back over at Clive, tries not to focus too much on that pained, shallow breathing. ]
That grove— I used to visit it with my sister. [ Another gentle memory to try to blunt the pain. ] We'd try to hum along with the wind, convinced we'd compose the next great song.
[ Clive'd told Maelle about the mushrooms, but he also has 1 (one) fear that, if she notices that Clive and Verso are both gone, she'll assume a very teenage-girl thing about the nature of their disappearance, and delay the search. Which, honestly, isn't an unreasonable assumption to make, given how all of the adults of the Expedition are consistently pent-up with the threat of death constantly looming (case in point).
Too early to despair, though. Clive keeps his hand lifted slightly, and plays with the idea of transformation. Fire flickers on his palm again, unsteady and shuddering; it's always a part of him, but he'll need to pull himself a bit more together if he wants to do anything with it.
So. The swingback to the topic of the grove helps. Sister, Verso says, and Clive manages to look a little surprised about that, even if the expression turns fond a breath later. ]
―I didn't know you had a sister. [ (Because, like a dingus, Clive hasn't asked.) ] Or that you like to compose.
[ Oh, now Clive's getting sentimental. ] ...Younger sister? You seem like an older sibling.
[ Clive doesn't know that he has a sister because Verso hasn't shared. Family is a fraught topic, generally speaking. Clive had asked what makes him happy, though, and— Alicia does make him happy. Or at least she used to, back in the days when they could do things like go on nature walks together and hum along to the rustle of wind in the trees. These days, he feels her absence like a gaping wound.
No part of that will help distract Clive from his ailments, so Verso keeps it to himself. ]
Younger sister, yeah.
[ An older one, too, but he keeps that tidbit to himself for now. Clea's existence feels somehow more private and personal than Alicia's. He'd taken pride in being Alicia's caretaker and protector, but that's what Clea had been for him. There from the moment he'd opened his eyes in the world, his constant companion until she hadn't been. ]
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Right. [ Like it's a fun little secret: ] Best keep it between us.
[ Because he's not sharing. Verso crouches next to the thicket, then, pulling out his knife and gesturing to a fungus with the point of the blade. Light brown, with small speckles. Or is it medium-small? ]
So. Death or dinner?
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"Death or dinner" is a somewhat more pressing concern, anyway. Clive kneels next to Verso, brows furrowed in concentration, observing the small (medium-small?) spots with knifelike intensity. ]
D... [ hnrgh ] ...eath. [ With more conviction, this time: ] Death.
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[ The agony of death by mushroom is recalled with a tone mundane enough that it sounds more like he's discussing the weather. Honestly, it doesn't even break the top five of memorable near death experiences. It's only notable for the quite frankly excessive amount of times it happened to him before he learned to tell the nigh-indistinguishable mushrooms apart.
He stands, twirling his parrying dagger idly. ]
You're looking in the wrong place. [ Then, pointing with the blade: ] There's a cave not far from here where the ones that won't kill you grow.
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But enough of being patronizing over Verso's wellbeing (for now). Blue eyes flick towards the cave, expression settling into quiet contemplation. ]
You really do know your way around every inch of the Continent.
[ Not accusatory. Mostly, just trying to wrap his head around the immortality thing, especially since so much of his life (everyone's life) in Lumière has been so steeped in the inevitability of the end. The Gommage, as looming as the Monolith across the sea. ]
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[ Modest king! In truth, it's hard not to know his way around. After so many years of misadventure, there's a story associated with nearly every foot of this place. Admittedly, he can't quite remember the story associated with this cave at the moment, given that it's been a good few decades since he set foot in it—but it's probably not important. Surely it's nothing foreboding.
Sheathing the parrying dagger, he gestures for Clive to follow him across the clearing and toward the cave's dark opening. Provided, of course, that Clive is willing to be taken to a secondary location by a strange man. ]
I'm sure you know your way around Lumière like the back of your hand. [ Home is home, he means. ] The Continent is like that for me. Just... bigger, and inhabited by more deadly creatures.
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Clive follows, because of course he does. His palm opens in the gloom, summoning a mote of fire that hovers near him, illuminating the multifaceted walls of the damp space in a warm, orange glow. ]
You'd be surprised by how many deadly creatures are also in Lumière.
[ A joke! But also one at his own expense: his mother was terribly abusive, so there's that for horrific monsters who were allowed to roam free in polite society. ]
Though, admittedly, there were less dangerous things that I could unwittingly put in my mouth.
