#trist'ayran

[tristayranambrosio]

"Suppress/Pastel" Day 2 - February 19 DWC

(So unexpectedly everyone enjoyed the little peek into the cast around Trist's past, specifically Jezza inspired by one of my old DND partners and his interactions with my table-top bard. So maybe this DWC is just going to be more of their super dysfunctional relationship full of angst and unrequited feelings. Its tragic but beautiful and I hope it remains entertaining!)

I watch my tall brute suppress a smile as his thick weapon callused fingers brush the delicate pastel petals of Palehoof’s latest bouquets that decorate the Cabaret. The moment he notices I’m watching he stiffens and hunches, cutting a glare at me for admiring his secret self… I don’t know why he bothers, I’ve felt first hand who he really is, and no one here after closing would care if he was honest with himself. About me… Sometimes I allow that to itch at me, but then again… that’s not what I am. I promised that I would never let myself feel any sort of entitlement to their secrets, my many Sweethearts and patrons, that’s now what I set out to do… and I had fleetingly considered dropping the topic all together with Jezza given he was after all in the band now, but every time I pulled away, he’d seize me by the arm and pin me in some hidden corner and ravish me with the sort of Reckless abandon that he so vehemently flights to suppress. There’s so much passion in his brutalized soul, and I catch glimpses, fragments of the person he is… He loves the softer touches that answer his brutal ones, the gentle caresses that I follow his violence with. Sometimes I think he hates me, and this is all some outlet to soothe some hurt my people did to his, but then he’ll allow just enough of himself through that I see the admiration, the envy that I am unabashedly myself where he cannot be or thinks he cannot be…

Regardless, his glare never dissuades or intimidates me, if anything it emboldens me because being a ragdoll he can throw against a wall one moment then kiss hard enough to split my lip the next has a certain appeal and catharsis, for both of us… I realize that he’s still glaring and answer it with a smirk so wide it makes his face darken with what to everyone else would seem like outrage… I see it for what it is; He’s flustered, imagining the soft petals in his fingers were my lips given they match my pink… So I part them and wet my lips meaningfully and I pop one of my hips resting a fist against it. His dark magnificent skin flushed red tusks and teeth clenched in a snarl, and wide chest rumbling a growl at me, His jet black locks are still tussled from when I pulled them from their braids giving him this wild rugged handsome flair to his fury, He looks unhinged to the untrained eye… And yet I know he’s barely able to suppress the urge to touch me, and rip me out of my clothes. I belong to no one and everyone and yet I admit, my Drummer doesn’t let me think about belonging to anyone ever… all while never saying anything but holding me so tightly against him that he may as well be the stocks himself, like that could make me his… But that’s not what I am… Instead he lifts me by both arms. Restraint a forgotten courtesy that I’ve lost the ‘privilege’ to… and I live for it. He pulls me behind the Crimson curtains that our venue takes its name from and he palms my jaw as he has his fill of me and me of him… He’ll quit tomorrow, declaring that I’d conned him, tricked him into bed again… He’ll break new drumsticks, put fists through a snare, and before I even manage to fix them he’ll be back… awkwardly offering me a rose wordlessly and sitting to help me mend the damage he’d done on his way out, because that way he doesn't have to leave.

@daily-writing-challenge

[themidnightleo]

Have you ever met someone who made such an impact that your entire world sprung to life again? A world where everything had been so bleak and dull and grey with no sign of hope... changed. Forever. How the sunlight suddenly beams in a blinding light but leaves behind color and life. Flowers finally bloom with fragrance and the sounds of the people around you full of cheer and happiness. All because of you. To my Sunlight, no one has ever showed me what it was to live like you have. And I can only hope you understand my journey from midnight to sunlight.

[amionna]

Trist'Ayran Ambrosio Autumnrayne (genderbent version)

[azeroth-times-newspaper]

Meet the Staff: Ithilios Autumnrayne

Allow us to introduce you to Ithilios Autumnrayne, a valued Sub-Editor whose role extends far beyond the confines of traditional editing. Not only does Ithilios hold the esteemed position of being the CEO's closest friend and confidant, but they also possess extraordinary musical talents that find their truest expression through the mesmerizing cadence of the drums and the ethereal melodies of the harp. In addition to being a virtuoso musician, Ithilios takes to the stage as a captivating musical performer, enchanting audiences with their evocative performances. Adding a touch of enchantment to their story, Leo is also united in marriage with the King of the Bards, Trist'Ayran Starstrider-Autumnrayne-Ambrosio forging a harmonious bond that marries the realms of love and the enchantment of music. Yet Ithilios' creative endeavors span even wider horizons – they are a co-creator of the Astral Signals alongside GiGi Fiske, infusing their collaborative efforts with innovation and artistic flair. Beyond this, Ithilios' creativity flows seamlessly into the realm of the written word. They grace the pages of the Astral Sigils as a monthly columnist, sharing their insights and forecasts through their column "CELESTIAL CYCLE," focusing on those Astral Sigils that guide readers on their celestial journey. Ithilios' unique journey, their multifaceted talents enrich not just the editorial team, but also the harmonious interplay of music, creativity, and cosmic insights that Ithilios brings to life that defines Ithilios' remarkable presence.

[galderthefuzzy]

Hello everyone, today I have a very unique piece to share. 

Behold - Hypernia, a magical lute I've had the pleasure to paint for the wonderful MercuryAshoke! I had a lot of fun with this project, it's not every day one gets to design such a unique item. I hope you enjoy the final outcome.

Thank you for commissioning me!

For all those who like a good story behind the art,

MercuryAshoke

has provided one for Hypernia

Hypernia is quite literally a Bard's truest companion. The best way to describe her is to dive into the origin of her relationship with her Player Trist'Ayran who remains her constant companion and player:

When Trist was barely a teenager, living on the street off what little he could beg and busk for as a singing youth in his home city, a local nobleman announced that his family vaults had been opened on his former Patriarch's death, and they had recovered an ancient Heirloom Instrument that was known to shine with the very heart of a star when played by a musician with a soul pure as a melody and a Heart as full of music as it was life. The Lute was rumored to be carved of Purple Heartwood from a tree so ancient it had petrified and had ingrown opals in the wood grain. Rumors abound that this Lute was the priceless pride and joy of the Nobleman's line but the true potential of the instrument could only be revealed via a true musician's awakening.

Naturally this meant that the Lord would hold a competition: for any who could put forward a small sum to participate, Musicians, aspiring, and professionals were welcome to try and earn their chance to win the Purple Heartwood Artifact.

Trist of course being a street urchin since birth was immediately taken by the thought of having an honest to goodness instrument to play, and perform with he might have a means to truly feed himself. So he managed to stash away enough to pay the due and participate in the competition. Doing so meant he and his mother barely ate for a week but this was a chance to live his dream and sing for a crowd, a chance to truly show he was worth more than the gutter trash all saw him as.

The Nobleman's day of competition arrived and while he was sneered at and scoffed at the boy Trist was given the final slot on the roster following the lord himself. The crowd’s cheers were meant to decide the winner and Trist listened anxiously seeing so many musicians and bards playing, and singing, but he -had- to try. When the Lord performed it was heart stoppingly magnificent the crowd even if they weren’t in the Noble’s favor had to cheer at his talent, briefly Trist entertained the thought of backing out as there was no way he could outperform the Noble himself… Just before he fled however his name was called, and the emaciated street rat youth was herded onto the Dias. Everyone in the city was gathered round to dance all eyes on him. He began with the faintest tremor in his voice, but then the song came through. Trist’s voice was the sort of beauty that poets wrote of and that stories described as the sort that could move people to tears, for the joy of having been there to hear it. Indeed some listening as he sang in simple vocalizations and words of the hardships of those below, reaching instead for the dark seeing the hope in the next day, -did- weep their eyes glistening in the dusk light. As if in honor of the song’s conclusion the last vestige of daylight vanished behind the towering manor houses and estates, it seemed the world took in a breath and called for the silence that followed. Murmurs in the crowd halted and they all looked to this strange boy who had sung in rags and tattered shoes that were too big for him and mismatched, whose bones were too visible beneath his skin. Rather than despair rather than the agony of what his existence must have been, he’d sung of hope, and a love for his fellow people that none had ever reciprocated as so plainly was clear on his bruises under the dirt caked onto his too thin skin. Trist for his part had lost himself in the melody so much so, to this day he cannot quite recall what it was that he sang, not entirely. He held his breath when at first the conclusion had been met with silence… and the descent of night on the streets.

