//------------------------------//
// Aria - I 
// Story: Triptych 
// by Aiyonbeam 
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Tastes are interesting things.

Take Lyra, for instance. She's standing off to my left, just a bit behind me, and her flavor is far from surprising; she tastes like mint, with just a hint of vanilla. The lyre in her hands sings out across the glade, and a serene smile is plastered on her face.

Then there's Vinyl, flanking me to the right. She's certainly interesting; the bow in her hand dances across the strings of the violin nimbly, a leaping, hopping thing alighting on one note, but not for too long. She tastes like coffee, like a smooth, even flow of energy and bitter flavor that shocks you into action.

And Octavia, standing with her back to me, playing her cello with eyes closed - I don't even need to see her to know they are; they always are - doesn't taste like anything, because I'm not feeding off of her.
...Because she said no.

It's interesting, asking people if they'll let me feed off of them. It's certainly led to a lot of awkward conversations. But in the end, it's proven to be a lot simpler than how I used to feed.
Then again, Adagio never was a simple person. Siren. You know what I mean.

I can still remember the night we split up, even though it's been more than a week... And anyone sane would try their best to forget. I remember Adagio pacing, mumbling to herself, trying to come up with new ways to feed. And then Sonata stormed in - Stormed in! Sonata! She doesn't storm anything! - and all the while I was clutching to my own idea, my own hope, playing my harmonica like my life depended on it, ignoring the two of them as I tried to recapture those years of music - real music - that I'd forgotten about.
It wasn't easy, especially after Adagio broke my harmonica.

I remember leaving. I grabbed my coat, took one last look at Adagio, and walked out the door. Didn't look back, either. Then there was rain, and walking. A lot of walking; Canterlot's a big city. I hit up a music store sometime during the storm. I took what I had left in my wallet - around a hundred human dollars - and bought the acoustic I'm strumming right now. The notes sound rich, sturdy, like smooth stone.

When I first started playing with Lyra, that's what she said. That my guitar sounded like stone. I didn't quite understand what she meant at the time, but I do now. It's steadying to have it with me, like an anchor keeping me from drifting off into... I don't know. I was playing in this grove, this secluded area of Whitetail Wood littered with fallen trees and small boulders, trying to remember some of the songs I'd played for various lords and ladies. I'd been getting the hang of a tune that'd been pretty popular among the Canterlot nobility for a while when I'd heard her whistle, low and long. My head had shot up, eyes fixed on her, as she shook her head, smiling.

"You're good." she'd said, walking toward me, a smile on her face. I'd stood, ready to leave; no doubt she'd have friends, and even if she didn't seem to immediately hate me, they would.

"No need to get antsy, Siren." Lyra had said, that same, unruffled smile on her face. "It's just me, and I don't bite."

I didn't say anything.

"I come here a lot," Lyra continued, sitting down on a nearby rock. "It's quiet, and there's nobody around for at least a mile." she gives me a look. "Whitetail Wood's a big place, you know. Twenty miles of untouched forest on the edge of Equestria's biggest city, and you and I happen to pick the same spot to think. Fate's a capricious thing..."

The silence had stretched on until, sighing, Lyra had turned her gaze upwards.

"I know what you're thinking." she'd said. "You tried to hurt me and my friends. Why am I so calm around you?" She'd stared up at the clouds, moving at a snail's pace across the sky, and smiled.

"I guess you can thank Sunset." she'd continued. "After dealing with her - the way she used to be, how horrible she'd been - and seeing how even someone like her could turn into someone kind... I try to keep as open a mind as I can."

I'd begun walking away, headed for another grove nearby. It wasn't as large as this one - it had a crowded, cramped atmosphere that I didn't much like - but I'd be alone.

"Hey." Lyra had called after me. "I'm here every day. If you change your mind..."

It had taken a week. I don't know what made it happen; every day I'd go to the grove, she'd show up, and I'd leave, going off to play alone somewhere. But one day, I'd stayed. She'd looked at me for a little while, before her face broke out into a smile.

"Welcome, Siren," Lyra'd said, then. "to the Lyrist's Grove."

She'd swept her arms outward, as if showing me something grand, but it was just the same clearing as ever.
But it wasn't.

Lyrists's Grove is where I live now. Before, I'd roamed around Whitetail Wood, drinking in the green - there wasn't much green in our part of the sea - and trying to stave off a growing hunger. Now, there's a small shelter made of fallen trees, leaves, vines, and a few boulders small enough to roll into place. It isn't too comfortable, especially when it rains, but it's what I call home.

It took longer for Lyra to play around me. Occasionally, her hand would drift to the case, fastened to her hip with a thick strap, but she'd jerk it back, casting a glance my way. Her eyes weren't angry, or afraid; they were filled with something else, something I couldn't quite place...
and then, one day, with a heavy sigh, she didn't stop. Her hands moving slowly, uncertain, she'd unzipped the bag and retrieved a brass instrument, stringed and gleaming in the light; her lyre. Without a word, she'd begun playing, mimicking the tune I'd been picking out when we'd first met, trying to move her fingers through the complicated notes of the reel.
She was pretty good.
Something about the song, the way she played it... I don't know what came over me, but soon I was playing right along with her, my stolid acoustic filling in the holes, providing a backbone of melody that she rebounded off of, springing off of it to reach new heights.

And now, playing as we are, I can hear her notes still, bright and sparkling against Octavia's rippling ocean of a cello and Vinyl's violin, arcing lightning across the boundless sea. She is the stars that guide my boat, my guitar, through the water.

And she tastes just a little like vanilla.