theanachronistictailor: (considering)
When the Tailor is not present on campus, they are likely to be working at the shop or out in the marshes completing a contract for the Department of Menace Eradication; in other words, they're a little hard to reach. Even so, should you spot a barefoot brat tossing pebbles at the hats of Londoners on the street below, you can ask them to pass along a message, and you'll be assured that it will reach its destination without fail. They'll know which tailor you mean. Most of the urchins in London do.


OOC: Leave your calling card here! This post will be updated periodically with roleplay threads for archiving and ease of access.


June 10th - October 1st 1899 2025

Week One of the Correspondence Scholarship
Arriving to Class Nearly Late (Multiple Interactions in drop-down)
A 'Friend' Shows Up
Meeting Thursday
A Poor Start with the Emissary
Lines, of All Things
Petty Vengeance
Nice Eyebrows
Exit Left, into Closet (Multiple Interactions in drop-down)

Week Two of the Correspondence Scholarship
A small gift in way of apology

Poor penmanship
Watching and Listening 
Learning by doing 
A discrete Tailor
A series of in-depth discussions (Multiple Interactions in drop-down)
Working with Thursday (Alternate link to images X)
After-class snacks (Multiple Interactions in drop-down)

Hunter Revealed

Week Three of the Correspondence Scholarship
(To be added)

A dream about black silk...
A quiet tea shop...

Week Four of the Correspondence Scholarship
(To be added)

A slow walk to a shop flat...

A dream about a ballroom...

Week Five of the Correspondence Scholarship

(To be added)

The Stoat Insists (and epilogue)
A dream about a song...
Brawl!

Week Six of the Correspondence Scholarship

A dream about a roof...
A Visit from the Tailor

Week Seven of the Correspondence Scholarship

A Tailored Dream of Sky
A Voyage South


Week Eight
of the Correspondence Scholarship

A dream about-

Week Nine
of the Correspondence Scholarship

At a merchant tailor's shop...

Week Ten of the Correspondence Scholarship

A carefully considered mistake
Checking on the Tailor

Week Eleven of the Correspondence Scholarship

Marsh Beasts
the Rites
The Journey of the Magi


Week Twelve of the Correspondence Scholarship

Nightmares inside Nightmares
Marsh Party
it's time
Mutton Island Meetup
Parabola Excursion
a memento of violence, shared
(depraved) depths (Google Document, Mature Rating)
The Harried and the Frazzled
a novel birthmark (Google Document, Mature Rating)
A New Shop in the Bazaar...

A Mysterious, Magnanimous Customer.

October 1st 2025 - January 27th 1899 2026 
(no more) mind games (Google Document)
Lessons against Cowardice

Class One of the Mycology Seminar

Business and Pleasure
Inside the Devil's Mind
Under a Parabolan Tree

Class Two of the Mycology Seminar

A Bloody Adaptation for the Stage
For Want of a Certain Nightmare, Not to be Traded
Fighting A War of Assassins

Class Three of the Mycology Seminar

A King and their Guest
On the Calcification of Memory, and the Dissolution Thereof
The Convent

Class Four of the Mycology Seminar


Back to the Rooftop
Pick Your Poison
A Date at the Docks
A Completed Examination, a Completed Essay

Class Five of the Mycology Seminar

A Night out in the Marsh
On the Calcification of Memory, and the Dissolution Thereof - 2
The Patron and the Beneficiary

An Awkward and Inevitable Dinner

Class Six of the Mycology Seminar

a pastime
A Helping Hand
The Limits of Ambition
New Year's Party!
the tenth day
the pursuit of knowledge.

Class Six-and-One of the Mycology Seminar

Trailing the Tailor

Class Eight of the Mycology Seminar

January 30th - Current
committed.
fly home.

A Reckoning (A Reconciliation) that will not be Postponed
theanachronistictailor: (Default)

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.

theanachronistictailor: (lil tired)

The door to the shop stands unopened. It feels impassable, like a kind of barred gate.

Which is silly, the key's burning a hole in the Tailor's pocket (well, not a literal hole, even if it is a Correspondence lock- you get it), but still, all they're doing is standing just outside, frowning at it with consternation like it has offended them.

