Splinters / Ragged Pattern [Dante Silvarin] #TheTavern

[Dark chamber folk], [Cinematic noir], [Chamber pop], [glitch] minimal instrumentaton, glitch vocal, male, horror, atmosphere

Dantes first experince with The Tavern. A meeting between Loxley and Dante.

Loxley is created by the talented Ande - @epicshoegaze220 - be sure to check him out 🎉
__________
SPLINTERS
Threads in my teeth...
or blood?
or air?
can't taste the seams anymore.

(I)
crawl through clock-hands,
backwards,
sideways,
the bells peeling inside my ribs.

skin stitched wrong 
was I silk once?
felt softer then,
sharp now, dull now, loud now.

A door opens.
it smells of wet wood
and spinning wheels
and a name I never carried.

There, (he)  the weaver with no song 
holds light in his mouth
threads my shadow into saltwater
speaks not in names,
but in echoes.

I forget forgetting,
remember not remembering,
fall into the pocket he sews for me:
small, stitched badly, just enough.

Hands... my hands...
they knew more once, didn't they?
pinched the world between two fingers,
snapped it shut
like scissors

(but here)
only tremble,
only fray.

soft glitch's repeating
Am I pattern or rip?
Pattern... or rip...
Patt... rip...
ri—patt—ern—

RAGGED PATTERN
dry breath,
threadbare sun
through broken blinds.
my hands 
they map something,
half a compass, half a scar.

call me
stitchless,
call me
scrap-born,
call me
not-yet.

(The weaver speaks again.)
he says:
"memory is a loom,
choice is a thread."
but the wheel spins drunken,
clatters,
splintering
 my fingers,
sleep like snakes,
hissing in their dreams.

I rise, I unravel,
I rise, I tangle.
(I am the tear I mend.)
(I am the cloth I lose.)

outside the walls,
names bloom like mold 
Dante, they say.
Dante, like a bell dropped in snow.

I wear it,
loose,
unfitting,
but mine,
for now.

"mine, for now..."
"mine, for now..."
"mine... for..."

When the Tattered Thread Met the Keeper of Memories

The streets of Tinkertune Town were slick with mist the night Dante stumbled into its arms.

He did not remember his name.
He did not remember the betrayal that carved him hollow.
Only the feel of blood-soaked silk against his ribs, and the distant sense that he had once been something precise, something sharp.

The world blurred into the twisted alleyways—where laughter sounded wrong and lights bled into the cobblestones. No one saw him fall; or perhaps they did, and simply chose not to interfere. His body, torn and splintered, finally gave out at the foot of a narrow, near-forgotten shop. Above him, a sign shimmered strangely—threads weaving letters he could not quite read.

Memories.

The door opened not with the clang of a bell, but with a whisper. As if the building itself breathed in, recognizing a broken thing adrift.

Loxley Threadtale found him there—a crumpled figure stitched together by blood and silence. He knelt, the faint light from his multi-lensed spectacles casting a kaleidoscope of soft colors over Dante's battered form. Loxley's hair stirred, standing on end, touched by the turbulent memories swirling around this stranger like a storm.

But no name came.
No story presented itself clearly.
Only a tangle—an intricate snarl of pain, betrayal, and lost purpose.

Gently, reverently, Loxley lifted him into the shop. He knew he could not heal flesh—that art belonged to others. But minds... minds he could mend.

Under the humming loom in the back room, Dante lay fevered while Loxley began his careful work. His fingers moved deftly, coaxing invisible strands from the air, weaving what he could find into a stabilizing cloth of memories—not to restore what was lost, but to anchor the man enough to survive his own confusion.

It was not about remembering, Loxley knew. Sometimes memory was a poison.
It was about weaving purpose into the frayed edges of a soul.

When Dante finally opened his eyes, they were still clouded—but within the fog, something new flickered: the faintest recognition of self, severed from the old loom’s cruel design.

He did not ask where he was.
He only looked at the loom, the weaving, the thousands of tiny threads crisscrossing in glimmering constellations—and felt, somewhere deep inside, a quiet resonance.

In time, he would remember his hands before his name. His craft before his history.
And in this city of music, memory, and forgotten wars, Dante Silvarin—the man who once killed by thread—would begin to stitch a different tapestry altogether.

For now, though, he rested.
And Loxley watched over him, quietly weaving a corner of Dante’s new story into his ever-growing tapestry of truths not yet lost.