Then the crowd erupted in cheers Louder and more insistent than all the performances leading up to Trist’s. Had the boy not been so delighted and starstruck at the praise, the approval he had never gotten in his life before, he might have Noticed the Seething outrage on the Lord’s features, the bitterness, and the disdain plain on his face. Still he had his word, and clapped along with the crowd. Praise and smiles that never met his eyes graciously declared Trist the victor and assured all assembled by brandishing a purple Lute case that the Boy would receive his due. The Nobleman too was praised for his gracious loss, and cheered off the Stage. The Reluctant boy longed to bask longer in the moment of at last being seen, heard, understood by all that had heard him but this prize! The Heirloom he had won! He simply had to see what wonder it truly was for himself.

The Lord once out of view of the crowd sneered and had his men and himself Lead Trist into an alleyway. No sooner were they out of earshot that the Noble Wrenched Trist’s arm and hurled him past the gate that closed him off from the Estate, the Stage, The people who would see what their winner received. Bitterly the lord recounted how had Trist simply not been there he had been the clear winner and the whole pageant had been a formality, that the gutter snipe’s filthy hands had no right to touch something so priceless. Taunted Trist as he scrambled to his feet protesting that the Lute belonged to him, that he’d won it by the Lord’s own rules. He tried to make a grab for the case but the guards dispatched the Youth with a well placed blow to the back of his head and to the center of his core. The frail boy simply crumpled and fought the tears as new bruises formed under his layers of filth and grime from the streets. Scoffing and laughing the Lord chucked the case at Trist ensuring it landed with a pained twang and splintering sound as it collided with the boy hard enough to knock the wind out of him a second time, dislodging the tears and the sob that he had been fighting to keep inside, defeat and pain and humiliation settling in as he laid in the street. “Trash for Trash, urchin, you two deserve each other.” Was the Lord’s parting barb as Trist opened the now dented case to reveal what he’d ‘won’.

Within the crushed moth eaten velvet was a broken, brutalized Lute, stained with water damage and pain, splintered wood and only two strings on broken neck and pegs, every Rose hole had been cracked, their once intricate patterns now ruins of the image of two moons and a Sunburst. The instrument was a painful reminder, a reflection of how the world still saw him. Something to discard in an alley not even worth fixing. But Trist’Ayran Ambrosio was not one to accept that… That he and this abandoned instrument didn’t deserve a chance to sing, or to play again. Over time the story of the remarkable riff raff of the streets became a forgettable hear say, and everyone went on with their lives, the Nobleman Still dissatisfied because ever since the competition he’d have to wait until he might be seen with the artifact in person, and that was if it didn’t stop breaking strings when he attempted to play it in private. Trist for his part, knew nothing of that struggle, he only knew his own. He spent every waking moment that was not spent feeding himself working desperately on restoring the broken Lute into something playable. The time he didn’t spend scavenging for parts of heartwood, or broken strings to tether together he spent spying on Music Lessons other children took for granted, studying and listening in to learn how to play… Soon enough Trist was teaching himself, and having barely cobbled together the lute he’d even started to write his own songs, stories to keep him going on off the notes strummed from broken but never abandoned strings. He worked her back into working shape and played her until his fingers bled and were riddled with splinters and Calluses. Some nights he didn’t sleep, he always barely ate, and simply played… and played… and played, determined to prove that he had something to say worth hearing, that -both- of them did. The Gutter Trash and The Broken instrument. A year passed, and The Nobleman out of frustration and finally believing the superstitions that the Heirloom itself would not play for anything short of a musician of caliber having proved themselves to his people, decided to post the Competition once more. Only this time with the Fee doubled and the stipulation that those entering had to be proficient in Lute specifically before they could win the chance to earn this Priceless heirloom. He believed -then- perhaps he might handle the artifact as was his right. And the stipulations would prevent the Urchin from ever humiliating him again. Little did he know that Trist had been of the first to Pay his due, signing up under an assumed name so the Lord did not simply remove him out of spite, that is if the Noble even remembered the Child he’d brutalized and discarded. The competition this time was even larger and more Grand than before, nobles, lords and ladies of all parts were invited to play, and attempt to earn the Purple Heartwood Heirloom Lute, one said to carry within it the heart and power of a star. Many were very promising talents, phenomenal musicians; gifted all in their own right, being trained from childhood in the art of music. There were also others who wished to try their luck of lower caste if they could afford it, running on rumors that there had been a winner some time ago… but clearly he’d been found unworthy, as the Noble still possessed the Instrument but was never seen with it. Trist waited for his name to be called patiently, and what luck that he once again was to perform after the Noble. Trist clutched the half destroyed case close to his chest a boy in a sea of sneering offended faces, his very presence a blemish on their perfect evening, but he had paid for his slot well in advance insisting on the final show so that his was the performance they’d remember. It was a risk because it meant he’d be more likely to be discovered but He wanted to hear if anyone else truly believed as Trist did. If there was anyone at all that honored the Music as he did, loved it and needed it and -breathed- it as he did; Maybe then he’d be able to walk away. Finally the Noble took his place on the dias and boldly from the magnificent Crystal display pulled the Heirloom itself off the Pillar before beginning to play. Trist found himself cursing that the awe in his face was genuine, the magnificent tones produced from that priceless instrument was no doubt one of the most breathtaking any would ever have the pleasure to hear, and the Lord to his credit played her with the sort of expertise that was the envy of all assembled… All but perhaps one. The Noble’s fingers bled and ached from attempting to tame the instrument, but he hid it well, how the Heirloom seemed to fight him with every song he wrung from its strings. The crowd only saw cheers and delight. Trist from his tucked away vantage in an effort to keep from being seen before his name was called however saw the evidence of the Noble’s proving unworthy of such an instrument. In the end it didn’t matter because his false name was announced to the crowd, and he descended from the hiding space to walk up to the Dias. The Noble noticed him to late immediately recognizing the boy that bested him last year and snatched his Heirloom off its pillar once more, about to demand Trist leave, but the whole assembled crowd gasped when Trist tossed the case aside to reveal what he had done. There were laughs and jeers mocking the purple paint that had been used to try and mirror the heirlooms, strung with mismatched strings and Lute pegs, crudely repaired and looking as misused as Trist himself. Then he played. The melody competed with the jeers and heckling for a few moments but one by one each voice fell silent, as the notes rang from the reverberations of the Street-Rat’s lute strings. Trist’s eyes fell closed and for a moment he simply played, letting the Song guide him, allowing his voice to harmonize with the strings' perfectly tuned magic. The whole crowd of onlookers were left speechless, this boy that moments ago had been a laughing stock, sang as he had a year ago, sang with the hardship and the hurts but the determination to inspire any who shared his to sing as well, the strings sparking with light and stardust bursting from every strum of his callused child’s fingers. The lute herself seemed to hum and glow. Rage painted the Lord’s vision Red How DARE this child make a fool of him, and steal from him! Clearly the boy had taken what was his, He tried to make a dive for Trist but even entranced in his performance haze or maybe because of it Trist’s feet started to lift off the dias on the notes he played, off the Lute he had restored. His every emotion stirred awake, tears rolled down his cheeks painting clean streaks in their wake on his soot covered face as he sang the harmony to his playing, his voice carrying farther and farther, out into the streets and through the city like some haunting, echoing call to be seen by the world. Not as broken things to be discarded… but rather if they were simply loved as they deserved to be, that alone could redefine priceless. There were voices who had carried out the chorus in the crowd now, singing with him reaching out to him as he called out to every person who had felt they weren’t enough and clearly sang “I see you… Let me Listen… Let me hear your song, and let it be a better one for all its broken pieces.” When the music faded, Trist was deposited on his feet gently and the cheers erupted. They were however cut short by the roar of the Lord who accused Trist of stealing, of deceiving, of being worthless, his temper exposing him for the monster Trist knew him to be. The Youth stood his ground feigning calm even when he feared the Noble would not simply beat him this time. Convinced Trist had stolen his Heirloom after the display of starlight erupting from this cobbled broken instrument The Lord howled for Trist to give him back the prize he stole and The Lute in Trist’s hands -erupted- in light so hot it seared the Nobleman’s hands. The Lord screamed in abject agony watching his hands come away ashen black and unfeeling. Trist simply stared cooly at the Noble who had beaten him and once tossed the same Lute he held now at him as a cruel joke and simply said, “Keep your Precious Heirloom, my Lord, Perhaps one day she’ll let you play her if you prove worthy, it would be a tragedy to rob the world of your music.” Then Trist turned heel, his instrument still glowing with all the force of a newborn star, and strode through the crowd that parted for him. From that day on the only name they ever put to the humble Youth who bested the greatest noble musician in the realm was not his, but rather the Name he’d given his Instrument, “Hypernia”.  

