#tristo posting

[milk-crafting]

twisto

[milk-crafting]

This is a little rough but I wanted to get a quick little doodle of Tristo done heheh

I was originally going to design his like... post game appearance heheh but I can't decide how spooky I want to go with it yet. If anyone has suggestions on how to make him into a proper devil lmk uwu

[milk-crafting]

Owlcatober 2023 Day 1: Protection

Better late than never 😎 for @owlcatober !

Ship: KC Tristo x Sosiel Words: 1685 CW: Violence, trauma

Also on Ao3 now!

Tristo’s body lay broken on the cobbled ground.  It had been a shock to see, the babau’s spear piercing through his chest, his body–so tall and lean and imposing, seemingly immovable–had been elevated from the force of the blow as the weapon slid neatly through the space between his ribs.  It had been so sudden too–the Hellknight had charged ahead, angry, infernal power radiating off of him, fiery halo blazing above him, and the demon had materialized directly in front of him.

The wound had looked fatal.  Any nearby observers would have judged it so.  Sosiel’s glaive sliced through the demon in the moments immediately following, bisecting it.  Tristo’s blazing eyes watched in admiration as he lay there.  Pride.  Sosiel is a capable warrior in his own right, and he hoped in that moment that everybody would witness him delivering the killing blow to the beast.

Tristo exhales wetly, hot, red blood spilling out of his mouth.

His eyelids flutter at the feeling of Sosiel’s fingers cradling his cheek, warmth radiating from his fingertips and into Tristo’s skin.  Sosiel’s other hand presses firmly–painfully–against the wound on his chest.  He’d removed his breastplate, at some point (an event that Tristo must have been unconscious for) and had reached his hand under Tristo’s bloodied shirt, skin pressed to bruised, broken skin.

A cultist appears, rushing both of them, and Sosiel lowers his body over Tristo protectively.  A dagger clangs off of Sosiel’s armor, and he jumps to his feet moments later.  Tristo is starting to come to, becoming more and more lucid with each passing moment.  He staggers to his feet, Sosiel quickly coming to his side to support him as a group of crusaders rush the cultists after seeing that their Knight Commander isn’t dead yet.

Tristo starts to unsheathe his sword, enchanted blade radiating white-hot flames, but Sosiel’s hand comes to rest on top of his.

“It’s almost over.  Let me heal you.”  The look in the cleric’s eyes is pleading, almost somber.

Tristo opens his mouth to speak, then rips the sword from his side, slicing the blade deftly past Sosiel’s hip to pierce the gut of the demon who’d tried sneaking up on them.  He pulls Sosiel close to him with his free arm, yanking the sword free of the fallen demon.  The motion makes him wobble on his feet unsteadily, and he would topple over if not for Sosiel’s body there to support him.

The crusaders make quick work of the remaining enemies, and Tristo leans against Sosiel, breathing heavily, leaning down slightly so that he can rest his head on the other man’s shoulder.

The bandages are wrapped tightly around Tristo’s chest, almost painfully.  Sosiel’s healing magic and a couple healing potions saved him from death, but not from pain.  Pretending not to feel it is a chore though, and every breath cuts through his lungs like a knife.  He doesn’t want to be seen as weak.  He sits at the head of the table in the keep at Drezen, trying to focus on the map laid out in front of him, listening as closely as he can to Regill and Melies’s suggestions.  He’s spent over half of his life training himself–body and mind–and he should be able to fight through this.

“You’re sweating,” the gnome beside him remarks bluntly.  “Your injuries were significant in the battle yesterday.  We aren’t at a point in the crusade where it would be wise of me to advise you to rest, but if you’re in a state where you’ll only be a hindrance to the crusade then perhaps it’s best if you excuse yourself.”

Tristo casts a cold look at the other hellknight, eyes blazing with a cold, angry fire.  “I’m fine,” he insists, eliciting a laugh from the devil on his other side.

“A babau collapsed one of your lungs.  As entertaining as this may be, you’re of no use to anyone when you’re like this.”

Tristo’s hand raises to his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leans forward with his opposite elbow on the wooden table.  He feels like he’s getting a migraine now too.  “Let’s just finish this.  What were you saying about flayleaf, Melies?”