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The glow of the little fire mote dances on the walls of the cave, although Verso is already trudging forward without it to help light the way, footprints unintentionally covering up the much larger prints in the moist cave floor. He leads the way further in until they reach a collection of fungi growing in the damp darkness, crawling up the cave wall. ]
See? [ He knew they were here. Verso taps his temple—memory like an elephant! Sounding as if he's pleased to be able to be impart useful knowledge, he adds, ] You want to look for cool, dark spaces.
[ I forgot that they fucking materialize their weapons so pretend he did that before!!! He conjures the dagger into his hand, blade cutting through the mushroom stems to free them from the wall. ]
That's where—
[ Within the darkness of the cave yet unlit by Clive's mote, something... rumbles. Suddenly, Verso remembers exactly why these mushrooms, here had been so memorable. It's not because he has the memory of an elephant. ]
Oh. [ He glances back at Clive. ] I should have mentioned—
[ Unfortunately, whatever he should have mentioned will forever remain a secret, because he's cut off by being barreled into by a Stalact at full speed, smacking into the hard cave wall with a comical thud. ]
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It's always fucking Stalacts. (Monoco, somewhere back at camp, shivers.)
It's always something that Verso has conveniently (?) neglected to mention, too. Clive blinks back his surprise, but conjures his broadsword (I forgot that they did that too, I also forgot that Verso conjures a whole-ass piano at some point, how does chroma even work) in a whisper of a moment, taking up stance against the Nevron who, despite not having features to emote with, doesn't look pleased about having its home invaded by these weird squishy creatures. ]
―Verso!
[ Clive, very upset about seeing his traveling companion get ragdolled against a wall, flares in anger― literally. Flames dance along the outline of him, skimming through his hair and streaking it in pulsing red (very Final Fantasy of him). He'd go check on Verso if he could, but the Stalact is pounding its giant feet very, very precariously near Verso's prone (?) form. First order of business is getting its attention and moving it away from him.
This Stalact should have been dead yesterday, to be honest. Clive kicks off from where he's standing, moving to the other side of the cave and blasting the Nevron with a ball of fire that expertly conveys hey, I'll kill you for hurting my friend. Gentle dog by day, ruthless soldier by night. ]
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I'm good, [ he croaks, more embarrassed than anything else. This Stalact just made him look like a total dweeb in front of Clive.
Verso extends a hand, sword materializing in his palm. His body is currently still stitching itself back together, though, and he's too slow; the Stalact glows bright red, bounding toward Clive bodily, ready to collide into him much in the same way as he'd done Verso. The difference, of course, being that Clive can't will his ribs back into being whole.
Long-suffering, Verso mutters a swear. ] Don't just stand there like a tree— [ Mon arbre, please!!! ]
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The Stalact is an unstoppable force; to meet it, Clive becomes an immovable object. The air around them bristles with heated chroma― for a moment, it almost looks like Clive is on fire.
And, well. He is. One second, two-legged and human-shaped; the next, two-legged and Nevron-shaped. A massive creature that looks carved from obsidian, horned and clawed and pulsing with flame. It grabs the incoming Stalact, grips one of its flailing legs―
―and tears it clean off.
(It really wasn't this serious.) ]
aggressively godmodes clive into suffering
[ The Stalact wails in both pain and confusion—these were supposed to be squishy intruders, not giant, flaming ones—and thrashes wildly. The abrupt dismemberment seems to give it a brief second wind, a last dying hurrah; it pounds wildly with its remaining legs, the entire cave shaking with the force of it. He can practically feel his bones rattle inside his body.
There's a faint cracking sound. Verso glances up. Mon fucking dieu, indeed. ]
Look ou—
[ The cave ceiling collapses on them in a deluge of dirt and mud and rock, burying both Clive and the Stalact underneath its weight. That takes care of one problem—the Stalact—but creates quite another. Clive, who I can only assume turns back into his human form upon going unconscious but swat me with a rolled up newspaper if I'm wrong, has just been crushed by a not-insignificant weight, and while Verso would normally go running for a healer, the cave-in has also shut off the exit. So, you know, not his best day.
Clive's beefy arm sticks out from underneath bedrock. Quite possibly making his injuries worse, Verso spends the next several long minutes painstakingly pulling him from the rock and depositing his limp body on the ground, where he toes at him to find that Clive isn't conscious (yet, he hopes; maybe being transformed into that creature acted as a buffer against the worst of his injuries). Again, not a great day.
Fuck. Well, Verso sits on the ground beside Clive's slack, prone body, leaning against the cave wall in the dark. ]
i owe you my LIFE
Like, say, a cave-in. The kind of instant karma that would've been funny if the scale of it were a lot smaller. The last thought Clive (who does, in fact, shrink back into the human-shaped doofus he usually is when he gets knocked out) has before succumbing to darkness is a very eloquent, very uncalculated, fuck.