Look, they don't really want to go in. Yes, they're being a massive baby about it- Mother Superior's body may or may not still be in the back room, for one thing. Even if she did just head to the Boatman and her body moved to a safer location as they are wont to do, there's likely still a mess awaiting them. Not to mention the bomb, and that's before getting up the spire- goddamn, they really have set up a great big mess for themselves.

The Tailor fidgets with the key in their pocket, already weary. They're lingering. C'mon, this is their own bloody property, they just need to suck it up.

Or- okay, they're going to find a different way to the spire? Maybe? There are a couple routes, sure, but this is cowardice! Don't turn away from the door!

They grit their teeth, and take only a couple of steps before turning back, and now they are just going back and forth in front of the shops before they decide to leave the Glass Door altogether, heading back out to the Side Streets. Where they're going, they can't say. Maybe to find some courage somewhere, who knows.

Well, what they're actually doing is rounding a corner and nearly running into someone. “Ah- sorry-” The apology slips out automatically. Hands reach out to steady the individual, then retreat as to not overstay their welcome. The Tailor looks up; their throat tightens up.

Oh.

theanachronistictailor: (Default)

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?

theanachronistictailor: (upset)

There were hundred of rooftops in London, all packed together with chimney stacks that stood at varying heights but which all spewed dark gray and black smoke. There seemed nothing to discern this one from the rest of them; nothing that made it evident its host was a crematorium.

It could have been any rooftop that the urchin met them on, but it was this one the Devil was directed to when he had sought out a meeting with Slivvy. A familiar urchin with a penchant for cowls and eyes a little too knowing for her own good had told him 'bring jade, yeah? Fer the price, for your friend. 'e says considerin' 'oo it is, the rest'll be sorted.'

She'd given his hand a little squeeze like she'd done once before, and been on her way again.

The Tailor's hand had stayed firmly in the Devil's for the journey, for all it was still cold and a little clammy. They tried not to seem too anxious as the pair made their way across the rooftops of Spite towards the crematorium.

“I just... dunno if this is the best idea. It's not- not that it's a bad one! I just- I dunno-”

They were failing at not seeming too anxious.

The Tailor hadn't seen Slivvy much since Storm had left their head. In passing, once or twice, but never isolated. One could guess the numerous reasons for it. Chalk it up to another bridge assumed burned.

theanachronistictailor: (upset)

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.

fly home.

Feb. 1st, 2026 12:49 am
theanachronistictailor: (hungry silk)

One step follows another upwards and outwards—out of the workshop that burns brightly behind them. A step and a step and a step, each hunched and silent. One more, one more, and then the Tailor is outside in the Forgotten Quarter again, ripping the veil from their mouth and throwing back the cowl to feel the cold wind on their colder face. They pant, cold air filling their lungs, gasping it in. They can't get enough into their lungs. They can't taste the cold through the Master's blood in their burning mouth. They can't see through the haze of black and red and the searing spots in their vision when they blink from the bright, seething light.

The fires burn hotter than most fires in the Neath. The fuel, you cannot make out through the rippling air. It looks like paper, but paper would not sustain a blaze at that temperature. And even through your silks and disguises, it makes you feel observed. Critiqued.

Another sharp gasp. Their claws are curled into the silks of their cowl, threatening to tear it. Their body rebels at the memory like a hand that's been burned from touching an iron, flinching instinctively before the mind can catch up. The Tailor is moving through the Forgotten Quarter without thinking, forward and out and away. Away. Away from Mr Fires, and the thing of clockwork and clay it has constructed.

A substitute, against the day when one is wanted. Mr Fires is no more worried about being found out than if it were keeping secrets from a dog. "Time to fly home," it says.

Your throat flexes silently behind the veil. Then:

COPY. OF ME?”

"It is almost a tradition," says Mr Fires. "When we lose one of our number."

Fires stands looking at you. It is not trying to see you. It is, rather, contemplating its reflection in the form of Mr Veils. "We have gone such different ways," it says. "I remember when we were more alike. But then... you were always the Vake, at least a little. Not able to keep to the allowable times. Killing whenever it suited you. Not so coarse in your thinking, but vicious, even then."

