Trish Una (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
figlia_morbida) wrote2022-08-08 05:05 pm
figlia_morbida) wrote2022-08-08 05:05 pm
Ryslig | IC inbox
Main Username: < Zigazigah >
Public Appearance UN: < Western_Horizon >
Anon: < sharpdistance > , < kidcharlemagne > (not actually anon now because of Hinata)
i accept this [crawls in so late also] / cw: death implied
Practice came next, and she joined a few seasoned, human performers who would usually play a set with the monster talent of the night, though with the way monsters came and went these people often ended up filling the gaps left behind. They're kind enough, they have to be to bother with monsters at all.
And then...she's on her own.
She would be the last to ever admit she was nervous, but the quailing of her heart spoke otherwise. Every beat tinged with doubt, but like everything else she's ever done since February 2001...she simply lets herself lean forward and freefall into the moment. There's no one, nothing to hold on to but herself anymore, ever since she woke up to her mother's hand cold in her own.
It gets easier. Eventually, it feels natural.
Today it's rather gloomy outside, and she introduces her set by commenting on that fact, and you know what? The music ought to match.
And so it does, Trish swaying gently in place, lips nearly brushing the mic, like she's whispering a secret to it and it alone.]
My friends are so distressed;
They're standing on the brink of emptiness.
No words I know of to express
This emptiness.
I love all of you
Hurt by the cold.
So hard and lonely, too,
When you don't know yourself...♫
[She dives into the bridge, her focus entirely on her performance...and then there's a voice synchronizing with the thrum of her bass, and it reminds her of when Kate joined her for Halloween, almost. That was an event where anyone could join in, while Nai'a has something of a schedule. So who...?
Trish's ears twitch as she listens, leaning back from the mic to look here, there and – oh. She recognizes this mer. Beatrice the Golden, a regular performer and one bewitching to behold in motion by virtue of her form alone, all frills and color. Trish's notes on her performances were more about the energy and drama on display, since she can't exactly replicate the ability to swim in a tank and sing. Regardless, Beatrice had a particular flair, although Trish isn't sure what makes the mer tick, and thus whatever lies underneath that flair is a mystery.
Intrigued, Trish decides to harmonize with Beatrice in the spirit of one Miss Denson, humming along for the instrumental. She raises a brow at Beatrice too, having turned slightly to watch the mer but otherwise, unless Beatrice decides to abscond, she is now being integrated into this melancholy exchange.]
no subject
[Nonetheless, she resonates with this. The gloominess roils in her soul like a slow boil, crawling up her throat and hanging out around her molars.]
[No words I know of to express this emptiness.]
[She falls into the song alongside Trish as though she has always been on this playbill. Harmonizing is easy; she dips from low to high and back again, dancing around Trish's steady vocal with a sense of whimsy that wouldn't match the song except for its odd aura of grimness. Her voice is the melancholy of empty halls in a too-large house, rain on the windowpanes, loneliness.]
[When the chorus dips back in, she slides in on the words; she's heard them now, so she knows. One line she sings — I love all of you — the next, she hums. One line she sings — So hard and lonely, too — the next, she hums. Her gaze is intense, neither friendly nor unfriendly. Simply present and all-consuming, as the song continues being strung out between them.]
"She's never heard of a red hot chili pepper." we need Beato to have some. she controls the spice
They look away, distracted by something more pertinent to them. Or they watch blankly, somewhere between transfixed and bored. More often, they clap, or they howl, or they sway – all to become part of it in some way, no matter how small.
And then there are people who sing with her.
Kate, Atem.
Kate was mystifying as a world-traveled professional, but in so coming onto a humble party stage, she proved her humble roots and her interest in reaching out.
Atem, well...he always had an answer no matter the situation, so when he came to dance, and more was asked of him...he gave it. He gave that and so much more.
And now here she is harmonizing with a total stranger, because despite baseline recognition, she and Beatrice have never once spoken. Which makes this that much harder to parse, but Trish isn't about to fumble her performance, and if Beatrice wants to say something with it, why not let her? The undercurrent of Beatrice's voice adds another backdrop to this melancholy song. Her hums and words layering with Trish's in a heady rhythm that's almost dissonant, but kept carefully harmonized. Enough to bring the feeling of the song to the very edge of feeling off. Off, but not quite.
Trish continues to hand Beatrice the other end of the tapestry they're weaving, watching the mer's gaze, which gives nothing away. It's one-sided communication, perhaps, but if she wanted to trade interest, she certainly has Trish's now.
More than anything, she's curious what Beatrice will do when the song is over. Because it's reaching that point quickly. When the bass's strings shiver long after her final strum, what expression will Beatrice have then?
Trish doesn't take her eyes off the mer as this happens.]
get this girl a carolina reaper
[The song ends, as all songs do. She matches the volume of the bass perfectly as it descends into inaudibility, only fully ceasing when the strings come to a stop. She stares at Trish for a few moments, then, and in the space between breaths, in the liminal space after a song ends and before life resumes, her eyes seem too large, too intent, her focus too strong. As though there's no space between them whatsoever and she's just an inch away, mapping out the details of Trish's eyes.]
[Then she smiles, a normal smile of a normal size and width with a normal number of teeth (for a monster, that is), and with a single, unfairly graceful motion, pulls herself up to the edge of the tank and over it, swinging her tail over and sitting on the lip. It takes some time to change back, after all. In the meantime, her tail drips on the floor, and her loose hair drips down her back.]
[She doesn't interrupt Trish's performance, of course. It might continue yet, and she'd hate to be rude — this one particular time, anyway. But that intensity stays, that focus, and she hums as she waits, absently carrying the same melancholy tune Trish has given her, with a few minor alterations.]