Tristo finds Sosiel in his room that night, the other man seated on the edge of the bed, a small sketchbook open on his lap.  He isn’t drawing currently, just slowly turning through the pages.  Every step is staggered.  The day has been long, and just sitting down for a chunk of it only makes Tristo feel worse, mentally if not physically.  He sinks into the bed when he sits beside Sosiel, leaning on him slightly.

“I hope they didn’t give you too much grief,” Sosiel says, voice soft and gentle,  just like the fingers that he reaches over to stroke the skin on the back of Tristo’s hand.

“Only as much as was needed,” he replies quietly.

“You don’t need grief right now at all, you need rest.”

Tristo casts a wry smile towards him.  “The enemy doesn’t rest.”

“Sure they do.”  Sosiel plants a soft kiss on Tristo’s cheek.  “Are you going to let me take care of you now?”

Tristo wants to argue, but the practical part of him (so often taking the reins) convinces himself to just lay back and let Sosiel take a look at him.  Sosiel unbuttons Tristo’s shirt, every movement born of practicality more than romance now–all business, and it doesn’t suit him.  He changes the bandages and frowns.

“I should probably get Daeran for this.”

“If you bring him into this bedroom I’m going to walk out that door and head straight to the front lines,” Tristo threatens with the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.  It’s not an entirely empty threat either, and Sosiel recognizes it.  The cleric smiles and rolls his eyes.

“You’re healing up fine I guess,” he concedes.  “Just not as quickly as I know you’d like.  Probably not as quickly as anybody would like, honestly.  Really, I think resting would do you some good.”

“Then rest with me,” Tristo says, voice suddenly so soft and gentle that it catches Sosiel off guard.

It’s not uncommon for Tristo to talk to him like that, but it’s unheard of by anybody else.  The way that Tristo treats Sosiel is reserved solely for Sosiel.  He takes Sosiel’s hand and starts to gently pull him in, and Sosiel obliges with a small squeeze of his fingers.

The night air that blows in through the window is cool and crisp and Sosiel pulls the covers up over both him and Tristo to combat it, pulling the taller aasimar into his arms.  Tristo’s body always runs warm, and it’s perfect for snuggling into on nights like this.  Sosiel tries to be gentle at first, trying to not put too much weight on any part of Tristo, but he’s quickly pulled closer, held tighter, at the first sign of hesitation.  Tristo grunts slightly from the effort, but holds Sosiel tightly all the same.

The nightmares come often, and usually Tristo is able to ignore them.  Usually he’s able to gain lucidity in the middle of them, recognize that he’s dreaming, and move on from it.  The word got out earlier on in his career as knight commander that he had them, and it made some soldiers question his ability to lead.  He doesn’t know who knew about the dreams that emberkin tend to have and spread the word amongst the crusaders, but he resents them for it.

He doesn’t become lucid early enough in this nightmare to escape it.

He’s on the battlefield again, the same as before, with Sosiel fighting off demons at his side, except this time he’s carving through the enemy fast, too fast, slicing down every last one until he’s left with nobody in his way but allies.  Friends fall to his blade, spells blast through allies, leaving nobody left standing except one person.

Sosiel.

Sosiel approaches him, arms open, awaiting a hug, and Tristo drives his sword into Sosiel’s gut up to its hilt.  He kicks his love’s body off of the blade and watches in horror as it falls limply to the ground.

He awakens with a start, bolting upright in bed, drawing a sharp, frightened gasp from the man beside him.

Hot tears start to pour down his cheeks instantly, his halo blazing over him and casting the room in deep red light.  Sosiel reaches up, hands cupping his cheeks, not letting Tristo look away, not letting him hide the painful blend of fear and anger and sorrow and relief in his expression.  One of Sosiel’s thumbs brushes against Tristo’s cheek, wiping away his tears.  He knows about the dreams.  Tristo has been honest with him about them for a while now.

“It wasn’t you,” he says, voice firm and quiet and commanding.  “Tristo.  It.  Wasn’t.  You.  It was just a bad dream.”

“You don’t know that,” Tristo whispers angrily.  How could Sosiel know that?  “I killed you.”