Rage wells up within you. BITE MR FIRES, some voice in your mind tells you, and it sounds so much like your own voice. It is a very convincing likeness. You have always excelled at biting. You lunge, your teeth leaping from your mouth and rending into crimson fabric and fur and flesh. Blood wells, fills your mouth. It burns hot like hunger. You are not sated at the first scream, and even as Fires cracks an eyetooth with a cudgel, your whole body lunges again, a silent and furious rebuke against its machinations. AGAIN. Your serrated teeth tear into its sleeve. Its makeshift weapon comes down against you but you hold fast. AGAIN. Its taste is more than iron. It opens up the bottomless well in you that demands you eat as He was eaten. AGAIN.

You lose count of the number of times your teeth find purchase. You only know that they make their way back into your panting mouth, and Fires is shying back to build distance away from you, but there is a glint in its eyes that indicates it is mollified. Vindicated, even.

As I said. Unsophisticated.”

Even now, the Tailor's teeth itch and gnash, lips twisted without their consent. The itch is in their skin as well, like a beast striving to break out of the bindings, only it is them, they are the beast, needing to tear away the cloak and the disguise; shed the Master they have spent near three weeks truly encompassing in every aspect. Too much of them is in this homage. Their thoughts are smeared with the color of unspeakable bloodlust.

They need to return to their spire. Shed this impersonation. Purge Veils from every dark corner of their mind before their doom becomes inevitable alongside its own, if they aren't already too far gone. They can't already be too late. They can't.

Back to the shop. Quickly. April is waiting. Mother Superior is waiting.
 

Read more. )

 

committed.

Jan. 30th, 2026 11:25 am
theanachronistictailor: (at work)

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.

theanachronistictailor: (hungry silk)

Shaking hands uncork tubes. Pour slowly. The liquid drains into the beaker, one after another after another. Check the amount. Basic division, if you can get the numbers squared away in your head. Set the tubes all in a neat row. Here's the funnel, set on the first. Pour. Just a little. A little more now.

Good. Now do that a few more times, until all the solution is equally divided among the tubes, including the one that had been drained by the Tailor's misguided experiment. The solution fills slightly less of the tubes now, but they are spread in proportion again- the best concealment they can think of to disguise the theft and usage.

It is not a perfect job. If one is looking, they will see the errors. But the deceit is passable, the Tailor tells themselves. For their limited resources, it will cover the crime long enough.

The spine is cleaned thoroughly. The work of it is methodical. It soothes the unsteadiness in their fingers and the loops in their mind. They set it carefully back into the case. The notes are straightened; the folder is closed. Each item is reinserted into their bag to be returned.

The trembling amber is another matter. They've no accessible means of replacing the nodule they used. Time is limited: they could be discovered at any moment. The theft was several days ago now. Is it already too late?

Very well. They will simply have to hope the nodule (one of many from the storage drawer where they found it) will be considered mislaid.Read more. )

theanachronistictailor: (hungry silk)

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.

 

Read more. )

a pastime

Dec. 25th, 2025 10:17 pm
theanachronistictailor: (hungry silk)

1 x assistant (good ear for pitch)

There is the curl of a snarl still on the Tailor's mouth, when they find the small note among the mail left at the foot of their door just inside the entryway of the spire-emporium. April's handwriting is a barely-legible scribble, her request a week late. They scowl, still tasting copper, heart rate still slightly elevated after three hours running in the dark marshes on their own. It's the only thing they could think to give themselves some kind of relief, after a week of bullshit.

First the dinner, then meeting April. The arguments they had with her, trying to write Mother Superior's demands despite their anger. Twice she denied them, impatience growing, until they could finally find the right way to structure the words on the paper. Sleepless, furious, they'd felt no better when the Revolutionary had agreed to the job, before giving them a shopping list that was frightfully demanding.

For the better part of a week they have tried to find the components, only to now find one more damn thing. There is always one more thing, isn't there? Despite all their attempts. What little good mood they have salvaged from their impromptu marsh run has left them at the threshold of their home.
Read more. )

theanachronistictailor: (at work)

“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. )


theanachronistictailor: (splashed)
It has been several days: Since class, since a Tailor had asked a question a Mycologist had promised an answer to, and since one Professor had advised their friends about the an impending... well, deadline, for lack of a more sensitive word. In the moments following the announcement, the Tailor had looked hard within themself, counted up their pains and questions in contrast to such a significant situation, and had come to a conclusion: some things surely could wait. Nevermind how the thought stung, their priorities demanded resolutions to problems with short time-frames.

(To look in the Tailor's psyche is to see the cracks that are starting to show. Perhaps one doesn't need to look so far, however- but then the shadows under their eyes aren't new, and the complexion can be put to the cold season.)

