Thread The Needle

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

47th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

The needle rose and fell by itself, with unearthly deliberation. It slowed almost imperceptibly each time it turned to bite into the sheer fabric below, then smoothly pulled the thread through the hole behind it. The silk bunched as the thread straightened, and the needle made minute adjustments to ensure that each new stitch was level with the last. Taken as a whole, the thread formed a great semi-circle over the unfinished garment. By the end, it would be a circle, and the anterior of a circle.

The project was arrayed across a table, half-cleared and half-cluttered with the debris of a dozen past works. Scraps and unused patches, bits of string and discarded half-used bobbins were scattered about the place- and quite deliberately, too. That had been his first master's advice to him, some twenty years' past. Even if you were a tidy person by nature, shoppers liked to see a bit of the chaos of creation on display. It brought them some sense of ease, to see the evidence of work rather than simply the finished products.

Most of the shop was given over to said products, of course. Hapertas catered to a particular market niche; the lower-class of Sol'Valen who nevertheless desired a suitable raiment for some fine occasion. Tables near the door displayed high-quality wear, ready to be sold with brief measurements and adjustment. Mannequins in the window and the show floor displayed some of the tailor's better works, painstaking pieces meant less to be sold per se and more to advertise the skill with which an outfit might be commissioned.

Filaurel had taken pains to display a variety of styles. Gowns of sheer brocade interwoven with stellar patterns clashed with simple shifts on the racks abutting the small dais and mirror upon which measurements were taken. Velvet pants with little decoration sat musting on a shelf alongside a sash bearing a dozen runes of fortune, painstakingly connected into a simple tableau showing one of the many glorious battles of lost antiquity. The tailor understood that while styles shifted quickly and mellifluously at the height of society, every denizen of Sol'Valen's great municipal district had some personal conception of beauty which might be a hundred years out of date.

Of the tailor himself, not much could be said. He sat quietly at his table, brows furrowed as he concentrated on the dress which was slowly constructing itself. His hands lay on the table, one atop the other, just as he'd left them- but there was no point in puppeteering himself when he was alone. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck, either from the long use of Kinetics or simply the stuffy heat. His skin itched, but he did not raise an arm to scratch it. He'd learned not to expend power on nuisances.

Still, it was distraction enough. The needle slipped, entering the dress at the wrong angle... and froze. Slowly, it withdrew itself, the elf's will pulling it back and straightening the fabric. He pursed his lips, then let out a sigh.

It was a small slip, but he'd nearly let it get by him. In theory, the use of the Rune ought to allow for far greater precision and speed than ever his mortal hands and arms, no matter how clever and quick they'd been. In practice, though? The body had its own memory, the muscles adopted and adapted to graceful patterns of movement until they could practically perform them abed. The mind had only true memory. Every project was a battle which required absolute concentration, more so than any of his old jaunts with Sol'Valen's army.

But he could handle that. The burden of absolute concentration was to be expected in any art which one hoped to master. No, rather, what he could not escape was the endless vigilance of his own mind, the gnawing doubt and worry that every slip of the needle augured not a passing moment of distraction, but instead-

"None of that." he told himself, firmly, exercising the few muscles which he could move without aid of magic. He returned his focus to the dress, which rose obligingly a few feet off the table, so he could inspect the stitching. Yes, everything seemed, still, on track.

Filaurel Len'Alen took a deep breath, and stared at the garment once more. The needle rose and fell.

[Hekatos]

The door to the shop opened and a rather tall fellow stooped to gain entry. Not only tall, but powerfully built, a tailor might immediately begin to wonder at the amount of fabric necessary for even the simplest of garments. The more demanding difference between the customer and most who entered here, though, were the wings that followed him. Elves who had taken on the wings of the Avialae were not unknown in Sol'Valen—most things were known by the First Children, after all—but they tended to flock in the mountains where those wings were true freedom and rarely awkward, or they joined the ranks of Sol'Valen's air force.