It's the same thought he has when he eventually comes to a bit later, every nerve in his body screaming bloody murder. A finger twitches, a meaty arm twitches, his leg twitches. ]
Fuck, [ he rasps. He feels like he got hit by a truck. (Get in line, honestly.) ]
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When Clive finally stirs, he exhales the breath he'd been holding, shifting to crouch beside him. He doesn't dare touch him again in case Clive's everything is broken, so he lets his hand hover over his body instead, obviously wanting to make himself useful but uncertain how. ]
Hey. You're [ —alive is probably not the most encouraging thing to say— ] okay.
[ Hopefully, Clive can't see the grimace he's making in the dark, which implies that Clive is very much not okay. ]
You played the hero a little too hard.
[ Again, highly unnecessary, but— he supposes Clive really is every bit the person he portrays himself to be. Fiercely protective of those he considers friends, even immortal ones who have little real claim to that title. Now is not the time to scold Clive for that, though. Later, if he survives this.
Then, a poor attempt to lighten the mood: ] I thought I might have become the most handsome living person in this cave.
[ You know, because Clive was fucking dead. ]
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It still hurts, though. He tries to turn his head to get a better idea of where they are (which is still the cave), but just the act of putting pressure on his neck makes his entire body feel like it's on fire. Ha ha. Maybe his spine is fucked up.
He breathes in, out. ]
You can have the title. [ Verso is plenty handsome, not to mention that Clive hasn't registered himself for the competition, so. Verso wins by default.
Not the actual issue that they need to be addressing here, though. So, in his sandpaper voice: ] ―Founder, I'm sorry. [ "Founder" being the ~quirky~ substitute for 'god' that Clive uses, as if he's from some other fantasy world or something. Weird! ] I should have known better than to prime in a space like this.
[ "Prime" being the whole Nevron-shifting thing. Again, Clive is weird. He had like, no friends in Lumiere. ]
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[ He's assuming. He has no idea what 'prime' means. Or really how Clive's abilities work. Are they entirely on purpose, or can he do it by accident? ]
You might have overreacted just a little bit.
[ It's lightly scolding at best, primarily because Clive seems to have paid the consequences for his actions tenfold. How little he's moving makes Verso's stomach clench. If there is an opportunity to get out of here, he imagines it'll be because Clive can transform again. Somehow, he doesn't look in the least bit 'transformation-ready'. ]
It's okay. [ About the priming. The overreacting. Verso has a pathological need to make others feel better, so: ] Once, I caused an avalanche in the mountains. I was stuck under there for weeks.
[ His fingers drop onto Clive's shoulder, very light. Not trying to move him, but expressing an interest to. ]
Can you sit up?
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I've told you once, and I'll tell you again, [ another wince, as he tries to sit up. It doesn't go very well. ] I find no joy in seeing you hurt.
[ But, yeah. That was extra. He breathes again, in and out, and shifts just enough to let Verso slide a hand under his shoulder to lift him if he'd like. ]
I'll be fine. I recover quickly enough. [ Hm. ] ...How long was I out for?
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It was... [ There's obvious hesitation here. A long time. Although he doesn't have much frame of reference for things that are 'good' for normal, squishy humans, he knows enough to know that it's not exactly healthy to be unconscious for that long. Once, he'd watched an Expeditioner get clobbered on the head by a Nevron. She'd woken hours later, irrevocably changed; unable to eat or drink by herself, unaware of where or who she was. The group had had to leave her behind after that.
Verso found her corpse decomposing in the flowers the next month. ]
...A normal amount of time.
[ Clive doesn't seem horribly brain-damaged, at least. Yet.
Lifting him is going to hurt, though, no way around it. Verso presses a hand to his shoulder blades, the movement quick as he tries to distract from the pain with: ]
Hey. I got so cold underneath that snow that my nose fell off. [ He hopes this is suitably gross to distract Clive. ] Had to reattach it with Monoco's help. I think it's still crooked.
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―Clive blinks. Bemused. Okay, maybe not as bemused as he should be, given recent revelations about Gestrals and how incredibly nonchalant they are about acts of violence, but still.
They're probably a bad fit for each other. Verso, combating the perpetual seriousness of the world by pretending that it's not so serious, while Clive takes everything the world throws at him with far too much gravitas to be even remotely reasonable. ]
Verso. [ Is almost a hiss. ] One more word about something awful happening to you, and I'll twist my nose off of my face.
[ Weak threat. ]
If you want to distract me from the pain, [ because there's a lot of it, ] tell me something that makes you happy.
