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Tailored Fit - May/June Vignette 2022


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In a place like Freedom City there are many places that design and build costumes for the many heroes that inhabit the city. Tucked away in various parts of the city they all offer an quick, efficent and important private service. And even other, less super filled cities, have a store somewhere.

 

For the upcoming Hades Gala you've been given almost unlimited credit to get yourself a fancy costume for the event. Describe the experience of find the place and interacting with the staff, it can be the same place as others or somewhere new, and more importantly tell us all about the new costume. It's why your there after all!

 

(As a reminder, vignettes follow the same general rules as posts in terms of content, player character limits, and so on. You may have only one vignette per player character.

 

Each vignette should be at least one page (~500 words) in length; if posted in your thread counts at the end of the month, it is worth 1pp for the associated character. An especially long vignette, 1000 words or more, may be worth up to 2pp. An occupying image of the costume is also worth an extra 1pp.


Multiple players can collaborate on a single vignette - we recommend Google Docs for this, it's very useful - but the vignette should be about one page per participating player.)

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Sea Devil 

Spectacle 

 

They'd met with Aquaria before the ball and told her something of the plan. There was no way this invitation was an innocent one, not with everyone's knowledge of Hades, and so a group of heroes was going to be investigating the truth of this place. But they would need distractions; big, bold, loud distractions that could keep the attention even of the gods. Did Aquaria think she could do such a thing? 

 

They hadn't needed to ask. Aquaria knew perfectly well that the gods of the Surface were false, lying things that wore the masks of divinity as a mere cover for their true nature. She knew perfectly well that a god worshipped by the sons and daughters of Atlantis was a particularly wicked creature. Hades had invaded this realm, many times? Well that sort of murderous weakness was what one expected from such a creature. She was only too happy to crash the party, especially if it meant a chance to show the might of the true gods before these false ones. 

 

And so she had dressed accordingly. Aquaria studied herself in the mirror, snuffling deeply to inhale her own scent, and liked what she saw. She was nude save for the harness that held her trophies and her cellphone, her muscular body showing off the tattoos that were her ancient birthright - the eldritch signs and seals that were marks of her adulthood, of her femaleness, of her first hunt and first kill, of her tribe below and her tribe above, and all the other signs that were hers. The elder sign, burnt deep across her back, the golden sign, gleaming on her belly. And didn't her skin gleam!

 

She'd rubbed herself down with ample amounts of fat, using the pig and cow fat that was easy to buy on the surface, and if her smell was rather alien to her own nostrils it was certainly striking. Her trident gleamed too, the dark, rough metal of Lemuria polished to shiny brightness, enough that she could see her eyes and the eldritch doom of man when she peered closely into it. She struck the trident against the ground and boomed the speech she'd been practicing: 

"Behold! I am Aquaria Innsmouth of Those Below! I have come among you Above to eat fish and make strong friends! Where are the fish?"

 

It was a bold speech, suitable for a female alone against false gods, making a great show of herself and scarpering before any of the real battles could take place. (It was a shame she hadn't been able to talk Jessie into coming, but Jessie needed time to work on her thesis and do her hair.) But when what was Aquaria herself but boldness incarnate? Raising her trident, she called upon the might of the gods, and stepped through a gateway to Greece. 

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The Patriot didn't really go in for fancy parties - but this wasn't the sort of thing that the US government's top super-agent could just avoid. She couldn't go as herself; but that didn't mean she couldn't go at all. 

 

Copycat’s outfit was gorgeous. There was no denying it, and one thing about having someone in her life who appreciated how she looked was that she could too. But then even the US government could make beautiful things, if they were so inclined. The hardest part was, as one elderly tailor had put it to Ashley, “you are built like a brick hithouse” - and it was absolutely true that she was considerably more muscular than the average woman of her height. She wasn’t Triakosia or Wander; she had to build these things herself and didn’t have a metahuman constitution backing her up. (Well, most of the time)

 

She was wearing the best wig tax dollars and her own hands could provide, a well-crafted one that covered her side-cut, blue-dyed hair, thick and dark and glossy, tough enough that it would stay on her head while she was maneuvering and loose enough that she could yank it off with a single hard tug. She’d put on bright red lipstick to set off her bronze complexion - and her mask. 

 

Her cat mask was like something made for the Venetian Carnival - a black half-face cat’s mask with gold around the eyes, head, and ears, a faint suggestion of fur around its edges, carefully tied back behind her wig. She had two matching ears in a barrette, perched on top of her head. The black of the mask matched her dress. The dress was rather naughtier than she’d have worn around so many people in her regular identity, though she was definitely going to save it and wear it for Fa’Rua the next time she was back from the Moon, so she could show her how it went on and how it came off - 

 

Well, it had been too long since she’d seen her girlfriend. As it was, it was certainly a tight dress, black and slinky, clinging to the lines of her body just as much allowed room for movement. You had to look closely to spot that the keyhole top that cut down between her breasts and cut low across her chest was actually flesh-colored cloth that went all the way up to her neck. The black henna tattoos on her arms and the dark hose visible through the slit in the front of her dress that went up to her thigh caught the eye - and made sure nobody was looking too closely at how she wasn’t just dressed to impress - she was dressed for war. 