This one had the look of a soldier, albeit not an officer.

"Good morrow...?" he called, not seeing anyone at first, but hearing the rustling of fabric. "Oh."

When he was far enough in and had taken in the well-managed chaos, his grayish eyes found the master of the shop.

"Good morrow." He straightened to his impressive—or intimidating—full height as if it were time to pass muster. "I am Turuher Len'Kouneli. I heard you might be able to help me." Hardly a poet, he spoke in short, informative, indicative statements. Aye, he spoke like a soldier as well. Perhaps he was some recent recruit from those mountainous aeries where the winged elves of Sol'Valen lived. This young elf would be one of those who jumped from the taffrail of a mighty airship to swarm enemies of the elven homeland. It was likely a sight to behold.

"I have, ah... some sketches..." In the sky, a sight to behold; on land, handsome, but perhaps not the brightest lamp along the road. He pulled a messenger bag around so he could open the flap and pull out a sheaf of parchment with sketches on them. If Filaurel didn't assume they were simple patterns to accommodate his wings and take offense that he didn't know his business, he would see that they were, in fact, sketches of strange garments one wouldn't want to wear in public, but might spread fabric between an winged elf's legs and act much as the tail of a bird for the purpose of flight.

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

47th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

Filaurel's head turned away from the stitching as he heard noises from the front, but he could not quite crane his neck to a sufficient degree. He had some degree of control over his trunk, but without the natural and instinctive motions of arms and legs such twisting risked a topple. Instead, he spun his chair with a twist of Kinetics; the furniture having been altered by cunning artifice so that it could turn in place. His feet dragged a bit, catching on the wooden floor, but it was an altogether practiced and natural bit of movement.

"Well met, Len'Kouneli." Filaurel's voice was deep and mellifluous, the words rolling above an unflappably polite tone, "Proffer but the nature of the aid you seek, then."

Turuher was a big bastard, to be sure. Not that Filauren was a country boy, to gawk at every strange sight, but he'd seen orkhan of slimmer proportion than this man, and that was before the wings filled out the figure. If he were twenty years younger, he'd probably have done something stupid like call the man to contest, driven by the impulses of youth. Now, the huge proportions put him in mind mostly of how much fabric it would take to cover him.

As Len'Kouneli pulled his messenger bag around to retrieve his sketches, Filauren made the decision to rise. It was an active decision, and not one he always chose. It might baffle or offend the odd guest, to sit while they stood and talked, but that was preferable to giving himself mage's sickness, or thoughtlessly using all of his energy and stranding himself downstairs. Still, if he didn't rise, it seemed that Turuher was going to have to stoop- and that much, he couldn't ask of a stranger.

His body straightened slowly, rising in the air until it appeared quite convincingly that he was balanced upon his own two feet. He'd gotten quite good at posing himself like a great lanky doll, for the sake of others. For himself, it would have been just as well to let his limbs dangle or splay. He moved himself closer to the man--not too close, lest he accidentally bump into him while distracted--and craned his neck to look at the diagrams being produced.

"Tailfeathers." Filaurel remarked, stating the obvious, "...I did not think the jumpers required them. I do not recall seeing the Avialae... ahem. Yes, well. I certainly could sew such a garment, but I fear it would do little good. The measurements I could take, but you would require a fabric of surpassing elasticity and strength to avoid tearing and deforming. If I reinforced it, it would grow too heavy."

Even as Len'Alen counseled disappointment to his visitor, however, his mind was working on the problem. It wasn't impossible, after all. If he were rich as a Val, presumably he could hire an alchemist to synthesize such a cloth. But lacking that...

"Synthetics, though." he mused, mostly to himself, "It might work with Imperial sailcloth, the silvery stuff they use on their mechanical airships. Somewhat pricey. But it might work."

[Hekatos]

The big bastard was polite enough, and almost painfully so; likely he was trying not to seem the country bumpkin. While the city elves spoke poetically of the pastoral life, only a fraction of them took constitutionals beyond what they deemed civilization.