Despite their willingness to wait, the Mycologist had taken on a look, reminding them through sheer posture something he had told them on more than one occasion: no half-measures. They could not find it in themself to be relieved, and when the invitation for dinner that week had come, they had decided to brace for whatever may come. Already the week has felt long for a number of reasons they put aside for now, walking with the Professor alongside them from the Glass Door to the Ivory Door and up to the Mycologist's lodgings.

It is a chilly evening, though you would not know it within the Bazaar. The Tailor walks alongside the Professor with a smile they hardly feel on their face. They both know the way now, and both are welcome for now, but the fellow still knocks on the frame that accounts for a door where the curtain hangs. 

"You think he's finished grading the essays by now?" they ask the Professor jokingly. "I know he said we can't bribe the teacher into better grades, but there's no harm in trying, is there?" Lighthearted, at ease, doing all they can not to show anxiety, but at least if there's any to be seen it can be put down to a worry over the shapeling's health. 

(And if the Mycologist overhears them through the curtain, he too can know they're trying for lightness as long as they can.)
theanachronistictailor: (considering)

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.

Read more. )
theanachronistictailor: (anger)

The last time the Tailor was in Mother Superior's office was over a decade ago. They had sat in the chair across from her, little legs unable to reach the ground, while she'd looked at them long and hard through her one good eye, and then told them that she was sending them back to the mainland. Stormy gray eyes had stared over the desk they only barely felt they could look over, their expression steely while they fought to keep their lower lip from wobbling.

Now the woman eyes them with open suspicion, and not a little amount of speculation. Their gaze, now, is peligin, but they wonder if the rest stirs any memories in the nun's mind. Do the zee-tousled curls stir memories? The mark over their brow? Would she even bother to recall the child that stayed six months at most in her care, who crept into her rooms and hid under the tables and her cot to hear secrets not meant for their ears?

Why would she?

Read more. )

 

theanachronistictailor: (hungry silk)

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.

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theanachronistictailor: (pleased)
With Hallowmas over, London was quick to pull back the chaotic energy to something that was considerably more subdued. The masks were put away and the costumes were folded tidily for another year in the wardrobe. Crime went back to being a more private affair, or at least for the alleyways and more constrained to Spite instead of spilling out as far as Concord Square. (Okay, well, crime was also happening in Concord Square, but the individuals who committed it were wearing blue.) As for grievous injuries and nightmares, their consequences returned to the threats of a boat on a river or a visit to the Royal Bethlehem.

Yes, London was settling back into its usual rhythm. Its residents were taking the time to return to their regular habits. For one Anachronistic Tailor and their friend the Lied Piper, one of these habits was teatime at Beatrice's. With the school semester back on, the pair hadn't been able to do it with as much regularity as they might have prior, so now the Tailor was happy to sit across from the Piper outside the shop doors at a little shaded table and just spend the time together.

It was good to slow down. After the mess that was the beginning of their hunt, the opening of the shop, trying to track down connections, and Hallowmas and all its accompanying horrors (given to the Fool's Apostate or not), they were doing what they could to not rush through all their goals all at once.

The Tailor set their teacup back onto its saucer. "And you haven't had issues with the gloves in any way?" they asked. "Punching marsh wolves and spiders not wearing the stitches out? Or have you been spending too much time with Tene to really go hunting?"
theanachronistictailor: (at work)
Despite everything, the Tailor is starting to get a little bit better at Parabola. Not good at it, they would say, but 'better'. They have managed to figure out trails, if you can call them that, to most of the key spots in the Is Not, with some reliability now. They have begun working on getting a reflection of one of the shop's workrooms into their base camp. The sewing machine won't manage it right now- being flipped does mean the needle's in the wrong place, something that can't just be simply flipped. But everything else has been managed.

Not that they've really had the time to use any of it. They'd started gathering the flax on the perimeters of the base camp, but haven't sat to do much with it. But after Tuesday leaves them with a mess of emotions, they've decided to turn to a task that is both mindless and easy to focus on: that is, spinning.

It's been a bit of trouble, admittedly. Between Parabola responding to their bad mood, and their inexperience with the stuff, the Tailor's had flax turn to ash, and then to thorny stems, in their hands. They do eventually manage it though, after many deep slow breaths and focusing on the textures and the tasks themselves. Turn off the emotions. Stop thinking about anything else. There's just the flax and the wheel and the twisting of the stuff between their fingers.

