the anachronistic tailor

The Parabolan base-camp we can consider to be belonging to one Anachronistic Tailor has seen better days. It feels, to be honest, a little dreary and gloomy. The tree's silvery color has a tarnished quality, and it is still regrowing its canopy. In terms of plantlife, there's no fields of flax nor much in the way of blossoms. This is in no way an insult to the real work the Maven put into her resuscitation of the place; make no mistake, this is a marked improvement to what it was.

The decay and the persistent rot is gone. The gaping ugly wounds that had riddled the trunk are closed, though those places are where the tarnishing is the worst. The water from the creek is still a little fast but it is not the roaring black; the sharp shadows have rescinded. Cosmogone reaches the ground again.

Yes, give the Maven heaping amounts of credit. This place is alive in large part from her efforts.

Still, the Tailor thinks with a heavy heart (literally heavy, it feels like a stone in their chest), there's work to be done, isn't there? They have never been one to let others carry them to the end goal.

Sleeves rolled to their elbows, they cross the space of the camp to survey and to do what little they can. The bucket has been replenished; the Tailor hefts it and pours it slowly into the dirt around the roots, watching the small bits of violet grass spring up in patches in the wet soil. They pull up the vines still twined around their spinning wheel, but are disinclined to sit at it, and besides, they haven't the materials. The brook is examined; they slip a hand into the water, then pull it out to shake off the drops, which turn to little diamonds in the air, clear and perfect.

Now comes the next part. To the Tailor, it is the most difficult aspect. They sit at the base of the tree, back pressed to the trunk, and try to open their mouth to sing, but nothing comes out. Which, to be frank, was about what they expected, which was why after a moment spent to wallowing they reach into their waistcoat. You see, they'd come prepared.

They haven't played a kazoo before, in all honesty. They don't expect it to be easy, like the Piper made it look. Options being what they are, though, it is more than nothing. The deep blue kazoo shine in the light, and the Tailor misses the Piper more than ever. This is all they have, the big idiot.

They sigh, and bring it to their lips. Well. Actually, they bring the wrong end to their lips, and only realize their mistake when a horrible noise is spat out the end. The angry note takes to the air like an ugly bedraggled bird and flies away. Embarrassed into a wet laugh, the Tailor corrects their error, and tries again.

Okay, yeah, that's better. Still nowhere as good as the Piper, but there is at least the correct noise now. The contrast in their abilities makes more tears spring up, but the Tailor does not stop playing even as they wipe the water off their face.

The Tailor settles back. Music fills the base-camp and beyond.

It is midday when the Tailor finally leaves the cottage in the Marshes. They have, undoubtedly, lingered. Even after the worst of the damage had been undone, the Tailor has been loathe to leave immediately- when they voiced it, the pair had insisted they were more than welcome, that their health came first. And, well, it was nice. To hear it. Believing it isn't so easy but they made a real honest attempt.

Even still, there would be a point where they'd have to eventually face the music- the Tailor is an adult, and they have their own lodgings, and those lodgings need to be sorted out properly if they ever want to get back to a semblance of normalcy.

They both look and feel improved, though not fully. Guilt still hangs on their shoulders, not to mention worry. There were many mistakes the Tailor had made in the past few months, things they'd like to rectify but don't know where to begin. But... one has to start somewhere. Perhaps that somewhere is the shop.

Even now the Tailor is taking their time making their way down the path with a small pack of food and of their laundered things. The Maven had insisted they take something with them, to make sure they didn't have an empty icebox on getting back. The memory of it tugs a weak trace of a smile across the Tailor's mouth as they walk down the hill. They force their eyes away from their feet, looking up- and blink, smile slipping off in surprise.

There is a familiar someone up ahead, making their way towards them.

Well. This might be a touch awkward. It's probably too late to hide in the brush, isn't it?

It was late into the evening in Bugsby's Marshes, and the air was bitingly cold. Though the lacre had begun to thaw, the ground was still half frozen, and it crunched underfoot loudly along the path. In the dark, one unfamiliar with the trek could have easily gotten lost. Fortunate, then (depending on who you asked), that the Anachronistic Tailor had made this trek many times before.

They hadn't been expecting to do it again. They half expected the marshes themselves to attempt to fight them; an icy patch to slip on maybe, or a wolf to throw itself at their person to force them away. No such obstacle ever appeared. This brought them no sense of relief—it made the nauseating anxiety worse. Or maybe that was simply the screaming ache in their stomach. It was unclear.