"The pleasure is mine, Maker."

Maker. Usually, that was a title reserved for those who created great things via their union of magical and mundane craft—the Stonesingers, geomancers who shaped buildings with their voices and elemental magic, for example. Len'Kouneli gave no indication he knew how Len'Alen made his clothing. Perhaps it was just overcompensating with respect.

"Hm." He frowned thoughtfully over the challenges the tailor explained to him. "I got the idea from a young officer who had studied abroad in Kalzasi. 'Even a broken clock is right twice a day,' he said. I got help with the maths, but I see you must be correct." It was easy for him to forget that not everyone and not everything had been designed to withstand as much punishment as the winged experiments of Garel the Necromancer.

"We don't require them," he agreed, "but competition is fierce. Innovation is rewarded. Do you suppose...? I have some money. I could leave the plans with you and you could take my measurements. I will make a down payment, and then I will see about securing some Imperial sailcloth or similar when I know how much you require." Unsure if the presumably busy tailor would accept his deal, he continued, "If I can acquire that and you can make the garment and I can impress my commander, well, she might hire you to create more."

Whether that were true or Len'Kouneli was naïve and the commander would merely give it to those who could reverse engineer it and make more for the rest of their winged soldiers, he certainly seemed to believe it.

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

47th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

The respect in the tall elf's tone was almost a shock to Filaurel's system. The elves of Sol'Valen had been kind to him through his convalescence, to be sure- doubtless there was no other city in all of Ransera anything like as civil and attentive as his home. Yet their kindness was borne of pity and a sort of enlightened self-interest. They might see to the the needs of the sick, but it was hardly a position anyone would envy.

The thought filled him with a redoubled determination to press on. It would not be so bad, perhaps, to die in the grips of the Curse if he managed first to make something of that cursed life.

"No need to be so formal; my name is Filaurel. Filaurel Len'alen." The sounds of the name flowed into each other, like music in a score.

Still, as quickly as Turuher had endeared himself to Filaurel, he hesitated. It was an interesting proposal, to be sure, but innovation came with a price tag- not merely in materiel, but in the time it would take to develop and cut and make a wholly novel piece. Now, with the Great Eclipse finally ended, the people of Sol'Valen were minded to celebration, which meant much of his catalog was on back order already. In the time it would take to put this prototype together, he could fill five more certain orders.

...no, he knew already he would regret that. And unlike most Hytori, Filaurel could not know how many more regrets he had the time to savor.

"No." the tailor said, then added, "You do not need to find me sailcloth. I was a soldier once; I know how little time you have to yourself around the city. I will source some. Come on, stand on this stage so I can take the measurements."

Putting Turuher up any higher posed a serious threat to the ceiling of Filaurel's atelier, but there was nothing for it. The tailor moved to the other end of his shop at a modest pace, which both made it less obvious that his legs weren't really contributing to the locomotion and made him less likely to bump into anything hard enough to bruise. A long stick, marked with the meter, rose from its perch on a shelf, along with a long length of white ribbon which was embroidered with similar metrics. The tools floated in the air next to Filaurel, who waited patiently for the soldier to take his appointed place.

"But you understand that if this design comes to naught, I will not return your deposit?"

[Hekatos]

The giant of an elf nodded, correcting himself, "Yes, Master Len'Alen."

As for the mention of his martial service, a light caught in his warm eyes. He had heard such, but was pleased to have it confirmed. There would be common ground for them, then, or a bridge between them. They could share a shorthand for communication, which was a comfort for the newcomer to the Crown City.

"Yes, of course," he assured the artisan as he carefully stepped up to be measured. Turuher seemed a gentle sort of giant, though the changes wrought upon people to make them Avialae had been to make them warriors. "I wouldn't want you to work without recompense. Ah..." He didn't know whether he ought to remove his boots or anything, but contented himself to know that he would be given orders if necessary.