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[Open community project] * This song was written for @Gibeligob, for “The Tavern” (#TheTavern) * The project is open to everyone, so if you’d like to contribute a song about a character at the tavern, feel free to comment at Gibe’s page here: https://suno.com/song/0805eaf2-6855-47ff-9d7c-fa41dcc13f47?show_comments=true More information can be found below the lyrics _____ Dantes first experince with The Tavern. A meeting between Loxley and Dante. Loxley is created by the talented Ande - @epicshoegaze220 - be sure to check him out 🎉 __________ SPLINTERS Threads in my teeth... or blood? or air? can't taste the seams anymore. (I) crawl through clock-hands, backwards, sideways, the bells peeling inside my ribs. skin stitched wrong was I silk once? felt softer then, sharp now, dull now, loud now. A door opens. it smells of wet wood and spinning wheels and a name I never carried. There, (he) the weaver with no song holds light in his mouth threads my shadow into saltwater speaks not in names, but in echoes. I forget forgetting, remember not remembering, fall into the pocket he sews for me: small, stitched badly, just enough. Hands... my hands... they knew more once, didn't they? pinched the world between two fingers, snapped it shut like scissors (but here) only tremble, only fray. soft glitch's repeating Am I pattern or rip? Pattern... or rip... Patt... rip... ri—patt—ern— RAGGED PATTERN dry breath, threadbare sun through broken blinds. my hands they map something, half a compass, half a scar. call me stitchless, call me scrap-born, call me not-yet. (The weaver speaks again.) he says: "memory is a loom, choice is a thread." but the wheel spins drunken, clatters, splintering my fingers, sleep like snakes, hissing in their dreams. I rise, I unravel, I rise, I tangle. (I am the tear I mend.) (I am the cloth I lose.) outside the walls, names bloom like mold Dante, they say. Dante, like a bell dropped in snow. I wear it, loose, unfitting, but mine, for now. "mine, for now..." "mine, for now..." "mine... for..." When the Tattered Thread Met the Keeper of Memories The streets of Tinkertune Town were slick with mist the night Dante stumbled into its arms. He did not remember his name. He did not remember the betrayal that carved him hollow. Only the feel of blood-soaked silk against his ribs, and the distant sense that he had once been something precise, something sharp. The world blurred into the twisted alleyways—where laughter sounded wrong and lights bled into the cobblestones. No one saw him fall; or perhaps they did, and simply chose not to interfere. His body, torn and splintered, finally gave out at the foot of a narrow, near-forgotten shop. Above him, a sign shimmered strangely—threads weaving letters he could not quite read. Memories. The door opened not with the clang of a bell, but with a whisper. As if the building itself breathed in, recognizing a broken thing adrift. Loxley Threadtale found him there—a crumpled figure stitched together by blood and silence. He knelt, the faint light from his multi-lensed spectacles casting a kaleidoscope of soft colors over Dante's battered form. Loxley's hair stirred, standing on end, touched by the turbulent memories swirling around this stranger like a storm. But no name came. No story presented itself clearly. Only a tangle—an intricate snarl of pain, betrayal, and lost purpose. Gently, reverently, Loxley lifted him into the shop. He knew he could not heal flesh—that art belonged to others. But minds... minds he could mend. Under the humming loom in the back room, Dante lay fevered while Loxley began his careful work. His fingers moved deftly, coaxing invisible strands from the air, weaving what he could find into a stabilizing cloth of memories—not to restore what was lost, but to anchor the man enough to survive his own confusion. It was not about remembering, Loxley knew. Sometimes memory was a poison. It was about weaving purpose into the frayed edges of a soul. When Dante finally opened his eyes, they were still clouded—but within the fog, something new flickered: the faintest recognition of self, severed from the old loom’s cruel design. He did not ask where he was. He only looked at the loom, the weaving, the thousands of tiny threads crisscrossing in glimmering constellations—and felt, somewhere deep inside, a quiet resonance. In time, he would remember his hands before his name. His craft before his history. And in this city of music, memory, and forgotten wars, Dante Silvarin—the man who once killed by thread—would begin to stitch a different tapestry altogether. For now, though, he rested. And Loxley watched over him, quietly weaving a corner of Dante’s new story into his ever-growing tapestry of truths not yet lost.

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