“No you didn’t.  If that was something you wanted you wouldn’t be crying right now.”

“I’m not crying,” Tristo insists, despite knowing that it’s too late to hide it.

Sosiel takes a slow, steady breath, and pulls Tristo in close, locking his tired body into a warm embrace.  “We’re both safe,” he murmurs.  “I’m not going to let anything happen to either of us.”

It’s such an empty promise, Tristo thinks, but he can feel that Sosiel actually believes it.  He wonders if Sosiel would stop him, if he became the monster he is in his nightmares.  He squeezes his golden eyes shut tightly, burying his face in Sosiel’s hair.  He breathes in his scent slowly, calming himself.  He can trust Sosiel not to tell anyone about this, but the habit of hiding his emotions completely is a hard one to break.  He pushes the terror down, relaxing into Sosiel’s arms again.

When they go back to sleep it’s quiet, dreamless, and uneventful–all things Tristo prays his sleep will usually be.

[milk-crafting]

Thinking about Tristo being a companion but only begrudgingly. I feel like he would either do it at Regill's prompting (they're in different orders but he still respects him enough to do it) or because he thinks being the KC's companion is an absolute necessity. Like "Oh they're trying to get through this labyrinth full of cultists? Oh they're taking on an army full of demons? Oh they're being sent to the Abyss? Horrid. I must assist, they will die."

[milk-crafting]

♦: Slow dancing for Sosiel/Tristo? 👀

My laptop is about to die and I don't feel like getting up to find the charger heheh let's see if I get this posted in time (I didn't proofread it oops)

(Eta that I did go back and proofread on my phone uwu)

Ship: Tristo (KC) x Sosiel

Words: 807

CW: None I think!

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“Even if you’ve danced poorly before, there’s always time to learn.  They’re going to expect you to dance at the party.”

“I’ve never danced before.”

Sosiel’s eyes widen slightly at that, his gaze rising from his sketchbook to fall squarely on Tristo–for a longer moment than the brief glances he’s been casting his way while drawing him.  His smiles slightly, politely, huffing a small laugh.

“You mean you’ve never danced with someone else before?”

“I haven’t danced at all before,” Tristo mumbles, lips drawing themselves into a thin, tight line, brow furrowing.  His halo seems to blaze hotter for a moment, before dying back.  That little habit scares some people away–not Sosiel.  

Sosiel always manages to see past Tristo’s sharp edges.  Behind every scowl, every cold glare, every snapped command, Sosiel catches glimpses of someone else–someone who’s had to put up wall after wall to protect himself.

Tristo stares back at Sosiel, not understanding what the other man actually sees in him.  He’s softer with him than most–quiet, gentle–but Sosiel still sees how he is.  Tristo is a damn good hellknight, and he makes no effort to hide it.  He’s spoken at length with Sosiel about his association with the Order of the Gate, even, and as off-putting as he knows it is to the other man, Sosiel puts up with it, with him.

Tristo sits cross-legged on his bed in his chambers in Drezen, correspondence (work) spread out haphazardly on the silk sheets around him, a simple pewter cup of white wine perched precariously on one knee.  Sosiel sits across from him, on a chair by his desk, sketching him.  He’s made several drawings in the past hour that they’ve been here, discussing the upcoming party that Lady Konomi had very strongly suggested they hold for some visiting Mendevian nobles–a mix of thrill-seeking younger aristocrats and a variety of other nobility who have invested heavily in the crusade.  Melies–whose advice Tristo takes more often than Lady Konomi’s–had also implied that it would be beneficial to host the party.

Here.  In Drezen.  Near the front lines of the assault on the demon-spewing worldwound. When Tristo can't dance.

Regill–one of the few sensible people in the entire keep–had been on Tristo’s side in voicing reservations about it.  Eventually it came down to optics, and resources, two things the Crusade is in dire need of.

“You’re clenching your jaw,” Sosiel remarks.  “Doesn’t it start to ache?”

“I hardly notice anymore,” Tristo replies, voice soft, distant.