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He must have no idea how difficult the request he's just posed to Verso is, though. Happy. It's been a long time since he felt happy. Distracted, perhaps—that's what all of those reckless adventures where he gets trapped underneath a metric ton of snow and loses an important facial feature are for.
Still, he has to come up with something, so he racks his brain. ]
There's this grove not far from the Gestrals' sanctuary. Trees as far as the eye can see. When the wind whistles through the branches just right, it sounds like music.
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Clive is an optimist, not because he has to be, but because he wants to be. So, he swallows the screaming of every raw nerve in his body and listens to the cadence of Verso's voice, carrying something that isn't morbid for once.
Trees, wind, music. It's nice. True to his claim about being helped by the mental image of something gentle, Clive relaxes under Verso's hands and closes blue eyes; tries to imagine Verso lost in a sea of trees, swept by music. ]
―You are a romantic. [ All the bluster about being handsome and charming, and it's a little bit of truth that makes Clive believe it. He tries to smile, but it hurts. ] ...Ow.
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Yeah, [ he quips, dry and deadpan and obviously still concerned. ] I just hide it to give the rest of you a fighting chance.
[ You know, because if everyone knew what a romantic he was, he'd be the most popular person in camp.
That well of loneliness is threatening to grow a lot deeper if he doesn't fix this situation, though; he glances at the wall of rocks Clive unintentionally brought down during the fight, then back to Clive. ]
Where does it hurt?
[ The tone of voice sounds well-worn, like it's been used a hundred times before. It's the tone of someone holding a wet cloth to a little sister's skinned knee, or pressing a concerned palm against her shoulder as she cries after a tumble. ]
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―well, Lune is Lune. She has her own walls, but she also loves a challenge.
If it matters to Verso, Clive thinks he's got nothing to worry about. Not in the 'being liked' department, anyway. The 'being stuck in a cave with a guy who can't move' department isn't looking great, but the way Verso approaches the problem only corroborates the idea that Verso is, in fact, very soft under the bluster.
So: ] ...My chest, primarily. [ No macho man bullshit here!!! Clive tries to touch at his hip for his supply pack, but finds it wet with all the tints he'd kept in there that are now hopelessly shattered. ] I don't want to know what I look like under my shirt.
[ Constellations of bruises in heretofore unheard of patterns, probably. He tries to smile again, and again, he only manages an ow. ]
Everything else is... [ Testing his hand, managing to furl an unfurl his fingers. ] ...Manageable. I'm sure you know what that entails.
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Lune and their array of healing tints could, if they could just get back to camp. But— ]
I don't suppose you're feeling up to that transformation again.
[ Even if he can transform, will he still be injured in that form, too? It'd take remarkable strength that Verso isn't confident Clive can muster at the moment to clear their path back. He settles back next to Clive, leaning against the cave wall, shoulder-to-shoulder. ]
You'll be okay. [ Debatable. He very well might die here—but then again, death is its own comfort. It's Verso who'll be sitting in this dank, dark cave for the rest of eternity, only a corpse for company, if they don't find a way out. ] The Expedition will come looking.
[ This, at least, he believes. Even from a merely practical standpoint, they won't want to leave behind any valuable members of the group when their numbers have dwindled so much as it is. He believes less that they'll actually know where they are, given that Verso and Clive didn't have the foresight to tell anyone.
It's a waiting game. He glances back over at Clive, tries not to focus too much on that pained, shallow breathing. ]
That grove— I used to visit it with my sister. [ Another gentle memory to try to blunt the pain. ] We'd try to hum along with the wind, convinced we'd compose the next great song.
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Too early to despair, though. Clive keeps his hand lifted slightly, and plays with the idea of transformation. Fire flickers on his palm again, unsteady and shuddering; it's always a part of him, but he'll need to pull himself a bit more together if he wants to do anything with it.
So. The swingback to the topic of the grove helps. Sister, Verso says, and Clive manages to look a little surprised about that, even if the expression turns fond a breath later. ]
―I didn't know you had a sister. [ (Because, like a dingus, Clive hasn't asked.) ] Or that you like to compose.
[ Oh, now Clive's getting sentimental. ] ...Younger sister? You seem like an older sibling.
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No part of that will help distract Clive from his ailments, so Verso keeps it to himself. ]
Younger sister, yeah.
[ An older one, too, but he keeps that tidbit to himself for now. Clea's existence feels somehow more private and personal than Alicia's. He'd taken pride in being Alicia's caretaker and protector, but that's what Clea had been for him. There from the moment he'd opened his eyes in the world, his constant companion until she hadn't been. ]
Do you have any siblings?
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