It was clear from his movements that he was trying not to be the proverbial bull in a porcelain shop.

"Room and board are part of service, as you know. Next payday is the 60th. I'll bring it all... I don't suppose the sailcloth will be inexpensive. And if I can't pay on credit, I will see if I can get some of my comrades to front me the money."

Whatever Filaurel Len'Alen decided, the young winged elf was keen to agree. In any case, once the measurements were underway, he grew uncomfortable with the quiet.

"So... have you any tales of bravery and might to share?" he asked with a cautious smile. The artisan didn't seem old enough to have seen the real shit before the Age of Steel began, but as safe as the wards around the kingdom and the peace between the princes kept them, there were still mist storms, still excursions into the old territories of the ruined holds where ambitious princes sought more lands to move into.

"We mostly fly reconnaissance or patrol the borders. Otherwise, we train to be ready to retake Daemora..."

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

47th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

"The boots, we shall keep on." the tailor muttered, trying to judge with furrowed brow just how the and where the putative sailcloth should connect. It was going to need to be wearable with standard boots, he imagined, but perhaps not joined to them, "Pray, keep still while I jot the figures."

The stick gently prodded at the tall elf to shift his stance to and fro, while Filaurel bent himself low so that he could see exactly where the measurements landed. He would write them down later, but his infirmity had not claimed his memory, and so he could still hold them well in the forefront of his mind. It would be especially key for the width of his stance, as the desired garment would require both a certain amount of give and the ability to be drawn taut by action of the legs or thigh.

It was a lot of effort, keeping all of this going on. The stick and ribbon, his own body, and the figures he'd need... where once, dozens of muscles could have helped him handle these various tasks, now it was all an effort of conscious will alone. But he was up to the task, for now. The room seemed awhirl in movement, as Filaurel and his tools acted in perfect concert to augur Turuher's form.

"If you wished to outfit a ship, it would be a fortune." Len'Alen acknowledged, "But you are smaller than a skyship. Somewhat smaller." He gave the tall elf what he hoped was a friendly smile.

As he finished his measurements, he responded absently: "Little glory, I fear. I spent much time garrisoned near Aerion, and making patrol. Aside from fighting a few blighted things near the Holds, all of our combat was friendly." the elf grinned, "I believe I earned more valor for fixing my regiment's uniforms than for bravery. We used to talk all the time about the wars in the west, and wished that some of the Imperial machines would make their way past Atinaw and Auris for a scrap."

He was well and truly in the grip of nostalgia now, but curiosity also set upon him. "I expect you've been busy with the shades, in the country outside Silfanore?"

[Hekatos]

Turuher followed orders, keeping still and alert for any changes the tailor might require. He laughed at the jest.

"Commander keeps threatening to reduce our wages because we eat so much more than the average soldier," he admitted, then fell silent once more so the elf could concentrate.

"Ah, sounds familiar. I love peace. I don't want Sol'Valen embroiled in war. And yet... I do worry that without testing our mettle, we might snap like poorly tempered metal when the time does come. I pray Skar Adámastos keep us prepared." He made a casual gesture many soldiers did whether they were particularly religious or not.

"I would like to know how many of my winged cohort I would need to take down a Zaichaeri dreadnought..." He considered the question. "It was terrifying at first, of course. No magical recourse, weapons ineffective no matter how skilled we were. It seemed hopeless. Thankfully, our great mages discovered those dragonshards which would make them vulnerable, and eventually altered the kingdom's wards to make their passage into our lands more difficult.

"Once the tides were turned within Sol'Valen, we did patrol beyond the wards, most especially the waters beyond the harbors at Limánia and other places where refugees might seek sanctuary."

Of course, while Sol'Valen was for the Hytori, they would not turn away those in need.

Turuher looked down; Len'Alen seemed to have completed his measurements.

"May I step down now?" He smiled apologetically.