 

The outfit had all she could of her gear carefully hidden away - some of it tucked into the wig, some of it in the purse she wore over her left shoulder. She’d learned how to fight in heels when she was seventeen, even if the trick was mostly getting out of them. If that party turned into a brawl, she was ready for it. 

 

As she walked up to the door, she hoped her ‘date’, changing inside her apartment, was ready - she’d had an outfit paid for by Uncle Sam too, after all. The last time she’d come to Predator’s door, the conversation had been…interesting.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Eira was not naked, contrary to the implications of questions that certain people had asked her about her plans for the Gala. The string bikini she was wearing was a little racy by American standards but Americans were rather prudish about such things in her experience. It wasn’t as if she was going to get cold at the Hades Gala. Or anywhere else, for that matter. The bikini itself was an opaque shade of blue with words written on them in bright gold - CHEEKY. It was a reminder to herself about the right attitude to have alongside Pan and in the company of gods and heroes; and it was a message to anyone who actually saw the string bikini. Most people wouldn’t. 

 

What most people would see Eira wearing was a gorgeous blue and white rococo dress, with flowers in a Y-shape down the chest of a darling white-laced blue jacket and curlicue paisley patterns at the floor-length hemline and a festive white feathered hat on top 

 

Or maybe they’d see her in a blue that was almost metallic, covered in white lace down the sides and in ruffs at the sleeves, topped with a big blue hat that perfectly matched the colors of the outfit underneath. 

 

Or maybe a dress that was more aquamarine than blue, with white-gold lace everywhere and a carnival mask over her eyes, her fingers adorned with glittering jewels. Or maybe any number of increasingly implausible dresses, all of them long and brilliant, gleaming with jewels and lace and color, the sort of thing she could wear now that she wasn’t hiding from herself at Claremont but in full flower of the being she’d always wanted to be. 

 

Eira wasn’t actually wearing any of these outfits, of course. A cunning series of implanted holographic projectors (which she’d installed into her latest body with her own two hands) let her adopt whatever style she wanted; and after much debate she had decided to simply wear all the outfits she liked, all of them drawn from the rococo stylings that she personally found the most attractive of any old-fashioned style. 

 

Sure the outfits were impractical - but she wasn’t really wearing them, so what was the problem? 

 

The outfits switched back and forth on a randomized cycle, saccading quickly enough that only an inhumanly fast eye could see through to what Eira was actually wearing underneath. Eira herself could do this, so could Pan, and anyone else whose vision could penetrate holograms - but if they had that kind of power, let them look. All they would see was what Eira herself had made. 

 

(After all, she’d made the bikini too) 

 

Oh she knew there was trouble afoot at the gala, a god’s sinister schemes and brave heroes who would defeat it. You didn’t have to be clever to see that, and Eira Katastroff was very clever indeed. If anyone called for Angelic to save the day, or even just cause some trouble to make it happen, she’d be there for them. But she had faith in the heroes of Freedom to save the day. In the meantime, what was wrong with having a little fun? 

 

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Arrowhawk II

 

Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr

 

Osla felt a little discomfited by how light the cuirass was. The armour she'd worn in Valhalla had been not of the finest cast. It had chafed, been heavy on the shoulders; especially given she was young, and neither an Asgardian nor an Einherjar. The suit she wore as the Arrowhawk... well, Midgard did some wondrous things with materials, but featherlight it was not. Fenrir's gauntlets would make it feel like paper. A mesh of fine, silver mail encircled her neck up until just below her jaw. Moving subtly against the skin, it swept down to an elaborate cuirass of layered blue-silver metal, the neckline swept back with avian grace to finely engraved spaulders. The engraved elven script upon those spaulders, she couldn't read; for it was twisting and elegant and intricate, every word a work of art. She was told it read out many of her honorifics, which seemed apropos for where she was going. 'Osla born Kriger, daughter of John of Clan Fraser, Arrowhawk Incumbent, Valkyrie of the Allfather, Alive Born Dead, Guardian of The Darkest City', it continued in a similar tiresome vein. She wore trousers of a fine royal blue leather, sturdy but light. It didn't looked as if it had been touched by dye, but what matter of bizarre elven beast would have blue hide? She wore a midnight blue sash around the waist, concealing the seam between cuirass and fabric. Boots and greaves of the same blue-silver metal encased her lower legs.