Every step closer to the cottage reminded the Tailor of how they left: angry and cold, full of vindication for their behavior. All they'd wanted was to leave, to get far from these people who seemed desperate to cling to them. What had made them so angry? What could have warranted the Tailor's pulling away so hard they ripped away all the connections like it was no more than poor and ugly stitch-work?

There had to have been a reason, right? Maybe more than one? But for the life of them, they couldn't think through the hunger. It made their head hurt terribly. Thinking too hard about anything beyond the next step made them prone to collapsing again; it was through sheer force of will and even some terror that they kept moving.

They didn't expect this to work. The Maven and Devil were well within their rights to turn the Tailor away. Unfortunately, they didn't really have much of a backup plan if that happened. Trying to come up with one through the fog of pain was impossible—that this was their best idea was evidence they couldn't think clearly. Who would ever have called this a good idea?

The Tailor fought a sniffle, hands curled into fists in their pockets. The Maven had said the door was always open to them. It was unlikely she meant it. But it was the most they could think to do.

There weren't many lights on at the cottage. Nothing leaped at them when they walked up towards the door. Heart in their throat, the Tailor pulled their hastily bandaged hand from their pocket, and knocked on the door.

The glass of wine, in the candlelight, is a red so deep it is nearly black, but compared to the fabric in the Tailor's hands and the thread that is pulled through again and again the liquid is closer to a vibrant crimson. It swirls when the Tailor picks up the glass and examines it. Greyfields 1882—they are saving the rest of the Strangling Willow for when the work is done. They set the glass back down, and return to their sewing.

The compound of scent has been acquired. The kifers have been purchased in a clandestine affair. Copious amounts of Strangling Willow Absinthe, to perfect their voice. The claws for the hands and feet have been fashioned and tested, the puppetry sound. The classes are over. The people are finally gone. There are no more petty distractions; there is nothing else to demand the Tailor's time. Finally, there is nothing else to demand anything from them. There is only the silence, and the needle punching through the velvet in their hands.

And the wine. There is the wine, to drown the secrets within the Tailor's own empty aching chest. They are secrets that howl endlessly throughout their body, that scream like drowning children. Secrets that climb in them, in their throat, rising like water from a well and flooding over. In the candlelight the Tailor imagines it spilling over their shoes onto the floor, the floorboards sopping and scarlet with a murderous intent. Flowering like a red spring.

Needle. Thread. Silk and satin, bombazine and velvet. Three weeks ago the Relickers arrived and emptied their spire of all the things the Tailor no longer deems necessary. Two bolts were pressed into their arms of soft silent material, like a tiger's mind. Like a pelt from a beast that flies through the frost of a High Wilderness. To use this stuff would be an active, glorious waste, offensive to the extreme. To not use it would be an insult to their profession and their dedication to their monster. The flawless emulation of a particular subject is sometimes a goal in itself.

The Tailor only needs one bolt for their cloak—the other they run their greedy fingers through. They press it to their face like they had done the whisper-satin veil Mother Superior had handed to them, still sticky with a nun's blood.

More. They want more. Soon they will have more. Soon they will have the whole thing. Patience. Feign it a little longer.

They pick up the wineglass again and drink deep. The stuff burns in their throat, allergen against the already abused flesh. Nevermind. Fill the glass again with stuff from the dark bottle. Drink another. The Tailor runs their tongue over their serrated teeth. They are thirstier now—no. They are hungrier. This is nothing new.

The fabric spills out across the floor, shifting silently when the Tailor stands and inspects their work in the dim light. They draw the cloak around their shoulders and let it fall over them, eyes shutting in the black.

It is as dark as the Neath sky. It is as soft as a dying exhalation. It is as silent as the coming of frost. Their thoughts are stilled in their mind. The questions they carry in their core are stopped. Their skills mean nothing. They simply are. Their being is a rebuke to anything and anyone who might get in their way.

It is drawn off their shoulders only long enough for the Tailor to fetch the other items for their illusion: the band that sits on the crown of their head that creates their horns; the chiropteran claws that strap at their knees; the gloves with long chitinous talons that click like knitting needles. The veil, still scented with blood, which they draw over their nose and mouth. There. They slip their robe on again, and approach the mirror in their bedroom.

A thing that is them and is not them. It is taller, burlier, sharper, and thousands of years older. An arm lifts without a sound and claws draw slowly across the glass. Yes. There is the Vake. There is Veils. Their monster. Theirs. Nobody knows it like they do.

They wonder if they enjoy resembling it. They grin at their reflection. It grins back with intent, the sharp large teeth clicking together once. Yes. They do.

They're ready.

You've gained 1 x Seeking Mr Eaten's Name (new total 6 – Approaching the Brink!)

You now have 1 x Committed Impersonator.