He forces himself to relax, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling excruciatingly slowly.  His eyes–dimly glowing, fiery in the low light of his bedroom–fall on Sosiel again.  Calm Sosiel.  Caring Sosiel.  Helpful Sosiel.

Tristo drinks the last of his wine, setting the cup aside on his bedside table as he slips out of bed and closes the distance between himself and Sosiel.  He stands in front of the cleric, a scarred hand resting gently on his shoulder, tracing his fingers up along his neck, his jaw, cupping his chin to raise his head so that their eyes meet again.

“Show me,” Tristo asks.

Sosiel laughs, blushing, flipping through papers to try to find the first sketch from earlier, but Tristo lowers his hand and pushes the sketchbook down.

“How to dance.”

“What?”

“I need to learn before the ball.  I would ask Daeran, but–”

“No, no, I mean…” Sosiel trails off, thinking.  “I mean, I can show you, I know how, kind of.”

Tristo wanders past Sosiel, shutting the door to his room quietly, before turning again to see Sosiel setting his sketches down on the desk.  Sosiel wipes his hands on his hips slightly, and Tristo realizes that he’s nervous.  Tristo grins.  He loves eliciting that response in people–usually because it means they fear him, which is the easiest way to make people respect him–but in Sosiel it’s different.  Sosiel isn’t afraid of him, he adores him–Tristo likes it like that.  He doesn’t want Sosiel to fear him, he has no need to.

“Here, let me just–” Sosiel takes one of Tristo’s hands, and puts another on his waist.  “We could try a waltz first?”

Tristo smiles, a warm, genuine little thing, like a flame nearing the end of a wick, and shifts his position slightly, releasing Sosiel’s hand and instead pulling him in closer to him, resting his arms around either of the man’s shoulders.

“Or that works too,” Sosiel says, voice a low, delicate whisper now.  He lowers his other hand so both are resting on Tristo’s lower back.

Sosiel starts swaying, slowly, and Tristo’s wine-sweet lips press to his, the aasimar having to tilt his head down slightly to do so.  It’s a fleeting little thing, as all moments like this with Tristo are, but Sosiel savors it, brown eyes closing as he leans into Tristo’s embrace.

[milk-crafting]

Oooh how about 🎂 for Tristo?

You have no idea how much I love this, but also how much it hurts me

Words: 1832 Characters: Young Tristo and his family CW: Child abuse (physical, verbal), neglect, violence, implied death, canon-compliant slavery 😔

Birthdays are always a big to-do in the Vestalis household.  The large, dark, imposing manor in Egorian fills with family, friends, bureaucrats, minor nobility, all ready to pay respects to the family.  Baron Agape Vestalis and Baroness Portia Vestalis dote on their eldest son Corvino on special occasions, and make sure that he’s well-cared for by servants and guests equally.

Tristo doesn’t share this status with his older brother.  

Tristo’s birthday is a small affair, but the efforts his parents go to just to hide him–and by extension, any celebration of his birth–are grandiose.  In the rare event that somebody asks about him (the second son, the mistake) they say something along the lines of “oh Tristo? Doing fine, anyway, here’s how Corvino’s doing–”.

Tristo being an aasimar had been a problem remedied only partly by his parents’ status, and certain comforts had been awarded to him because of that.  His heritage–both infernal and celestial–had been enough to keep inquisitors from breaking down their door, as well as his devotion (beaten into him at an early age) to the Godclaw and Asmodeus in particular.

Tristo had grown accustomed to perpetually being on thin ice, especially with Corvino (already 16, and ready to set out on his own) deciding to become an inquisitor of Asmodeus.  Standard bullying at the hands of his elder sibling took a darker turn with the older boy’s proclamation that he’d defend his faith from all enemies (always said with a very pointed look at Tristo).

Tristo’s 11th birthday doesn’t see him spared from these remarks.

He dresses himself in his small bedroom.  Lavish silk sheets on a full bed, and a heavy, thick burgundy and black rug spreads over most of the stone floor.  It’s cold in here.  It always is, even with a fire lit in the modest cobblestone fireplace in the corner.  The subtle heat that radiates off of Tristo’s red halo can only do so much for him when the whole room is almost cave-like.  There’s no windows, and the only real air flow comes from the chimney when the fire isn’t lit or from the open door–when it’s actually left open.

