The fire had reduced itself to a few smoldering embers in the hearth, casting weak sunset shadows against the the Miqo'te-shaped bundle of furs in front of it. Â A smooth male tenor sang softly by the window, working diligently with a piece of silk and a needle, an old folk song about the rise of a prominent royal family in Ishgard. Â After some time, Azreyal Da'ma fall silent and glanced over his shoulder as the furs shifted, his piercing eyes almost luminescent in the dark. Â After a moment of tense silence, the man turned again to his work.
The plain mannequin he'd been working on was made elegant by the garment in which it was displayed. Â The dress was a base of thick black silk, starting around where the bust would be, the fabric tight to the torso and cinched for a flattering figure. Â This lasted until the waist of the garment, where the fabric pooled to one side asymmetrically from a starting point at the right hip-line, stopping around where the wearer's middle thigh would be. Â The back is only held together by corset-style lacing, starting from a tail-sized hole and ending in the middle of the back. Â From this black confining structure, held aloft by a moderate hoop skirt, flowed cascades of lighter silks in pink and black, sheer and layered, as light to the touch as water.
Azreyal ran his hand down the skirt, relishing the sensation of the fine silks against a sensitive hand- callused, yet trained and gentle from a lifetime of work. Â He sat back on his stool, taking in the past few hours of changes he'd made to the dress. Â The moon was high in the sky, but he'd not slept, as per usual for the insomniac. Â Before working he'd taken about half a bell to himself outside in the snow, staring up at the stars and reading the patterns they offered each night. Â They'd winked at him and he'd winked back before returning to his workshop, careful to make very little noise. Â
A week or two ago this dress had just been the result of a creative fit, the random desire to produce, much like an artist would feel smitten to draw or a singer to sing. Â He'd wanted to create something beautiful yet functional, delicate yet deadly. Â Azreyal had only revealed one of the dress' secrets to its intended wearer, currently sleeping by the fire. Â His left hand traveled to the left side of the dress, fingers pressing into the area that would fall below an arm, and manipulating a small dagger from the fabric. Â
"My gift to you..." he had said in a whisper to her that night, drawing the knife from her side as she observed herself in the mirror. Â He hadn't been able to gauge her true reaction to the addition, but this was his artistic mind and bound not to please everybody. Â Azreyal turned the dagger over in his fingers gently, revealing a side he had been careful not to show her. Â Engraved in the blade were words in a decorative script that read: 'A circle has no beginning'.
The knife glistened with reflected starlight from the singular window nearby as Azreyal tilted it this way and that. Â One finger pressed to the tip firmly until a bead of crimson life formed on the silver and trailed down. Â He watched the beautiful contrast of colour for several moments, drawing his bleeding digit to his mouth to taste warm iron. Â The glow of his eyes extinguished as he closed them briefly, opening only when he'd stopped bleeding openly. Â Azreyal scooped a rag from a stand nearby and wiped the blade clean before sliding it back into the hidden pocket in the dress' side.Â
The male glanced over his shoulder and back to the sleeping figure by the fire, his gaze melancholy. Â That feeling inspired him, however, rather than inhibiting his creative flow. Â His paranoid and jaded nature only added a unique flair to his work that he couldn't help but appreciate. Â Thick leather lining that would assist in an emergency, hidden weapons, other secrets... Even the very forms of his creations stemmed from his desire to combine good and evil, pain and pleasure,sweet and sad, beautiful and fierce. Â Perhaps he just enjoyed complexities, hidden surprises- things he could tear through and not leave broken and empty, but rather reveal a whole new array of things to explore. Â
Azreyal turned back to the dress after a moment, which was now in much more pristine condition than when he'd last worked on it a week ago. Â He scooped up a small brooch from his stand that he'd picked up from the market some time back in hopes he might use it. Â Deft fingers attached it to the place at the right hip where the fabric splits to either side. Â As he stepped back, the moonlight glittered like droplets of dew on the black jeweled rose.
The man smiled to himself, scooping up a sheet and throwing it back over the creation. Â It would come into play soon enough.
The plain mannequin he'd been working on was made elegant by the garment in which it was displayed. Â The dress was a base of thick black silk, starting around where the bust would be, the fabric tight to the torso and cinched for a flattering figure. Â This lasted until the waist of the garment, where the fabric pooled to one side asymmetrically from a starting point at the right hip-line, stopping around where the wearer's middle thigh would be. Â The back is only held together by corset-style lacing, starting from a tail-sized hole and ending in the middle of the back. Â From this black confining structure, held aloft by a moderate hoop skirt, flowed cascades of lighter silks in pink and black, sheer and layered, as light to the touch as water.
Azreyal ran his hand down the skirt, relishing the sensation of the fine silks against a sensitive hand- callused, yet trained and gentle from a lifetime of work. Â He sat back on his stool, taking in the past few hours of changes he'd made to the dress. Â The moon was high in the sky, but he'd not slept, as per usual for the insomniac. Â Before working he'd taken about half a bell to himself outside in the snow, staring up at the stars and reading the patterns they offered each night. Â They'd winked at him and he'd winked back before returning to his workshop, careful to make very little noise. Â
A week or two ago this dress had just been the result of a creative fit, the random desire to produce, much like an artist would feel smitten to draw or a singer to sing. Â He'd wanted to create something beautiful yet functional, delicate yet deadly. Â Azreyal had only revealed one of the dress' secrets to its intended wearer, currently sleeping by the fire. Â His left hand traveled to the left side of the dress, fingers pressing into the area that would fall below an arm, and manipulating a small dagger from the fabric. Â
"My gift to you..." he had said in a whisper to her that night, drawing the knife from her side as she observed herself in the mirror. Â He hadn't been able to gauge her true reaction to the addition, but this was his artistic mind and bound not to please everybody. Â Azreyal turned the dagger over in his fingers gently, revealing a side he had been careful not to show her. Â Engraved in the blade were words in a decorative script that read: 'A circle has no beginning'.
The knife glistened with reflected starlight from the singular window nearby as Azreyal tilted it this way and that. Â One finger pressed to the tip firmly until a bead of crimson life formed on the silver and trailed down. Â He watched the beautiful contrast of colour for several moments, drawing his bleeding digit to his mouth to taste warm iron. Â The glow of his eyes extinguished as he closed them briefly, opening only when he'd stopped bleeding openly. Â Azreyal scooped a rag from a stand nearby and wiped the blade clean before sliding it back into the hidden pocket in the dress' side.Â
The male glanced over his shoulder and back to the sleeping figure by the fire, his gaze melancholy. Â That feeling inspired him, however, rather than inhibiting his creative flow. Â His paranoid and jaded nature only added a unique flair to his work that he couldn't help but appreciate. Â Thick leather lining that would assist in an emergency, hidden weapons, other secrets... Even the very forms of his creations stemmed from his desire to combine good and evil, pain and pleasure,sweet and sad, beautiful and fierce. Â Perhaps he just enjoyed complexities, hidden surprises- things he could tear through and not leave broken and empty, but rather reveal a whole new array of things to explore. Â
Azreyal turned back to the dress after a moment, which was now in much more pristine condition than when he'd last worked on it a week ago. Â He scooped up a small brooch from his stand that he'd picked up from the market some time back in hopes he might use it. Â Deft fingers attached it to the place at the right hip where the fabric splits to either side. Â As he stepped back, the moonlight glittered like droplets of dew on the black jeweled rose.
The man smiled to himself, scooping up a sheet and throwing it back over the creation. Â It would come into play soon enough.