[tristayranambrosio]

"Flirt/Casualty" Day 1 - February 18 DWC

(This short story is told from the perspective of a former band Mate and how Trist and He met. You know before Trist was all Star-Void-Elfy. Enjoy <3: Note that its a little steamy and about a very tormented Orc who struggled very much with being himself until my Bard stumbled into his life) I nurse the sour ale in my tankard, I despise the flavor and would much prefer the tang of citrus and sweet mixed with some honey wine that I see the softer fellows in this den can be seen enjoying. Not me… no I have to sit and watch as the Crimson Curtain comes to life at the arrival of its star lutist. He is like a feast for my starving eyes, and I imagine if it was his lips I drank from… even this piss-water would taste like bliss. Instead I see him lean over a table and flirt with one of the affluent patrons and my tankard groans in protest under my white knuckled grip. Luckily for me an Orc bitterly suffering through the sorry excuse for a drink and scowling at this brazen display of flamboyant softness isn’t out of place here. In truth I crave the comfort of its magnificent colors, and the beautiful staff… I want to drink their sweet scents, roses and citrus… to bathe in them to bask in the relief it’d be just to live in their embroidered silks, rather than the oppressive Leather plates and spikes the Chief insists I have to wear to attract the attention of some she-orc to bear my sons. I snarl into my tankard and take a long furious gulp and attempt to swallow it with the revolting thought of using some poor female like that… knowing my mind would wander back to the laughing eyes of the Rose scented lead that has started in flirting with a fellow across the bar from me… Seeing how the soft beauty of an elf lightly squeezing the other Mercenary's arm and admiring the build sends my blood on fire and I briefly contemplate making the bastard another casualty of my fuming jealousy… No one else should be allowed to touch my Rose… none of them are good enough… fel neither am I… And yet… I flash back to the bright curtains while he grips them as tightly as I do my tankard. I imagine him screaming my name under my palm as I make him stifle it lest his boss hear what I’m taking from him… I imagine how it’d feel to pull his hair until he was panting and spent just so I could kiss his shoulder and tell him everything. That I’d never wanted someone as badly as I did him… I’d had my share of elven males, loved their tender perfect bodies for the pleasures they were to touch, this one though, he haunted me ever since I heard him sing… play… on Nestor’s old wine stained stage. He laughs again at something the jackass across from me says and I’m out of my Stool and about to storm over and yank my Rose away from this-this-... I halt when the Bard meets my eyes, struck with an overwhelming sense of terror, rage, and desire, with no idea which of those is reflected in my eyes. He’s unafraid, meeting me stare for stare, only in his Light Pink eyes I see… amusement, he’s not intimidated by the growl that I didn’t even realize was escaping me. “Easy, big guy, if you’re looking for a fight I’ll oblige, but Nestor told me you wanted to meet.” He extended a hand smiling… at -me- and I feel my face twist with glee and fury with a focus, that Bastard Busybody Ring-master I will kill him, “I’m Trist’Ayran Ambrosio, a pleasure-”

The way his tongue rolls over the last word has my body at attention and my nostrils flare… my anger at the meddling Cabaret Director temporarily dispelled as I’m being offered a hand I’d imagined on every part of me and I am once again glad that armor and leather doesn’t have much give as a rule and my state isn’t betrayed to be what it was, fixated entirely on this little Rose’s hands… eyes… lips… I grunt and force down my thoughts of how I’d like to hear him speak around parts of me I’ve only ever shared with soft sweet males like him… He waits patiently, his hand held out to what he must see as a brute of few words and even fewer kind ones. I make a show of crossing my arms and sneering at the Cabaret and despite loving every inch of it growl, “Did the Fop? Figures he’d send the Tavern Flirt at me. I’m -not- interested.” My body revolts and rails against my statement, the lie it was… I wasn’t just interested, I was obsessed… I had been for weeks… months… Trist withdrew his hand smoothly as if I’d not just looked at him with the well practiced disdain I leveled all openly true people with, and he smiled, “No one’s twisting your arm, big guy, not that I could… but you play?” I huff and keep my mask on firmly, indifference, disinterest, annoyance… even when within I yearn BURN to feel him -in- my arms… “Drums.”

Trist beams… and my heart slams so hard within my ribs I swear I feel it trying to burst from me into this Bard’s hands, like it was trying to escape, fly to him from the moment I heard his voice, then saw his face… Rose Quartz eyes and the most magnificent Autumn Maple hair that framed his perfect features in waves and curls that smelled like the Roses that haunted my senses ever since. “Well I’d love to see what you’ve got for me, Big Guy, but it’d be nice if you could give me a name… Otherwise you’re just gonna be some generic ‘big guy’ and if you’re joining up… well I’d like to be able to introduce you as you…” Oh what I could show him… what I had for him was a lust so intense it was making my blood power anything but my mind, and again I delayed my reply assailed with the image of showing just what I had for him… and hearing him say my name, “Jezza” My voice is a growl that I hope is intimidating and not giving away where my thoughts had gone… I needed to get a hold of myself… have this damned bard, and then put him from my mind forever. It wasn’t healthy, and if I can’t repress this need… this weakness for him and what he awoke in me, I was never going to be able to face my Tribe. It was not as if I could sire on him… but, Ancestors help me, my body certainly seemed to wanna give that a go with the urge building in me by the moment, not to mention the restless nights that showed my supposed lack of interest or virility with proposed brides was simply a product of them not being this soft bard… Get it over with, get him out of your head… this is not normal. “Jezza.” My breath stopped. My heart seized… say it again… I willed him. “Jezza…” He tasted my name testing the sound on that damnable tongue, “Handsome name for a Handsome Brute.”

He was- “Are you MOCKING me runt?” I nearly roar. “Nah. Just flirting. Lets see what you got.” With that he sauntered up… and tucked a pair of Drumsticks under my belt… and I could swear he did it to glance under the hem of my leathers… but I was too distracted by the proximity… how he somehow smelled even better than I imagined, and how my eyes nearly rolled back in their skull knowing just how close he was to me. It was over too soon. He pulled away and swatted my hip, “You coming?” The bard brandished his lute as he sauntered to the stage tilting his head to the Drum set in the back, but I was almost rooted to the floor. Staring at this brazen… cocky… magnificent -thing- that I was going to -make- mine. I rumble and to myself, “Not yet… but you’ll see to that soon.” I stormed up to the stage all bravado and seething outrage… but I play… and Oh… I bask in the first time my Rose really sees me and feels me in the beat. The novelty will get stale… and my Life will start and I’ll leave all this behind. Maybe after a few more songs. 

@daily-writing-challenge

[tristayranambrosio]

Burning Dawn (DWC day 5 Flame)

(The song the Performance is to) The deep violet colored silk runs like a living fluid around me… I am shrouded in their darkness, my light obscured by the panels of night. I am center-stage though I have no audience tonight, I never do for this… I’ve not the skill to perform these acts like those I’ve been lucky enough to call my peers… in this I am out matched, but this is not for them… for anyone. When I part the silk like veils I see her face… forever burned into my thoughts like a desert flame, she wound herself in the very same silks and seduced me with the songs she sang from their heights… I twist the panels of fabric into rope using my toes and tension builds, strength from the coiled silk that is stronger than what it’s softness implies, above my head I wind and twist the second panel of fabric as music fills my ears and muddies her features makes her chestnut skin fade into the same dark violet above me. This isn’t for her… this isn’t for anyone… this is for me. When revealed the lights that pin me scatter rhinestone catch lights like a thousand starbursts from my skin tight attire, in the pinks and magentas and oranges… reds of a sunrise, of a dawn bursting to life still barely arched off the stage between two dangling streams of midnight. I nestle into the familiar embrace of the dark, as if I am the flame of daylight… the first pink fingertips of sunlight reluctant to look towards the horizon. She whispers promises I once believed, the sweetest Symphonies of the life I might have had… She asks the question none had ever before, and I melted in her thrall… I wind the silks tight about my torso, fiercely hoisting my upper body level with the engagement of my core set into a hold the position by gripping the far silk partially wrapped about the arch of each foot, pantomiming a steady ascent away from the ground, as if I am walking step by step while parallel to where I’d laid Dormant. “And who is it who takes care of you I wonder?” The words sound like poison now, they were nectar and I was starving and even now they ring true enough to sting my heart with the memory of barbs plunged into it by the very same question from the very same lips… uttered instead in cruel irony.

I climb. My arms scream in protest but I climb. With each yard I gain another coil wraps about my arm until I use one sweep to upend myself to trade one binding of the arm to wrap my thigh… I echo the same then reach out to the darkness into which I cast a thousand prismatic stars from the gems sewn into my suit. I spread my legs and in a surge throw my weight to swing me upright, my hair threatening to escape its tie, but not yet. I catch myself on the two silk sheets and wrap them under my shoulders, closing my knees to artfully construct a hammock for me to hang seated far above the stage. Perhaps I am a fool to practice the art she perfected… that I learned once to offer a partner… a dancer in silk and symphony. Perhaps I’m torturing myself… But I feel a burning in my limbs, and in my core, and it makes me feel I am one with the music in the air. I give in to the music and the exertion becomes a flurry of flips, and reversals tangling, and untangling, whipping my weight in precise extensions to fall… just right and I climb… higher and higher… towards the light that refracts off of me as if I am a jewel, a lantern hung between the last clutches of violet night.