Tristo values his privacy, even at his young age, and generally his family is eager to keep him out of sight and out of mind.

Of course, today is not a day when ‘generally’ applies.

Tristo’s mother enters the room–tall, gaunt, imposing.  She stands a foot taller than her husband at least, and takes up every inch of it with sharp angles.  Tristo has never gone to her for comfort.

Portia–Tristo rarely thinks of her as ‘mother’ anymore–stops in the doorway, looking down at him with utter disdain as he looks at himself in the mirror.

“Put that thing away,” she hisses, wine-red dress swishing along the rug as she storms over to him.

Tristo lets the halo blink then fade out of existence, its warmth diminishing rapidly in its absence.  The speed with which he makes it go away is the only thing that saves him from his mother’s thin hand–the rings adorning her fingers make excellent weapons, he thinks.  He looks up at her, golden eyes fixing on her steel gray ones.

“I won’t inform your father of this, since it’s your birthday, but if I catch you with that again–”

“I’m sorry mother,” he cuts her off, going back to adjusting his shirt in the mirror.  “It won’t be a problem.”

Portia’s fingers flex.  She’s still thinking about hitting him.  “Good,” she says finally, turning and starting to head back out of his room.  “We will be waiting for you in the dining room,” she adds brusquely.

Tristo steps into the dining room–lit with candles that only barely ward off the gloom of the stormy day outside–and takes his seat at the table.

His father, a rotund man with dark red hair and bright green eyes, had been laughing heartily at some story Corvino had been telling–their mother had been smiling warmly at Tristo’s older brother as he spoke enthusiastically.  The conversation ceases when Tristo enters the room.

“How kind of you to join us,” his mother says coolly.

Tristo remains silent, sitting straight in the wooden high-backed dining chair.

“How long have we been putting up with the little celestial bastard for now?” Corvino says, eliciting a small gasp from their mother.  She can pretend to care still, at least.

“Corvino,” she chides ineffectively.

“She’s upset because I make them look bad,” Tristo adds flatly, faintly glowing gaze fixed on his brother.  “It means there’s somebody who wasn’t human in one of their bloodlines, like a stain.”

Corvino’s expression twists into a cruel grin, which goes unnoticed by their parents.  If they had noticed, Tristo doesn’t think that it would matter.

“Please don’t go out of your way to ruin another occasion, Tristo,” his father grumbles, voice low and exhausted.  “You’re a smart boy, you know that’s not true.”

“You’re more likely to be a curse than something relating to genetics,” Portia whines, fingers pinched on the bridge of her nose as she leans towards the table slightly.  “Some punishment from the gods.  Neither your father’s family or mine would procreate with a fallen angel, the thought is… repulsive.”  It takes her a moment to find the word, dark painted lips curling slightly downwards like she can taste the thought.

Tristo shakes his head slightly, about to argue, but stops when several halfling slaves file in carrying plates of food.  Corvino’s favourites, pheasant and rice with herbs and spinach, simple small seed cakes, and dark red wine which Tristo won’t partake of.  He eats dinner because he has to.  He would rather skip it.  His birthday has always been a somber day for him, and he always ends up feeling sick by the end of it anyway–he’d rather not eat and avoid the worst of that.

A halfling serves him a plate with seed cake on it, he thanks him quietly.  Beneath the seed cake is a gold coin.  Is it from the halfling?  If he had gold why would he give it to Tristo?  Tristo doesn’t need gold, his family has plenty of money.  He lifts up the seed cake completely, picking the gold up with it.  His family isn’t looking at him.  He lets it fall to his lap then tucks it into his pocket as he takes a bite from the small cake.

Dinner passes uneventfully, his parents focusing mostly on Corvino and Corvino being too busy talking to them to be too hateful to him.  When it’s over, Tristo quietly thanks them for the meal, then leaves the dining room.

The family’s manor has a large garden in a central courtyard, with a covered gazebo in the center of it surrounded by trellises covered in lilac.  His family wouldn’t come out here while it’s raining, he thinks, even under the cover of the gazebo.  He sits on the wooden floor of it, half under a bench for good measure.

