12-10-2022, 11:53 PM
As a child, Tristan chased wights and fairy folk along the shores of the fjord. His family’s cabin was isolated in the westfjords, a part of Iceland cut off from an already isolated island. Only the hardiest of folk resided in the westfjords. It was the perfect place for those of trollblood.
As Tristan grew, his uncle sent him to school in the city for part of the year. It was an all boy’s school. It was a poor place to closet up a bunch of teenage boys with little to do except play football and run amuck. Tristan rarely dated. He attended the dances but often remained on the edges of merriment.
His ignorance was not completely physical. When Tristan came of age and confronted his uncle’s treachery, Tristan fled to Norway. He took a job in an isolated sea vessel and spent much of his time as a fisherman at sea. Other than his pup, his companions were brief, heated affairs that ended almost the moment they began.
Tristan did not know what it was like to mix feelings with commitment. Only in the wolfdream did he feel free to express what he truly felt he was without repercussion.
As such, when he found companionship in Sierra, Tristan wasn’t sure how to navigate those feelings. Their physicality in the dream had not yet translated to the waking world despite the intimacy of sharing beds and traveling together. Tristan wasn’t sure why he was hesitant, other than he feared hurting her.
And now Thalia. In the Dream, he found her intoxicating. Here, in the waking world, it was like this moment was the dream and the other was his true self.
Heat flushed his entire body. Arousal was easy to spurn. He was surprised that he found himself so malleable to Thalia’s designs on the moment. He laid himself back and accepted her weight as he might accept the brush of a cool breeze on his cheek. She was light as a feather,
Her use of his other name took Tristan by surprise. He’d not understood why Nimeda called him by the name of another being. He hadn’t recognized it at the time, but a simple search found a more familiar name: Hróðvitnir, which he understood to be a figure of old mythologies. A lord of wolves and father of monsters. Tristan was accepting of the name like one was bestowed a title, and thought little of it until this very moment.
“I thought you didn’t remember the dreams? You called me that before,” he responded as he snaked a hand behind her neck. Her hair was still damp and fell over her shoulder to tickle his chest. At some point, he had tugged off his shirt. He was well built, with the muscles of chest and arms defined. The tattoos were clearly visible even in the low light. Including the newest inking that he awoke with one day.
When he tugged the shirt from her shoulders, he marveled at the softness of her beauty: the tenderness of slim breasts and the inward curving line of her waist. It was so similar and yet so different than before.
"Alright," he told her.
As Tristan grew, his uncle sent him to school in the city for part of the year. It was an all boy’s school. It was a poor place to closet up a bunch of teenage boys with little to do except play football and run amuck. Tristan rarely dated. He attended the dances but often remained on the edges of merriment.
His ignorance was not completely physical. When Tristan came of age and confronted his uncle’s treachery, Tristan fled to Norway. He took a job in an isolated sea vessel and spent much of his time as a fisherman at sea. Other than his pup, his companions were brief, heated affairs that ended almost the moment they began.
Tristan did not know what it was like to mix feelings with commitment. Only in the wolfdream did he feel free to express what he truly felt he was without repercussion.
As such, when he found companionship in Sierra, Tristan wasn’t sure how to navigate those feelings. Their physicality in the dream had not yet translated to the waking world despite the intimacy of sharing beds and traveling together. Tristan wasn’t sure why he was hesitant, other than he feared hurting her.
And now Thalia. In the Dream, he found her intoxicating. Here, in the waking world, it was like this moment was the dream and the other was his true self.
Heat flushed his entire body. Arousal was easy to spurn. He was surprised that he found himself so malleable to Thalia’s designs on the moment. He laid himself back and accepted her weight as he might accept the brush of a cool breeze on his cheek. She was light as a feather,
Her use of his other name took Tristan by surprise. He’d not understood why Nimeda called him by the name of another being. He hadn’t recognized it at the time, but a simple search found a more familiar name: Hróðvitnir, which he understood to be a figure of old mythologies. A lord of wolves and father of monsters. Tristan was accepting of the name like one was bestowed a title, and thought little of it until this very moment.
“I thought you didn’t remember the dreams? You called me that before,” he responded as he snaked a hand behind her neck. Her hair was still damp and fell over her shoulder to tickle his chest. At some point, he had tugged off his shirt. He was well built, with the muscles of chest and arms defined. The tattoos were clearly visible even in the low light. Including the newest inking that he awoke with one day.
When he tugged the shirt from her shoulders, he marveled at the softness of her beauty: the tenderness of slim breasts and the inward curving line of her waist. It was so similar and yet so different than before.
"Alright," he told her.