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

47th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

Filaurel nodded as the soldier recounted the campaign, jerking his chin in the direction of his writing materials. Paper and ink rose, disentangling themselves from the detritus of the workshop and floating over to their busy master. There was no pen needed- with telekinesis, one could simply pull the liquid along the lines of flux and scribe the page directly.

"The first days were hard on all." echoed the tailor, sympathetic, "The sky darkening, the flight of the stars, the endless Frost... well, I took comfort only in that such convulsions of nature are not without precedent in the history of Ransera." So the priests had said, anyway, and he had no cause to doubt it. The First People had seen the countless eons pass, and their memory was long.

Len'Alen moved back somewhat, raising a hand in a gesture to let his guest know that he could step down from the podium. As he did so, Filaurel capped his little vial of ink and pursed his lips, going over the measurements and notes he had taken.

It should be doable, in theory. The sketch which Turuher had shown him was quite clever, and both his time as a soldier and his ardent study of Kinetics over the past decade had given Filaurel an intimate understanding of basic physics. So long as he could get the sailcloth, it shouldn't tear in the middle, but it was going to require extensive work at the joins to ensure the stitching didn't simply rip right out mid-jump. Thankfully, with wings spread, quite a bit of Turuher's weight would be elsewhere...

"That should be everything, I think. Leave the plans, and I will see if I can source some sailcloth on the morrow." As he'd intimated earlier, that would be the largest issue. The name was something of a misnomer; Zaichaer had also produced the synthetic cloth, prior to... whatever had happened there. The alarming news of the city's devastation had come to Sol'Valen two years prior, but there had never been anything like a clear resolution to what exactly had befallen. It was all the provenance of rumor.

Anyway, most of the sailcloth in the city came from the rare shipments they'd had of Zaichaer in the last decade, and while there had never been much changing hands, it was not in high demand. Sol'Valen's airships were, of course, designed such that they would not rely on parts from a foreign nation, and while the synthetic cloth had many useful characteristics it was not especially pretty or easy to make clothes or tapestry from. His own familiarity with the subject was a passing coincidence, really. As a result, there might yet be some yards lying about in the clothiers' storehouses, or even in the back stocks of one of the handful of curiosities traders who catered to Silfanore's endless appetite for amusements.

"I can make no firm promises, but if I am fortunate, I may have you your garment by this time in the new week."

[Hekatos]

The winged elf nodded and stepped down, carefully and gratefully. The body modifications were not disdained by the mainstream of Hytori elves; some had chosen this route to battle the Hellmaw and the descendants of those heroes remained among the First People. But Turuher didn't seem the sort to relish the attention his height drew. He was quiet for a time as Filaurel magically noted the information he needed. Magic was quotidian in what remained of the Boundless Empire.

"The Eclipse revealed a new moon," he noted quietly. "They say different priests say it augurs different things. There is talk of a new incarnation of Winter, and of Stars. I hope the Sophoi determine what this means sooner rather than later."

But Filaurel brought him back to business. One got the impression he felt compelled to salute at the tentative completion date.

"Aye, sir," he said, which was as good as a salute. Perhaps he should have been more circumspect about the design schematics, but now that Filaurel had the idea, the elf could probably replicate and improve upon them on his own if Turuher got possessive about them.

Taking that as a dismissal, he made polite farewell and left...

54th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel

More than halfway into the season, it was clear that the seasons had indeed returned to normalcy. If there were truly a new deity ruling winter or the seasons in general, the confusion had passed. There were still the occasional flickers and flares of magical discharge high in the sky where the wards protected not only the land but the skies as well. But warmth was natural again and the disposition of the population had warmed as well.

While Len'Kouneli wasn't waiting at the door when the shop opened, if one was looking at a clock, they might notice that he appeared at almost the exact time as he had the week previous.

"Good morrow, Master Len'Alen," he called from the door. He was doing his best to rein in his excitement, but it was unlikely he would ever be tapped for counterintelligence work.