As I crescendo into the rising action I am suspended, legs split above me as I yank the tie from my hair and it cascades out and down with gravity as I defy it with not but silk tension and the power of my core’s ability to support me. I rake my fingers through the curls I unleashed and feel like something wild and alive, like a spill of color blooming in the waking world. I curl myself in and clutch the underside of my knees back bowed and chest arched outward to the open air, like a star is attempting it’s escape from within me… then I reverse and use the momentum to flip upright my hair fanning out in a wild after image behind me that makes me a magenta comet, like a dawn fast approaching to chase the nocturnal back into resting. I wrap my arms in the silks freeing my legs to walk mid air and build momentum… speed… and I am spinning. I tuck my knees in and clutch my silks so the coil with me, I twirl and spin so fast that I am a blur my hair and crystalline catch lights sparkling like I have set the silk ablaze with flame, with sunlight. I burn… This does not -belong- to anyone… this is just as much my art… in fact, with no witness to it, I am the only one this is for.

As the spinning slows I untangle myself… just to wind the length of the silks slowly in coil after coil around my middle, to cross the one rope with another until I reach the knots above… I am wound and cocooned parallel with the stage once more… and as the music halts I take the breath I need to extend my arm and leg out to one last desperate hold… Then I fall, my weight cut loose from its wound coil and I plummet between the silk like a whirlwind yards and yards that took me the whole performance to ascend, unravel me, and -just- as I would crash land… I catch myself mid drop held effortlessly like a timeless piece of art, limbs like brushstrokes lit by my contrast against the dark… I am a flame defiant and my own. The music fades… and I gracefully lower myself to touch down… now a flame slowly dying in the sunset of the performance. No one applauds… but I also do not feel the lingering scorn… or the shame for having come to love the way my body aches after each dance in the air with not but fabric as a partner… I let the streamers of midnight brush my cheek as they settle back as long curtains untangling themselves from my harsh movements suspended between them. It is strange and painstriken how I found this outlet… but I embrace each moment that I blaze as dawn between the silks. 

( @daily-writing-challenge )

[tristayranambrosio]

Vanity/Feelings Day 6 - February 23 DWC

(So! Little break from the back-ground story because I just have a better story for these words that is more current for Trist. Little Bard is ADJUSTING and depending on her husband alot more until she can build back her confidence. @daily-writing-challenge  )

The woman in the mirror stares back at me with my eyes and yet she’s a stranger… I hate the feeling it gives me, the face is mine only it isn’t… ”You’re so beautiful like this baby” She grimaces, repulsed and I revisit that same small shameful place where -he- only looked at me like this… when I wasn’t in the body that felt like mine. I feel like some unwanted reminder, the thing that holds me back from actually being perfect… The woman looking at me is after all engineered, made to be a version of me that’s better… So I’m a better toy. Then I hear my Husband stir beside me and he touches my back, eyes still closed. He tugs at the robe I insist on wearing to bed when normally I’d lay bare beside his own magnificent form. My Mate is no stranger to Vanity, if anything his is what makes me crave my own from wherever it seems to be hiding. I want to fit beside him… to match him the way I never feel I do. Groggily not even awake he moans, “Come back to bed…” I want to listen, but my vanity (or self loathing) dictates I stare at the woman in the mirror for a few moments more, risk making him more insistent, or worse waking entirely… but I have to remind myself… The Mate in my bed doesn’t see this as better… he just sees me… Being This woman means I can give him what I desperately have wanted to give him for years. I begrudgingly try to sort the conflicting feelings in me that this body gives me that ability but makes me feel… even less desirable than my given one… and I realize again how I’d been hiding behind Leo for weeks now, as if that could somehow make people not see me. In my defense it seemed to work better than it should. So why do I want to be wanted? Looked at… desired? Am I truly so self interested? Narcissistic… that I crave the validation that comes when I see someone looking me up and down and imagining all the ways I’d look with them… And I’m ashamed of myself for missing it… “Sunlight…” He groans and tugs more insistently, “Please… I need you back.” And like that it all melts away… He needs me and nothing else matters. It's the same groan that has dragged me back into his arms for years, and it always will. It makes me swell with this sense of belonging. When I climb back into the sheets, I feel beautiful, wanted… even when it's just to sleep a few more moments. He makes me feel at home in my body whatever it looks like from day to day. He is my everything… the font of my confidence and the reminder that I am not more or less, I’m just his. That simple truth is enough to make what was uncertain fall away, there’s simply not enough room when his plea for me rings within my mind, heart, soul. I only have the space for him.

[tristayranambrosio]

Vengeance/Satisfaction Day 4 - February 21 DWC

(Content Warning!!!: This particular story has very sensitive content and I urge any readers to understand the severity of that. The story contains Drug Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Prostitution and addiction, Power imbalance, Closeted Queer Identity and related pressures of society, and just all around awful. This is from Trist’s perspective as we’re flipping from him to Jezza for these writing challenges but you all NEED to know what you’re getting into Jericho is a -villain- he is supposed to be horrible, please feel free to hate him I know I do.) @daily-writing-challenge )

Jericho Archstone was a known peddler of vice in Silvermoon since far before I was born. His empire had been built on the backs of addicts, and what was worse he knew full well the horrors of what he did to those who were desperate. When they could no longer pay, he came up with increasingly creative ways to exploit his clientele, my mother was among them. He filled her veins with poison with the constant reminder that she had the choice… but she’d always make the one that got her more of the very substance that destroyed her. But my mother is dead now… I’m all that’s left, And after the thousandth time I destroyed his supply of illicit substances with their hateful effects that he expected me to use or sell, he had to resort to another way to gouge her debts from my flesh. By putting it on the market to anyone with as twisted an appetite as his. I tried to run… but unlike the guards of this wretched city his drug addled goons had more motivation than gold or the satisfaction of roughing up a bard that was better at seducing their lovers than they’d ever be… if these jerks caught me they’d get their fixes free of charge. It wasn’t as if I never tried to escape him… eventually I accepted I would simply pay my mother’s debts and give in to the monster’s satisfaction.

“Who’s the Brute then.” Jericho sneered at me fiddling with his rings counting them like he always did, “You holding out on me? I haven’t seen a cut from his visits.” “He’s not paying.” I say flatly, I’m bored, tired, long past thoughts of Vengeance for what he did to my mother, and so disassociated I don’t even register it’s for me I should be vengeful. “You’re giving it away for -free- now?!” He booms furious. “You don’t -own- me anymore Jericho. You had your money a year ago. Leave me alone.” I say and never before had I let my voice sound so dead. “That’s fucking bull shit, slut. You still sell yourself, and I want the cut I deserve for -raising- you. Out of the goodness of my HEART!” I want to scream, roar… but I don’t, I simply reply the way I’ve trained myself to, the way I learned to meet even monsters with. A soft pity in my tone, “You need to have a heart first… all that’s left in you is a cruel organ that only draws satisfaction from your golden idol and your ring of loyal addicted followers.”

“You know every once and a while I think you might be my hellspawn and then you spout some shit like that. What’s he PAYING to leave those bruises on you? It’ll spook other buyers.” He scoffs at me, giving my whole body a disgusted once over, unimpressed as always despite the small fortune he got off selling me to lonely people who just needed to hear they were wanted. That was part of why I didn’t hate what I had been for him… the junkies couldn’t afford me, so I was often thrown to people who thought the only way they could have someone like me would be to pay. A fantasy that could convince them I loved them at least as long as the gold made it into Jericho’s pockets. So many of them were just lonely, some of them I helped assure, gave them the confidence to pursue those they longed for or just… forgive themselves for the mistakes they made in their lives. Convincing them they were better than paying for me generally pissed Jericho off but the gold he made shut that up. “I told you. He’s not paying.” I remind him. Bored. “You’re fucking a Orc-Chiefling brute that would be disowned for consorting with a whore like you? If he was paying he might actually retain some dignity in their eyes, but no you’re just giving it away when you should be threatening to expose his deviance, Is that the plan? Get him in good then get the hush money out of him when he’s good and hooked? Maybe you are Daddy’s little leech, the fruit of my very loins.” He smiles at me with all teeth as he stalks after me, long strides keeping pace as I try to just get back to the Curtain. The reminder of what he took from my Mother for years and the implication that he might be my sire sticks like tar in my insides and I want to be sick.

