Caislin Hallows

Caislin Hallows vs. Naiser Vale : This is a tale of two villages one of medieval, one of modern. While there is a mysterious fog that connects them where the water divides.

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Adventures of Daytime Minds

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1 Adventures of Daytime Minds on Fri Jul 22, 2011 11:51 pm

Mary-Lynn

Mary-Lynn
No Rank
No Rank

A beautiful clear blue sky there was not a cloud up there to interrupt the utter vast beauty of empty space. Even with the sun out, she could only imagine what stars would appear in such a clear open sky. From the top of the hills behind Caislin Hallow she always had a great view of the sky. Head shook, long blond locks bouncing against her waist in curls almost as tight as a knot. All of this held back by a red ribbon with a rose mixed in with it to add a bit of color to the pale skin and pale blonde hair. The day was warm, so no heavy fluffed dress was worn, no heavy corset that clung tightly to the form. Black and red crushed velvet gloves on each hand that left her finger tips bare, which accompanied along side of two light silver bracelets that hung on each wrist, like a balance of body the way her wrist rolled at time beneath the steel. Short sleeved red shirt fitting the form properly as the shoulders made of clear red mesh, and the rest of a softened silk hugged her torso closely. Down the center was a black strip that expanded over the edge of the silk material as it met the mesh.

All of this was bottomed out with a black skirt that hugged about her waist, and in an almost spiral motion swirled around her form and the last end, a small tail of black trailing behind her footsteps. Soft footsteps that echoed against the ground beneath her feet, only accented by the length of bright red heel that followed the length of her calf on the back with a thick red material, that wrapped around the front of her calf in little leather ribbons going up the entire length of her leg only to stop at the mid-mark of her thigh. Which only made the sound that came from her footsteps sound that much deeper at every step, even though it was a light framed woman behind the shoe. The Old District of Naiser Vail was always strange to come back to, like stepping through a time portal especially since she spent so much time around technology when she looked through the skies at night. Even though it looked strange, it was quite suiting for the little shop she was about to enter into. Moving towards the glass door, covered hands reached out and pressed the door open, waiting to hear the chime of a bell above the door to let everyone know someone had come in.

As she stepped inside, her vision was crammed with beautiful designs that dotted along the aisles and walls. She took a few steps through the entrance way and down an aisle in search of a counter or desk of some sort. The place didn’t look like it was busy quite frequently from first glance around, thoughts prevailed through the mind before finally spotting the counter tucked away against the wall. Quickly she made her way over, only to press her hands against the counter and lean over it slightly. ’’Excuse me… Hate to be a bother… Perhaps a friendly face could appear?’’ She spoke softly in a tune of gentle reminder as she looked around, speaking into the nothingness for the moment. It took but a moment for her to turn back around again, crossing her arms over her stomach as she stared into the gathering of fabrics lining everywhere around her.



Last edited by Mary-Lynn Chevok on Wed Aug 31, 2011 12:39 am; edited 1 time in total

2 Buyer Beware on Thu Aug 11, 2011 10:48 pm

The Puppeteer

The Puppeteer
Bronze
Bronze
Supposedly, style was a matter of opinion, a subject up for debate that anyone could potentially convince others of, but to the Puppeteer, a merchant who plied style as his trade, it was fact and he was the expert on it. Others could come and try to tell him he was wrong, that their faux-torn denim and faded dungarees were stylish, but in truth, they were only trendy and borderline grungy. To the demon tailor, there was a difference between style and trend: the former was forever and more personal, while the latter was simply a short-lived guise groups adopted in an effort to, as the current tongue described, be cool. He despised trends with their uniform uniqueness and lack of real individuality.

And while style extended beyond clothing to the realms of personality and behaviors and blah, blah, blah, the Puppeteer’s primary concern was the outward expression of it for all to see: clothing. Even though attire was a necessity, an outfit could be crafted to make statement more certain, better refined, and far more extravagant than words could ever achieve.

As the woman, as careless as any waif, drifted into his shop, her garments spoke to him and he listened. The man shifted at his post seated in a chair beside the door leading to the back, back straightening from its slouch as he lifted his chin from its perch atop his hand, lazy eyelids lifting as he beheld her and her flamboyant fashion. “Not bad,” he commented to himself before she approached, while still out of earshot. There were few who had impressed him so with their choice of garments since his revival. Bruxa and Kalika were on the list and that was about all. Everyone else fell a little short, somehow adorning themselves with imperfect attire. So many wardrobes required tweaking, and while even those of the three he approved of were far better than the rest, they could still do with his expert touch. He was a professional after all and a man had to make money.

Despite her eye for outfits, he thought her blind when she called for assistance and he was less than two meters away, behind the counter and off to the side. He attributed it to the partially concealed location he’d selected as his station, the counter and a rack of clothes obscuring her view of the proprietor. “A face, perhaps, though its being friendly is questionable,” he answered as he stood, the crooked stovepipe hat on his head adding to his height and making him taller than her despite her heels—the Puppeteer himself was no tall man, standing at five feet, ten inches. “How may I help you?” The question felt strange on his lips, but it was one he was forced to use frequently as a merchant if he wanted to maintain the business.

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