[Certainly, she's content to wait.]
IT LOOKS LIKE MEAT
She is someone who enjoys surprises, so this shouldn't be surprising at all, right? Who's to say she hasn't offered odd, impromptu duets before?
Trish takes in the audience, who seem unbothered by the intrusion, although they also seem faraway themselves. Because Beatrice has a presence, and Trish can focus, but it's impossible to not feel the weight of Beatrice in the gaps between, pressing in all around, leaning on the notes of the music itself. She'd been watching Beatrice sidelong, but it isn't until the end that she turns to look at the mer proper, and it's like being frozen in place for several heartbeats.
Beatrice holds her still with her gaze alone, and Trish stares back.
And then Beatrice simply smiles, and Trish's expression turns confused, curious – her brows dipping and her lips pursing. Which doesn't last when Beatrice settles comfortably on the lip of the tank, dripping water onto the floor, and Trish's face scrunches a little. Gross.
Though...
The water drips. The more it peters out, the more consistent it becomes as it collects on the lowest point of the mer's ornate finned tail.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A rhythmic sound.
She's still not sure what Beatrice is thinking, but she's humming, still watching. Expectant, perhaps. Maybe it's merely the curiosity of a seasoned performer to new blood. Maybe she's just weird. There are many possibilities.
The water drips, and echoes, and the sound reminds her of a gentle interlude. A particular song comes to her then, and Trish adjusts her equipment accordingly, before gently strumming. Gently, gently.
Gradually, her strumming becomes stronger, louder.
A crescendo that culminates in a song with a much heavier bassline than before, thrumming through the room. The lyrics do not repeat either, making this song more selfish, but driven.
It is a much harder, much longer song as well, and Trish finally takes her eyes off Beatrice, focusing on the music instead, head bowed and fingers dancing on the frets. Whatever the mer is seeking from her, she can't fathom, but if it's a good performance...she can do her best to give that. There's no reason to do this beyond speculation, but Trish finds she doesn't mind the change in routine nor the challenge.]
I embrace my...desire to...
I embrace...my desire to...
Feel the rhythm, to feel connected,
Enough to step aside and weep like a widow.
To feel inspired;
To fathom the power;
To witness the beauty;
To bathe in the fountain;
To swing on the spiral...
To swing on the spiral, to...
Swing on the spiral
Of our divinity
And still be a human...♫
no subject
[Trish stops paying attention to her, which would be offensive if not for what happens next. The song that comes sounds familiar as rain on windowpanes, a recognizable rhythm that it takes her a few moments to understand. It starts with the water dripping from her tail, ends at the low-slow hum of the bass eking out into the open air. She can feel it in her ribs, in the gradually-splitting bones of her tail, under her scales and in her marrow.]
[This music she feels she can crawl inside of. It's in the beams, in the rafters, oozing out into the sky. If someone flew over, they would feel it, too. It's all-encompassing, taking them to a place closed off from the rest of the world.]
[What would a Fragment with this music as a base look like?]
[Lonely. Certainly lonely.]
[There is only so much she can do as she waits for her legs to reform, but only so much is not the same as nothing. She crowds the empty spaces between phrases with the down-beat clicking of her claws, a steady background of sound, branches scratching against the side of a haunted house. The words, she has no grasp on, but that's all right. She harmonizes still, her voice a sweet, tightly-following echo, spiraling after Trish's and barely hanging on. It brings a breathless quality to the song — one that only becomes stronger when, as the music begins to swell, she drops down to the floor on her newly-formed feet.]
To swing on the spiral, [she murmurs, a too-soft echo, texture in the air. Her bare feet carry her across the floor.] Still be a human.
[Almost funny.]
[In the end, she finds a place close but not too close to Trish's seat and . . . sits down on the ground. One knee lifted, bare foot pressed to the floor, head bowed against her knee, both palms down. She's listening, but she's feeling the beat, too, letting it instruct her body on an instinctive level, telling her when and how to breathe, where to come in, how to harmonize. The spines at her hairline flex, spreading like a halo around her bowed head.]
[This time, when the music stops, she carries on harmonizing for an eerie few bars before letting her voice trail off. And then she lifts her head and gives Trish . . . a beaming smile, clapping her hands together very very softly so they make only the most hushed noise.]
Ooh, that was even better than the first one!
no subject
So for the mer to wade into the song regardless, adding ripples and texture that turns a visceral song that much more layered, pervasive...she can't say she doesn't appreciate it.
The twitch of her dark ears is the only indication given that she notices Beatrice has joined her on the stage, Trish leaning forward in her seat, her soft murmurs drowned out by thundering bass as she's submerged in the climax, her focus entirely on her performance now, a growl tinging her voice as she belts out the most guttural performance she's given in front of an audience before.
Because this isn't a song she typically adds to her repertoire. But it does fit a more somber mood, and if Beatrice is being adventurous, she can't be outdone, now can she?
Beatrice's voice echoes in time with the fading buzz of Trish's final strum, the werebear sitting back and panting a little from exertion. It's only when Beatrice claps that Trish looks to the mer, draping her arms over her bass and getting comfortable in the lull between, her tail swaying lazily behind her.
Beatrice is...smiling, which Trish supposes is nice, even if she's still totally puzzled by all this.
She tilts her head.]
I don't believe we've met properly before.
[A shame for Maya not to introduce them, honestly.]
You're Beatrice, aren't you?
[The audience, meanwhile, is content at the moment to drink and eat between songs. They pay the two performers no mind.]