“There’s no -plan- Jericho. I’m not exposing anyone. Leave. Me. Alone.” “No just fuckin him and risking his discovery. You know -I- don’t give a rats ass but I know that clan of uptight jackasses. They won’t like that their Chief’s son is dallying with a washed up elf Whore, no matter how pretty.” “It's none of your business or concern.” I make to storm off but he grabs my arm and sinks his nails into my skin painfully, and for a moment I’m the scared boy I was when he came for me the first time, when he demanded the gold I’d made playing and singing and took everything but Hypernia and my Rose… I feel small and afraid and know this man was the one that had killed my mother slowly while I had to watch her wither away into madness... How do you fight something so huge, that sees us like chattel that bleed gold into his coffers. “That’s where you’re wrong, little boy.” He hisses into my ear, “You -are- my business.” I find my voice but it trembles out of me, “Not. A-anymore. I paid you all my mother owed. I worked for it, you got everything, l-let me-” “No. Give me what you have. I want you to PROVE all you’ve got in your purse is the chicken scraps that your beloved DIRECTOR gives you.” He sneers at the Cabaret again… my sanctuary, my safe haven from him… and I realize he’s sizing up a target. He’d tried to buy the place but Nestor wouldn’t sell nor would he allow Jericho’s goons to peddle for him on the premises. It was by no means a dry or sober place, but Nestor didn’t want anything to do with the Archstone empire… The only reason they were in jeopardy was because of me then too, because Nestor took me in when he caught me sleeping under his tables. I tremble at the thought of those inside coming to harm because of my refusal to comply and I shove my coin purse into his chest then wrench free, “Take it. Leave me alone!” I take off but I don’t run… if I show anyone it puts them at risk… Jericho doesn’t need the meager wage in my purse… its not about that. Its about reminding me that the world doesn’t like people like me, people who refuse to lose their faith in others because of monsters like him. I will never give him the satisfaction of breaking me.   

[tristayranambrosio]

Attention - Grief (DWC day 4) Disclaimer and CONTENT WARNING: This post has a graphic depiction of what some might find triggering due to imagery and content. CW: Drug-abuse, Child-Abuse, Overdose and Death Okay onto the story, you have been warned:

Was I ever Enough? Questions asked left forever, Unanswered always. The cold weight of copper coins were heavy in the boy’s hands… not because there were enough to fill the yawning ache in his belly, or enough to warm the wooden crate he hid beneath to stop the rain. The walk back to her was wet… and cold, the streets empty of the denizens that would have made his take more generous. The thunder and storm like some monster that had driven each indoors to fires and luxuries that the child had never known. He knew… he knew he would displease her… that the six copper coins may be worse than if he had returned empty handed all together, but his voice had hurt… the cough and the rasp made it harder to sing and harder still to out sing the downpour. It hurt to breathe but he panted anticipating her outrage. “M-mama?” He rasped hoarse from the beating his chest had taken from the cough. She was angry… her motions sluggish but filled with fury she whirled on him, bottle clutched tight in her hand. The neck of the dark green glass cracked and shattered open because she had not had it in her to bother with a cork. Her son flinched offering the copper coins that he had clutched so tightly the imprint of royal faces and crests had left themselves in his palms. Thunder drowned out the sounds of the cruel intentions she offered in return, but apologies and pleas for forgiveness, and promises ran into gutters with red from his split lip. 

Your Love all I craved, Your attention my one goal, Silence, your reply The boy came to, his mother having realized in her drunken outburst that she’d nearly broken him, she spent the aching sobering hours of her hangover, doting and promising she would be better, promising she loved him… showering him with every ounce of her attention. He craved it… that acceptance… that love, and despite the hurt in his body and his lungs faced the cold streets again begging, singing… pleading for more coins because each one more he collected meant Mama would be happy, Mama would be pleased with him, Mama would not make him hurt.

Lines of spilled life blood Raised like briar thorn up veins Your arms are so cold     The coins came easier… but he still went hungry, the clawing need for food tempted the boy to buy bread, a heel, a crumb… anything but the scraps covered in refuse and mold he could scrounge from trash and discard behind taverns… But Mama needed the coins. He brought them to her and she snatched them from his hands while his body shook and felt the beating in his soul just as deep as his starving belly, when she didn’t even bother striking him in her haste to leave.

Your dark addiction The vice that bore your burden The child you can blame… He watches her shake then sink the needle deep from a place he hopes she cannot see. Her shivering stops… his continues… He is so hungry… and the needles are full. Empty promises, Lies to spin and weave like webs, On Spider’s silk lashed. He strives for more… squirrels away enough, defies her to pursue the strings… the scraps of wood, he builds a masterpiece, plays an instrument… the coins turn first from copper to silver then silver to gold… his voice, his music… none stir her heart, none make her proud. The boy’s heart breaks… he thinks he knows grief as he clutches his rose… and hurls the gold at his mother’s feet, who snatches it up and does not face him, her boy a young man before his time… her boy still begging for his mother to see him, when all she sees is a golden idol on the cobblestones that can buy her paradise. I am far away, I am not there when you go I return too late.

He wakes to the shuddering spasms that have grown worse, her eyes rolled back into her skull and her lips blue while she drowns in open air, her nose bleeds her nails have yellowed and some have even peeled from their beds… he can count every rib on her sides… he can see every ridge of her spine. Half her size he tries to turn her over and though she is frail as a bird and almost as hollow she does not help him still plunging more of that poison into her paper thin skin. He weeps… He begs he apologizes… promises tomorrow he’ll bring more so she can eat… more coins to buy his mother what she needs… if she would only speak, if she would only look at him But she sees nothing… and her silence turns eternal. Was I not enough… Would you have stayed if I was? I was never enough...   He wanted the world to stop… for the sun to stay past the horizon… he needed time… just a little more time, she would wake, and the world would make sense, he could sing and play for more coins and they could eat a meal… drink from something not collected in puddles and spillways or fountains between patrols. But the world didn’t. Guards had to employ their most extreme measures to dispose of her body because her son clawed and scratched and bit his way back to her as if he’d let them bury him alive with her and the other vagabonds and homeless they discarded daily. So deep was his grief that it took their hawkstriders and lynxes to drive him away… until she could be buried properly and not rise a wretched given her state at death. When the sun set again the boy sobbed over the freshly packed soil, nails black and brown with the dirt beneath them and he found himself wishing the skies would open and weep with him but the night gave him only an overcast starless night… as if the eyes of the cosmos were as blind as the rest of the world to a pair that had someone noticed might not have been torn apart… The only comfort in grief was the rose he had kept rather than the gold… someone had listened… not like the woman in the ground that had given birth to him… given him a Name with the weight of history and prominence of fate he would not discover for years to come… but a boy with violet eyes who had paid him that scrap of attention.

I knew grief that day, I bear it, an open wound, Grief: what scars Your soul. I can’t forgive you, For this yawning void within, I live despite it. Let me forget, heal You haunt me in stranger’s eyes Release me from this Rosaline, Mother, Only wished to make you proud 

Not be your mistake. I wasn’t enough But could I ever have been? No… just your son… trash.    

( @daily-writing-challenge )

[tristayranambrosio]

Bargain/Myth Day 3 - February 20 DWC

(More Jezza! Slight CW: Sex industry/prostitution) Trist’Ayran is something they only tell of in myth… like when he came into the world it was off the pages of some old music sheet, and some being of pure, beautiful song was made into a mortal. Each freckle on his skin is another constellation I memorize when he breathes heavily, and purples where I had kissed his shoulders, neck, everything… My tusks also leave angry red marks in their wake… and yet for some reason, this being does not resent me for the damage I inflict with a sort of intensity that my heart feels… sings with, when he speaks my name. I’m in too deep… He peers over his shoulder at my shuddering form, and I’m spent past my last breath but I still react to that knowing gaze. “Why… is my war-wolf spooning with me?” I growl annoyed and make to pull away, I’m in too deep, I’m in too deep I’m- Trist touches my cheek and he twists his lithe perfectly soft form to regard me with an expression that takes my breath away. I am paralyzed and contemplating if it is some incubus that has ensnared me and feeds upon my pleasure the heights that only he’s seemed able to reach in me. Had I known… Had I known this creature would see me… “Sorry-” He apologizes and withdraws his had, with it the spell that had halted me, “If you need to go I understand.” He turns away and makes to extract himself from my arms, but something was different about it, that pause… what had it meant!? Why did he apologize, I hate it, his apology for looking at me like that… was he going to ask me to stay? He never did that. “Wait.” I say before I think. Trist is half way into his undershirt, its been mended half a dozen times, and I wonder idly looking at him… really looking at him. He’s… smiling but its not in his eyes, like a snarl or warrior’s glare, that hides the truth in all but your eyes. He’s tired… so tired, and I consider that he had endured that bastard Jerico before he’d arrived to the cabaret. What is that twisted bargain he made with the slimy flesh peddler? Had Jerico hurt my Rose? The bard paused, “Hmm? What is it Jezza? Can I do something more?” There it is, this is about me again… and I open and close my mouth before I finally brokenly say defensively, “I don’t cuddle, you know I don’t like… men-” There’s something like disappointment that he hides in those beautiful eyes and it makes me finish my thought, “But-umm… I want to see you again.” There’s something like hope now and a tenderness that squeezes a fist around my heart I -feel- my Rose bloom just a little after the world seemed intent to make him wither in the face of reality… and rather than balk at my boldness, my confession that wasn’t a confession… He’s gentle when he leans in to kiss not my lips, chest, or more intimate places, and instead presses it to my brow, Gloriously half clothed and haloed in the curtains and lanterns of the Cabaret, his sanctuary, his temple… “I’m always here for you, Jezza, whenever you need me.” He says it like he’s said it a thousand times to a thousand others… and something about that hurts… He thinks I’m like the ones that pay… “I-...” What can I even say? I might as well be like them… who is this Mythical being I’ve touched… what has he gone through? Endured? I want to know now… need to know now… so I ask the stupidest thing because I just can’t handle the thought of being just another one of the people who have never wondered who’s the man behind the mask, “Why do you always smell like roses?” He blinks at me, clearly having not expected it. “Someone gave me one when I was little… they’re… they’re important. Even if I’m so much more a weed, like a dandelion or something… someone thought I deserved a rose.” “... You do.” I say flatly, awkwardly, feeling exposed and not because I have remained undressed. He chuckled softly, shaking his head, “You misunderstand, Roses and Dandelions aren’t so different. They’re both resilient and defiant… strong in the face of all climates… environments, and they remain… even after the rain and the frost… still beautiful.”