In the early hours of the morning, before the rest of the world has awoken to the fresh layer of lacre, the Tailor returns to the shop and slips up the many stairs to the spire-emporium, unseen and unheard. They cross the warm and dark rooms to enter the mostly-unused dining room, setting their messenger bag at the head of the large table. Opening it allows the lamp-cat within to leap free gracefully; it promptly crosses the table to begin to groom itself balefully, outright ignoring the Tailor.

They suppose they cannot blame it: Echelon has spent the better part of twenty minutes in their bag as they crossed London. They haphazardly empty the rest of the contents of the bag while it rights itself: the thick file of instructions and notes on the Apocyan treatment, the metal case which carries the spine, the blue-tinged amber and the sealed test tubes of scintillack solution. The Tailor flips open the folder, before they finally pause to take a slow, deep breath, both hands braced on the end of the table.

They got away with it.

“Agck-”

A finger presses quickly to a mouth to nurse the pinprick of a needle's kiss. There is a noise of utter aggravation, which escapes into the empty air where nobody can hear it. It is followed by a sigh, ever weary, and the finger is pulled free to rub a creased forehead.

The dress is almost done, the Tailor tries to encourage themself. It will be one less thing. Then there is the outer garment for McDavis, and they need to start the order for their patron and discuss the plans for the next commission from them when they come in for pick-up that evening at- wait. What time is it?

The little bell over the shop door rings. Ah. They drag themself from the back room, package in hand.

“Hello hello hello!” comes the delighted voice of the Melodic Conjurer, already setting their cane down into the rack and sliding their lovely winter coat from their shoulders. “My goodness, it's become quite brisk out, hasn't it? I must say, a cuppa sounds magnificent when the weather turns like this.”

They are a beautiful individual, the Tailor's patron. Tall, graceful, limbs fluid in motion, and there is always something like sparkle to them. The white blond of their hair, the catch of light off their earrings and their half-moon lenses. They take up a presence with ease, even with a voice that hardly needs to lift in volume to capture the attention. Soft, slightly accented, yet somehow easily exuberant.

For a moment, the Tailor merely appreciates the sight of them in clean bright glory. The moment must stretch too long without their answer, however; the Conjurer turns to them, coat hung, and that perfect smile with just a hint of fang falls.

“Oh, my dear. Is everything alright?”
( Read more. )

Winter sets in proper, as winter always does. Weary, the Tailor sits in their office and stares at the sheet of paper on their desk without seeing it. It is their essay for the mycology seminar, completed earlier in the week where time allowed and leads for their final assassin could wait for more than a heartbeat. As far as essays go, it is... well. It functions.

They keep trying to see if it can be improved, but even in their own handwriting the letters swim. They lift their glass of brandy to their lips, frustrated, exhausted. Sleep's been hard to come by, and only been made worse since they returned from Wolfstack Docks after-

After-

God almighty, they don't want to think about it. It hurts and confuses and it's a problem for later. Even this simple decision has them setting the glass down hard enough the liquid within sloshes up the sides.

The Tailor presses their hands to their face. They yearn for focus, for clarity. Their mind swims. Sitting back in the high-backed seat, a hand still over their eyes, the fellow sighs.

At the very least, they've sorted the issue with the nuns for now. Only a day before, the once-nun had looked them over in her moments before the honey-dream had claimed her, and had asked them a question they didn't have the answer to.

Why are you doing this?

What a complicated question. They wish they could escape, like she has from the convent, into honey dreams of tenderness. She forsake her cause for peace. They cannot do the same.

Hallowmas at its peak- the shadows stretch longer than they should, encouraged along by tricks of light and tilted mirrors, candles in turnips, capes and masks. Colors seem filtered through a screen. Risks are worth taking advantage of, advantages themselves worth pressing to the point of breaking. Can you catch a Nightmare in your hands? Can you press it to a page? Isn't that what the Fool does, when it visits in the evening? (Isn't that what the writers do, when the contents of their minds threaten to drive them mad?)

The Tailor has the means to capture a Nightmare and expose it for eyes; to peel away its distortion and see its real shape without the layers of obfuscation. The black lens is warm in the palm of their glove, having sat in their breast pocket for the better part of a day. Crowded Correspondence lines its edges. The Tailor passes their thumb over the pane, and keeps it clutched in their fingers when they climb the stairs to their spire.

They did not dare look through it in the shop full to the brim with mirrors. They're not a fool. And, because the Tailor is not a fool, they find themself unsurprised when there is an invited guest inside their lodgings.

It is waiting within their bedroom. This is also unsurprising. Extremely insulting, though.