There they go. They've got it down now. It spins a little differently than spider silk, it will take some practice, but they're managing. It's easier to do this and switch off, sitting at the edge of their camp with a small basket that keeps their vacuum flask and a few sandwiches they've brought. They want to be here long enough to decompress.

Above and behind them, the tree they've connected to stands proud. Its leaves oscillate in color slowly, from pale blue to fire orange, all against the silver branches. Leaves sway as if there is a breeze. Some might call this picturesque.
theanachronistictailor: (smile)
The afternoon arrives on the day after class, and with it, the Anachronistic Tailor arrives to one Mycologist's old office. While they were aware he has moved from the premises in terms of lodging, they haven't got a forwarding address, though they have their suspicions about the matter. Regardless, this is where they said they'd meet him and so this is where they are.

They are dressed for business, of course, paisley limited to pocket swatch of their coat. They've brought notes for the important matters of the day. There's, well, there's a lot of ground to cover, isn't there? Both in the social aspect and the actual consultation aspect. If the Mycologist is willing, in any case. They're sure his current line of work is no fun.

It is a weight off their mind, really, to be able to see him. After nearly a month without, they'd- well, it hardly matters. The Tailor adjusts their coat, straightens the cuffs of the black gloves they have taken to wearing of late, and knocks on the door, smiling. 
theanachronistictailor: (at work)
Alias: The Anachronistic Tailor
Pronouns: they/them
Species: Human 

a black and white pencil illustration. from the top left, a silhouette of a figure in a trenchcoat jumps across silhouette rooftops. in the center left, the tailor is drawing a needle and thread from a piece of fabric in their other hand, and center right somewhat behind them, the character in profile is grinning and holding a kind of pistol. in the bottom right corner a silhouette sits at an 1890s style sewing machine.

Appearance: The Tailor is a short, stocky individual, with peligin eyes and dark curly hair that they usually opt to slick back into a tidy part. There is a notch in their thick right eyebrow, with a beauty mark above it. They are usually well dressed, and their clothing will usually include one article of Paisley pattern. They are young, in their early to mid-twenties, but they are trying not to look it.

Background: Once an urchin of London, the Tailor is now a rising member of society. Their status of ex-longshanks is kept close to the chest, as is their profession as monster-hunter to those who are not actively in the know. By the time of this class, the fellow has recently purchased their own shop and is working to make ends meet on top of beginning a very special hunt that they have not confided the details of to their friends.

Notable trait(s): This character's first max stat is Watchful, and as such they are always keeping an eye on what is happening in the space around them. They are quick to react from honed instincts, and above all they value secrets. They are very VERY good at keeping secrets, because it is important in establishing trust with the people who employ them or would ask favors of them.

Joined this class because: The Soft-Eyed Mycologist is someone the Tailor considers a close acquaintance, and would like to even consider a friend (with benefits). They have no particular interest in mushrooms or poisons (they have recently learned they actually have a mild allergy to mushrooms, a small reactions to the consumption) but it is a good excuse to see him, and learn about the things dear to the man.

They also have... other reasons, to keep an eye on him. Namely, someone very close to him has asked them a favor. But that's need-to-know only, I think.

Player: Hey, I'm May! I used to roleplay on Zetaboards (remember that?) and then on tumblr. I'm in my late twenties and I work at a library with unpredictable hours, so if you need to contact me, you can find me over here on tumblr. My character is mid-game POSI in Fallen London. Feel free to send me a calling card there!
theanachronistictailor: (at work)

Late into the evening, after the friends had all come and gone and the Seamstress had made her exit, the Anachronistic Tailor was looking over the long list they'd been compiling over the course of the day. They sighed. They'd looked at it again and again, made endless notes of where to get this or that. Reorganized it to prioritize. Underlined one thing. Crossed out another.

It was no good. Their head was starting to hurt, and there was just too much to consider in this moment. Too many little details they had been trying to store in their head. It was time to close the shop proper and head up to the spire. The bloody spire.

They sighed, eyes closing as they leaned against the tabletop closest to the shop entrance. Right. In a moment.

The bell above the door rang.

“Oh, goodness, are you closed? I'm terribly sorry!”

The Tailor opened their eyes.