“You deserve both.” I say more comfortable. Trist softened, “So do you Jezza. I know you like Pale’s arrangements.” “No I don’t.” I lie. He rolls his eyes and he chuckled, “I’ll see you tomorrow okay?” “...Okay.” I want to say so much more. I want to tell him I love roses… I love dandelions… I love… this… whatever it is and it takes everything in me not to break and bring him to my room and keep him there with me all night. Instead I just watch him leave limping a little, but I know he’ll recover by morning… and this stupid part of me is smug that for a few more hours he’ll feel bruises from our tussle and struggle… but I beat that part of myself down. My Rose… my rose that isn’t mine… or anyone’s No more than a Myth can belong to anyone.

@daily-writing-challenge 

[tristayranambrosio]

Notorious/Altruistic Day 5 - February 22 DWC

(Keeping it going as I desperately try to keep up with @daily writing challenge seems I'm gonna be a day behind though) “You’re scowling again.” Nestor sings at me playfully. I growl at the middle aged Elf dressed in the finery of a noble with an affinity for hues bright enough to make one’s eyes hurt. He was a riot of violet and sunset with waist long hair that was cuffed and beaded in artful chaos with a whole ear cuff and what he thought was a -scandalous- eyebrow hoop that he had clearly gotten when rebelling against his ‘upper city’ parents in his long ago youth. The Director of the Crimson Curtain Nestor, having forsaken a surname but kept the fortune to ‘slum’ with the true life blood of the city. He was graying at the temples and I think after too many years being someone he wasn’t Nestor the Notorious Cabaret Lord of The Crimson was now unabashedly who he was. I almost hate him for that freedom, the way he could be himself without a care for what the world saw, love as he loved… His Partner the Tauren Florist cast the Aging elf a warning glance for tripping my fuse while I was behind the bar given my tendency to break bottles when I gripped them too hard. I had taken a part time gig that I didn’t need to stop my clan from asking inconvenient questions, they wouldn’t accept that I just wanted to play in our band, that I felt at home somewhere at last… With Estibahn the cockiest Goblin bastard bassist… And my beautiful Rose.  I grunt and turn my back because I am scowling… because my Rose… who I remind myself is -not- mine is crooning a love song to one of the women in the crowd. Nestor turns to what I’m -decidedly- not looking at as I wipe down the bar, “Our little star, It’s beautiful don’t you think Jezz? How the boy is so altruistic with his romance… his affections. That he still makes them all feel so desired, wanted but never crosses lines. Its a delicate little dance.” “Isn’t that his -job-” I toss over my shoulder and I hate myself for it, my jealous stupid self pretending that I’m not wishing I was that bitch in the audience, with his hand cupping my chin singing into my lips while dressed in glittering costumes and jewels of teal, contrasting his perfect form against the overwhelming hues of sunset. “Oh come on now Jezzy!” Nestor swats my arm and I whirl to look at where this elf had the nerve to -touch- me like it’s some sour fruit stuck to me even long after the playful swat had gone, “He’s not employed as a Gigolo though gods above I’m certain we’d make a fortune if he was. No this is charity. And it almost brings a tear to the eye.” “Charity?” I scoff gripping tight to my bitterness as my turn forced me to see Trist lean to slip from the stage to straddle that woman’s chair with her in it, still singing like a siren as she gazes up at him with naked desire. Ancestors help me… He’s so different when they look at him like that… unashamed of their appreciation. I make myself finish hating myself… hating that I lash out and say the words I want to turn inward about the person who makes me feel alive, “You mean telling them pretty lies, being some fantasy for tips… its all a smoke show like everything here.”

Then Nestor’s words turned dark, hard, and cold, “But if you hurt him, Jezza. If you break my boy, You will always regret it. So stop -growling- and tell him how you feel before you let him slip away. Especially with Archstone -skulking- around again.” The horror in my face and form has me locked in place, did this- did he know what that would mean!? He knows?! How!? Nestor hopped off his stool and reopened his fan with a thwap and purred to his mate, “Now lets go get a closer look, shall me my beautiful bull?” I watch them in abject awe and Palehoof dips an understanding nod my way, hand always lightly brushing Nestor’s lower back with the gentlest hands I’d ever seen. I’m too stunned to rage… how did they know?! I- Have fallen in way too deep.

[tristayranambrosio]

Expectation - Selfish (DWC Day 6)

I feel the tension every day… Sing the songs… I smile until the pull on my face makes it strained and painful to hold the mask on. Inside I feel my still shattered heart writhe and squeeze with the effort it takes to keep me alive, to keep me going. I am screaming silently and it makes my voice wobble, but I sing anyway… until my lungs rebel and my throat is raw. No one hears me… Tears stream down my face but I smile… I act… I have their expectations… I am their darling happy bard. I could not possibly feel alone when so many want to warm my bed, there is nothing I could want for, it would be selfish of me to have asked for more than what I already have… I weep in between the bars I’ve built for myself on music staff, but nothing sounds right… its all wrong, all I play the strings, the keys, the notes they’re all a discourse and tuneless broken melody that rips my throat like razors on their way out… it hurts… I play until my fingers blister, split then blister again… I want to break down, I want to scream but I remain this prisoner in their Expectations. Selfish… To want the burden lighter, to feel the loss and grieve the death of a home… a world where I did not live alone with the weight of it all. I hold them… I live as their fantasy, their joyful beaming ray of sunshine that has never known the barbs of heartache because his heart is so large it can host each of their sorrows for them, I can carry more still. My body is an escape, I’ve built it that way, made it into a play thing that can operate without my input, and be a well to fill with their pain and their regrets… a means to forget. Its easy for me… moreover it is what they expect. But I’m Selfish. I am a temporary visit, never someone’s destination, when I grow tiresome… when I dare to ask… to beg for understanding, plea for someone to comfort me… I become useless, worthless, my value vanishes like they do given enough time. I let them… I do not fight to keep them… That would be selfish. I’m broken strings… of key scores and shattered symphonies… I am torn up staff and untuned instruments, and yet I try… for them… they need me… don’t they? I ask in vain for a moment which is better, if they knew the torment it was to play their favorite songs and hear only the tattered vestiges of my once talented echoes… or that my efforts remain the selfless ones of a man doomed to face this yawning ache alone. I live each day with broken glass in my throat and golden lute strings cutting dangled lines into my insides. Sing… they expect it. Play… they expect it. Smile… they expect it. Perform… they expect it… Lie. Otherwise… you’re being selfish for wanting to feel. I’ve never blamed them… to expect their kindness and open hands is a foolish selfish thing, I don’t deserve it… The best I can offer is to be their smiling dancing bard… a fantasy that doesn’t hurt that doesn’t stop thinking… that doesn’t feel anything but grateful for their coming to him to idle their sorrows and their burdens away… to assure them they are beautiful, to promise them they are loved. Because it was Selfish of me to hope someone could love the boy behind the bard… selfish of me to need more than the reminder of their need to unburden their hurts by using me. I shake… the smile hurts my jaw I hold it so tightly on my features… and I play a song that sounds like the sleepless nights I live perpetually… and for a moment my guard must have slipped… because I hear him say, ”I prefer the sad songs… you are more honest with them…Real” My mask cracked… but his voice was music… and it carried no expectation.