“Are you okay?” A quiet voice calls over to him.

Tristo looks up, golden tears streaking down his cheeks.

“Oh, hey,” the halfling says, noticing the tears, walking over to him to sit beneath the bench with him.  “Did Corvino hurt you again?”

Tristo shakes his head.  Bran is a halfling slave a couple years younger than Corvino, with fair skin and freckles and a mess of brown hair atop his head.  He stands a good three feet shorter than Tristo.  He’s been the closest thing to a friend that Tristo’s ever had in his short, lonely life.  Even then, even at his age, Tristo knows that their friendship is an unbalanced one–he knows that if given the choice, Bran wouldn’t want to be near him.

Bran rests a hand on Tristo’s arm, patting it lightly.  Tristo tenses, frowns.  He doesn’t like when Bran does that, he doesn’t understand why he’s touching him.

“Did you get my present, at least?”

“That was yours?” Tristo asks, pulling the coin from his pocket.  He tries to hand it back to Bran.

“Nah, keep it.  I stole it from your brother anyway,” he adds under his breath.

Tristo pauses, sucks in a small breath, stares down at him.  He shouldn’t have done that.  He feels like he has to tell someone.  

He doesn’t have to.

“So we have a celestial bastard and a thief,” Corvino’s honeyed voice chimes in.  He rounds the corner, where he’d been hidden by the lilac behind them.  “What a pair you two make.”

Corvino’s hand grabs Bran’s neck in one swift motion and lifts him up, holding him by his throat.  Bran grasps and claws at Corvino’s arm, trying to suck in air desperately, kicking his short legs violently.

“You can’t do that,” Tristo whimpers out, frozen.

“I can do what I want actually, it’s just a halfling,” Corvino snaps back at him.  His grasp on Bran’s throat tightens and Tristo jumps to his feet finally.

“Tristo, don’t,” Bran gasps out.

Small flames are already licking at Tristo’s fingertips, and they don’t go unnoticed by Corvino, who lets out a dry, humorless bark of a laugh.

“Do you think that you could get away with it?” He taunts, throwing Bran aside, his small body slamming into the opposite bench hard enough for a loud crack to ring out, and Tristo doesn’t know if it’s his friend’s bones or the old wood.  “You’d be shipped off and executed, you little freak.”

Corvino advances on him, grabbing one of Tristo’s hand, letting the flames singe his skin.  He squeezes tightly, twisting Tristo’s wrist back until he starts to think that it’ll break.

Tristo’s knee comes up hard, connecting with Corvino’s groin, making the other boy–and he really does just look like another boy now–collapse to his knees.  Tristo grabs his dark hair and forces his head into the wooden floor of the gazebo, slamming it down twice as hard as he can, feeling his brother’s nose break, hearing him whine out a long, keening cry.

Tristo nearly calls this a victory, but it’s never as easy as that for him.  Corvino growls through gritted teeth and rolls, sending Tristo tumbling down until he’s on top of him now.  He draws back a fist and punches him hard in the face, one of his rings connecting with his eye–and the world goes dark.

Tristo wakes in his room.  The door is closed and a quick glance at it is all he needs to know that it’s been locked from the outside.  This isn’t the first fight he and his brother have gotten into.

From his bed, he can see his mirror.  The right side of his face is swollen and bruised, and he can’t open that eyelid enough to see out of it.

When he’s allowed to leave his room, he finds Corvino in the library in a plush armchair, a book in one hand and a gold coin lazily twirling between the fingers of the other.

[milk-crafting]

I'm keeping a pretty good pace as far as art goes, so I'm thinking I may open comms sooner than I planned? I'll keep folks updated about that heheh but! Here's another wip, this time it's tristo

[milk-crafting]

I'm gonna send you two just in case someone else sends you the same one...♠️ for Tristo (I really want to see him all done up like a proper Hellknight!) or maybe 🎄 for Aldis?

I was really vibing with Tristo's Signifier get-up so I went with that one! I took some official art of other Hell Knight Signifiers and kind of took some liberties with it~ Armor is Hard™️ but I was trying to make it look kind of warped and swirly???

references used!