(I'm not gonna lie. This one was the story I was dreading to write. I very rarely let him have a multifaceted existence, my Happy-go-lucky bard is made to make people feel good, to smile and to enjoy him, to feel BETTER for having interacted with the dope... but you don't come to yearn to bring that out in others without aching for it yourself. When ever he came close for years he was met with these feelings confronted with those who just made things hurt more and worse made him feel selfish for hoping there could be something more than shallow stolen moments for him. Luckily for me, there are those out there that taught him its not selfish to want someone to love him for who he is, at his lowest... and at his highest. After making mistakes... after saying something wrong and atoning or apologizing. Its. Not. Selfish. To want to be loved even when you aren't perfect.) @daily-writing-challenge

[tristayranambrosio]

Six

Six weeks… Six weeks and I already feel something new, like heart flickers of starlight resonating on the edge of my comprehension. Everything is so much more intense, like I my void touched self at all times… all hours. Is that why it's so exhausting? But also so energizing? I’m still fuming too, angry one moment then forlorn and torn apart with hurt and the sensation of being inadequate in the worst ways… I look in the mirror and most days I see a stranger… or maybe a relative that was too close to my likeness to find her attractive… She looks at me, tired, and clingy, and nauseous… a burden… I hum a shaky tired tune before I can let them get to me, flood my thoughts with reminders that nothing has changed, ‘with child or not I’ve always been a burden’. The tune is aimless and frazzled, not real music. But it does the job. I brace myself on the edge of the washbasin of deep amethyst and silver accents trying to fight down the urge to dry heave into the beautiful bowl in Leo’s ensuite…. Our ensuite. The woman who looks back at me looks pale, for me at least, and slightly green at her cheeks and ears. My Husband is in no state to hold back my hair and stroke my back… the anger surges back at that reminder… I know he’d be here if he could be. Besides if he knew he’d blame himself, no matter that my mornings were now all too often were spent over a sink or toilet, he’d think this only started since… Stop… stop being angry. Its done… its. Done. “So why do I feel so guilty?” I ask the woman in the mirror who looks just as torn as I am… looking like she might cry or puke again, seemed like that kind of day. She never answers, just looks at -me- as if I owe her an answer… sad eyes… why are my eyes always so sad? People prefer me smiling. She smiles back at me but I see the crack in the composure; it's in her eyes, somewhat manic rather than lit with joy. She tries again this time it’s too many teeth in the smile… next it's the twitch in her brow… then it's the fact she’s hurling the contents of her stomach up in the purple basin staining it a transparent green of burning acid bile. I cough and sputter then wash the fluid down the sink hating it… and myself. I’m such a selfish ass sometimes, so consumed with my own problems when my Mate can’t even walk… what is -wrong- with me?! Now I stare an accusation in the mirror… but the glare withers and my hand goes to my stomach feeling something so near imperceptible…  But there… Its a blip. A tiny… quivering flickering twinkle of a feeling. I whisper, “Hey there… is everything okay little star? I’m sorry your Mommy’s such a mess.” I sink to the black tile floor and curl in trying to listen, hear… they’re too small… most medics clerics doctors… wouldn’t even consider Six weeks long enough to be more than a tiny shrimp or something -if- that let alone someone, a person, I could ask what was wrong… What’s wrong? “So many things baby… but none of them are because of you. You’re gonna make a lot of them better when I get to meet you. You’re worth feeling like this… I know you don’t believe me right now, but you are.” I cradled myself for a moment, rocking slowly back and forth, until the world stopped spinning and murmured, “You’re going to love your big sisters and brothers… they’ve all been so excited… so is your Daddy. He’ll be better soon and he’ll whisper all the beautiful words I never have…” I love you…

That broke me some, “I-I love you too my little star… I promise Mommy will be better. Strong.” I pushed Myself to standing and faced the woman in the mirror addressing her, scrubbing tears from her face and huffing with frustration at how easily they came even for -her- And cleared her throat, “You. Need a midwife, and a Magus. Luckily you are a well connected bard that knows MANY of those specialists. No more moping, we're going to be productive.” I squared my shoulders and returned to bed beside my Husband, being careful not to disturb him or even risk touching him while he Recovered. I won't risk his sleep... and quietly safe guard it while the wounds heal... And I feel the life inside me grow. 

[themidnightleo]

Full Circle

DWC- Day 2- Suppress/Pastel

Another day dawned upon Stormwind, and Leo found himself navigating its streets with caution. The past few months had seen him keeping a low profile, laying low and hidden from the limelight, all thanks to a daring heist he had orchestrated against a renowned tavern within the city walls. Now, tentatively stepping onto the cobblestone pathways, he couldn't help but notice the lackluster ambiance that surrounded him, despite the city's usual bustle.

As he wandered through the maze of canals and districts, his journey led him to Lion's Rest, where a familiar figure caught his eye amidst the crowd—a certain ginger-haired dame.

GiGi Fiske.

GiGi had always been more than just a friend to Leo; she was his confidant, the one person with whom he shared his deepest secrets—something he couldn't bring himself to do with anyone else, not even his former partner in crime. Approaching her, Leo was serenaded by the gentle strains of a lute, played skillfully by a magenta-haired elf standing nearby—a sight and sound he had sorely missed.

After exchanging greetings with GiGi, Leo's attention was drawn back to the bard, whom she introduced as Trist'Ayran Ambrosio-Autumnrayne—a name that sparked recognition within him.

Trist'Ayran Ambrosio-Autumnrayne was his name.

Gif by Kotlass on YCH.Commishes

There was an undeniable allure to the lute player, a stark contrast to Leo's own demeanor. Clad in vibrant teal hues, the elf's attire screamed of brightness, his hair a striking color that caught Leo's eye. Despite the exuberance in his appearance, a somberness hung in the air as the lute's melancholic melody filled the space. Leo stood at a distance, observing the bard with keen interest. He noted the fluid movements, the subtle flicks of wrists and ankles that set the bells adorning Trist into motion, adding depth to the sorrowful tunes. Everything about the bard seemed to radiate sadness to those who paid attention.

Yet, as people passed by, smiles adorned their faces, greetings and compliments showered upon Trist for his masterful performance. It was indeed a captivating display, but they failed to grasp the pain concealed behind his façade.

Approaching the bard, Leo engaged him in conversation, each word tinged with a sense of desolation. The adeptness with which Trist crafted a façade of beauty to mask his inner torment intrigued Leo deeply. He felt compelled to delve further into the enigma that was the bard.

No, he NEEDED to unravel the mysteries veiled beneath Trist's cheerful exterior.

@daily-writing-challenge

[tristayranambrosio]

The Things Forgotten and Reforged (Final)

The whispers of the void are the things that you hear when left alone with your thoughts on the darkest nights and the lamp oil’s run low, the sinking maddening smallness you feel in the face of a vast endlessness of the infinite… a gaping waiting maw meant to engulf your sanity feast on it shatter it and drink what little of it remains, divvying up the shreds of what once was a person. It is terror, and the blackest pitch of the unknown. We grow to learn that fear above all others: The unknown. Their voices carry that fear like an echo, reaching out into the spaces between stars and the immeasurable distances between. They remind you of how far one star is from another, and then how small one is in the face of a star… The Darkness is the insurmountable goliath that feasts on even the faintest dimmest flicker of light and hope, and swallows one into the lack of all things… Ever hungry as the meals it makes of the lost parts of minds that lived and died in the infinite of potential’s pitch dark womb is never enough to sate it as the yawning abyss of nothing stretches wider with every possibility. No place illustrates such a fact more readily than the alien landscape of the Rifts a Ren’Dorei walks as a path of initiation. Trist remembered his well as traumatic as it had been. When the Riftwalkers discovered his deceit, that he had lied about his abilities, or rather forged a means to escape yet another genocidal warchief after having barely recovered from the first one that had put his friends into slums and treated them like second hand citizens, they showed him very little sympathy or kindness. They shaved Trist bare ensuring no tentacles or eyes had emerged, then left him clutching his lute to his chest, alone… to survive or to let the shadows take him, then retrieve what ever the madness didn't take of him.

Little did they know Trist'Ayran would eventually be found no worse for ware, the only real difference being that what had once been a vibrant rose red mane of hair had some how become… brighter a hue of his more familiar magenta pink that given his relatively modest stay in the isolation had grown back far longer than it should have.

Trist found the dark overlook he had sheltered at in the seemingly unfeeling dark. In truth it was far from the first time he had curled up on stone huddled in the pitch black nothing, and many times it had been without his steadfast companion. He looked to the familiar instrument in his arms, his calloused fingers knew the grain of her endlessly constantly re-repaired surface the way most knew their own faces. Hypernia was a PART of him… born out of things that were forgotten and discarded, Cast aside by those who thought the pieces of something broken were not worth saving. In his youth and through his entire adult life he had toiled and polished her, made her something better than the sum of her parts. There were many now who had told him she was proof of his unique school of magic, his being some strange unpredictable power to mend things that were broken, to inspire that which the world had turned its back on, to prove all assumptions wrong… and soar to new heights of potential. Hypernia had been there since the first… and he had carved the rose he’d been given so long ago into her weathered cracked surface so that even when the first gift he’d received wilted he’d always have it with him.

His fingers strummed the golden strings and the lute complied with a delicate reply, in tune, naturally but Trist still reached to touch the pegs Leo had given him… The day the world saw them as spouses, would be the same day he had received them too.

His mate… His magnificent perfect mate… he had never dreamed, hoped… that he would have someone who could read him as easily as Trist could Notes on Staff. Years ago if there was any need of proof that Hypernia was part of his soul’s reach Leo had shown it by taking her into his arms, and her becoming a vision of Midnight Blue, Moonlight… and melancholy.

That had only been the first time the remarkable instrument changed, years later, she proved capable of more, like Ithilios had unlocked her potential… Maybe it had been because he had played her here, just as Trist had to stay sane when he’d first endured the trials of the Rift, but since then his Companion instrument had simply become whatever instrument he had need of. Now it was no different. Trist had gathered so many tokens and trinkets, pieces of their lives together… He’d asked for strands of Hair from those who meant something to Leo, their children, their family, their friends, their lovers… all of them Trist had braided into a single strand of multicolored Hue… He’d asked Leo’s ancestor to grow an Oak born of the acorn gifted by his first real love’s spirit where they once performed, or so Trist had imagined, then pulled the branches he had need of down each patterned with the spiderwebs that once wrapped his beloved in respite in the dark, threads from the Tapestry that observed their first kiss silently… smoothed glass from the fountain where they had met… Birch branches infused with the magic of the riverside where they had first made love and knew what it was to be whole, a gift from their future and the little girl that had no blood to share between them but who had -made- them into the Mates they were… Trist Grasped the last of the salvaged pieces of their story in the hand opposite the one holding Hypernia and read the familiar name over… and over like a prayer. ”Starstrider”

It had meant nothing to Leo, a name the parents who’d abandoned him as a child left him with, but for Trist… For Trist it had been the name he hung on every night they were apart before they were a ‘they’. He’d whispered it in his dreams, heard it in his music, like the -gravity- of his Midnight’s name was enough to pull him from the infinite realities they walked to wind him deeper  and deeper into Leo’s embrace… Being with his Mate… it felt like striding in the stars… without him Trist would have no wings, and without the smallest gesture of kindness that had shown him all those years ago he was seen Hypernia in hand as something divine in his simplicity of triumph, something worth a priceless hard earned rose… “Hypernia… I need your help for this…” Trist said softly to his lute, for anyone who knew him… this was no new behavior… did it make him seem mad? Most likely, but when your only company in the darkness was a Lute, and a distant song from the yawning abyss as reply and answer… it wasn’t all that surprising that he felt a connection. Trist placed the scrap of the old Violet Hour sign against his heart and reached out his now free hand. Trist could count on one hand how often he willingly permitted the darkness that he had accepted into himself those years ago in this same place to seize his very being… In passions and in moments of true emotional catharsis it could not be helped, but to succumb to it was not something one ever did lightly. Control was something Trist had honed to a razor’s edge and perfected as a pitch or key that remained steady as a wardrum… but for this…

Hypernia’s strings reverberated and twisted in his grasp, her shape shrinking then melding into a pure white gold starlight condensing and reshaping. Trist’s hand closed around her new form, the Baton with he conducted orchestras. She felt smooth in his palm but still showing the fractures of kintsugi along the reach of the conductor’s baton. As the shadows claimed his form his body became a tapestry of starlight and cosmic black… the raw potential he was manifested in the unseen… Wings dotted in void stricken eyes opened behind him as did the star bright magenta of his void form… the mundane shadow he cast what little remained of the shape he was for most everyone. The extra pair of arms grasped the found trinkets and materials, as Trist’s voice rang as a Chorus of his possibilities, existing in some state of what could be in all realities at once.

Wading through rivers, Of tears and blood. Whispering shadows, And hollow love.  Thought I was happy, But I've never smiled, The way I do when I'm with you. Through the deceptions, The corrupting void. Light in the darkness, I heard your voice. A handsome melody, The sweetest face. And everything fell into place… This song he’d sung to Leo here… now as he sang his hand swept the baton in the air and his wings swept him up into the unstable gravity of the cosmic air. As if Trist were an artist, he tapped each star visible and in the space of creation and possibility they each winked out note by note… casting him deeper and deeper into the dark, where his Mate’s own power lay always, answering his songs with one of his own, sinister to all those who were blind to the beauty of shadows and the absence of light.

We're infinite… I can feel it, In every kiss and every scar. I'll hold you close, As the cosmos dies, And sing you a new one, star by star-

Trist flew then and the stars answered, as did the shadows between, his arms weaving a framework born of a newborn constellation that did not shed light but rather levitated piece by piece the parts he’d gathered. The unearthly chorus seemed to suspend time and cradle each potential, to dance between possibility and the infinite. La daa daaaam La dah dum La da Lah da da dummm The bard spiraled upwards and around lost in the euphoria of the power of raw potential, conducting each swell and eddy in the void like the night itself was the partner in his dance. Hair no longer strands but rather a nebula of the same pink and galaxies of what could only be glimpsed in the embrace of the dark…

The Midnight Lion, And Autumnrayne. Starting a fire, That nobody can tame. Closer than soulmates, One roaring flame. Gravity tied us together. With cords that no blade can sever… Trist sang on and at his zenith above the Ren’dorei training camps… it was as if all the stars had been extinguished, arms and baton guiding a swell from what would be the strings… the melody carried by the woodwinds on the infinite breaths of those who took refuge in the darkness and called the shadows friend. His body became a conduit for an orchestra born of the cosmos… the great dark beyond… and all the endlessness of what is… was… and could be. Each part of his findings followed, like comet trails on his heels swept into the dance, the symphony of music one only heard when you listened to silence… and magic one only saw when their eyes were closed. We're infinite… I can feel it, In every kiss and every scar. I'll hold you close, As the cosmos dies, And sing you a new one, star by star- Trist’s eyes flew open and his body shuddered with the coursing power lent to him… bolstered by the kiss of his Mate’s aspect in the form of the dark that made his own potential all the brighter. He felt… massive and yet infinitesimal in the grandness of it all, but before he was lost in awe and existential dread… he seized it. His voices calling raw possibility into reality… And Starstrider started to come into view.

Life is now whole. The Oak… the Birch… the scraps of Salvaged wood… formed the curve and sweap… Endlessly colorful… The strings wound themselves on pegs and fangs or antlers, gems setting themselves in hollows Trist’s steady hands had carved… No separate roads, The cracks that were between the disparate pieces seared white silver with moonlight and starlight and the fool in Trist’s image slipped unseen inside within the body as the pillar neck and T-brace took shape with kintsugi of it’s own set with the stars Trist had stolen from the rift itself… 'Cause we're one soul- Trist’s voices echoed and fractured… his every possible self erupting from him, each a part of this orchestra, each a different string, or fret, each a different bell a different sound, cast out from him on a wave of magic that rippled creation… as if the universe too a deep breath before the calm collapsed in on itself… like some dying star, the gravity of it turned in on the newborn ‘Starstrider’ before him. Trist’s eyes returned to their ethereal selves, feeling well and truly spent as his words slowed and became… a lullaby. The one  that he had written from the poem Leo had written about him so many years ago, a song derived of Leo’s Poetry and Trist’s oaths, whispered between them when they knew one another's' arms were… home…

We're infinite… I can feel it, In every kiss and every scar. I'll hold you close, As the cosmos dies, And sing you a new one, star by star- Ahhhhhaar-

Trist reached to delicately pluck the instrument newly forged from a stolen star’s creation from the air where it hung as he seemed to stride step by step down from the impossible heights he’d soared to in the cosmos above the Riftwardens’ spaces, the licks of darkness that had turned his skin into something apart of the space he was wandering, using for its music peeled away slowly, his wings flickering and fading. He sang the last notes of the melody, their melody as he glided down holding both Hypernia and her new sibling Starstrider in his arms. The Hand Harp that Trist prayed would be her equal… her twin in all things. His husband deserved nothing less as they began their lives together a-new.

(And fittingly I've just not had time to finish the Drawing... but say Hello to 'Starstrider' the Instrument Trist forged in Hypernia's image)

(On a related note thank you all so much for reading this Long winded story about Trist's creative process I hope it was entertaining and @ithiliosstarstrider thank you for being the inspiration)