 

The armour only covered the torso and shoulders, her muscular arms exposed. Despite having otherwise conceded to the custom of make-up, she'd refused concealer. Every scar and abrasion was still visible. They'd faded, her constitution... ambiguously human. But on one forearm, tooth marks from some fell beast, a vicious scar on one elbow from where a giant had nearly ripped the bone from her forearm. Minor, recent scars still showed. Bullets and knives. 

 

One of the ljósálf stood behind her, the mythically beautiful elves of light. He looked at once ancient and youthful, it was disorientating to look directly at such a being. He coughed politely before haltingly speaking in Norse, the syllables flowing like wine. "Orheidr, not to gainsay your decision, but I do not believe these are the fashions of Midgardian events."

 

"I don't believe this strictly hews to that," she grimaced, looking at herself in the mirror. The mirror itself was disorientating, it was liquid, like a still pond suspended at right angles in a frame of two still-living trees. "The Unseen and his bride host this gala... And I abhor heels." Osla had considered not going. She couldn't see the value. A bunch of superheroes, none of whom she had a meaningful bond to. A high risk of dangerous enemies. It reeked of a trap.

 

01.34am, 10th June, Bedlam City, Midgard

 

Her father looked old. John Fraser, the Arrowhawk, sat on the edge of a rooftop, his cape sweeping down past the side. His bow and quiver lay atop a nearby metal heating duct. His hood and mask were off. After long years, his hair was almost totally greyed, wrinkles around his eyes. They were no less sharp than they ever were. He was no less sharp. "Yeah, they like to do those whole shebangs every so often. Think it's to blow off steam. I wouldn't walk into it, though. Hades? You know, I don't do your world, but... well, we all know what he did."

 

Osla's hood was down too, her hair almost ethereal against the night sky. The light pollution shimmered across each lock as it blew in the breeze. "Father, when we spoke on the phone, you told me to attend." Annoyed lines twitched around her mouth. 

 

John chuckled to himself, looked down for a moment, before gazing at his daughter. "I said I wouldn't. And I said I wouldn't just... walk into it. But..." He exhaled slowly, glancing to the side. "These things can be viper's nests. But he wants to be seen to be reformed, so I suspect your real danger will be politics. Never was my strong suit. And it will give you the measure of the current crowd. Supers come and go."

 

Osla rolled her eyes. "And we'll all know each other for shirking the actual duty, and partying. That's all they do on Asgard. Fritter away the eons with parties and brawls. I'd have stayed home if I were to do that, Father." She folded her arms across her chest, for a flickering instant the image of a teenage girl complaining to her father about some chore. And then it was two seasoned warriors chatting once more.

 

"And I thought you'd take more after your mother in that regard. Not like me." The first Arrowhawk's lips curled for a moment. "But maybe there's some of Him." She knew what he meant. Osla immediately opened her mouth to protest. In what way were her Father and the All-Father remotely alike? "You know, when you find out you have a kid and she's up there in Viking heaven, you get to reading. Seems to me there's stories of times that Odin and his lot were, in their own way, heroes. And from what you tell me, and from what happened to your poor goddamn mother... They became too apart. They became too detached." John laughed wearily. "You know who wasn't? Julia Dawson. She could sesh, that girl. Her sister used to come up from Manchester, and you'd wake up, and... they'd have stuck a traffic cone on every floor of that damn halls..." His eyes burrowed into Osla's, with all the intensity of the hawk he'd become. "I'm honoured you have taken up your old man's gig and I love you for it, kid. I truly do. But I do this, I chose this life, this horrible lonely life for the Julia Dawsons. I do this for you. Now you do it your way, I know you always do. But have some fun, kid. Go give the Heliopolitan my best."

 

Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr

 

The light elf helped Osla don the cape. It was enormous, closer to the heavy silhouette of her father's imposing mantle, than to her own streamlined design. Her father thought he had armoured himself in it; shut out the world in his quest to defend it. Osla thought he was wrong. The All-Father didn't treat his children like the Arrowhawk did. She knew her father laboured under the burden of a lifetime of desperation and mistakes. She knew he wasn't entirely the hero her mother had made him out to be. He was one man. And because of the way he'd become, he'd always been one man. He'd killed people. And it was heavy.

 

She felt it in the cape. The regal blue swept down and behind her, fastening to the cuirass. A mantle of purest white fur was draped, dropping back over her shoulders. She thought it might be some kind of Nifelheim bear, a perverse and dire cousin to Midgard's Arctic bears. "Comfortable?" asked the attendant, waking her from her moment of reverie.

 

"Quite." She turned in the mirror. It echoed Asgardian finery, substituting conventional court fashion for the practical, making up for the overt military use with the sheer force of craftsmanship. This was what they envisioned when they sang sagas. The cape swished behind her. She could still move very easily despite the weight and mass of it on her back. A small smile crossed her lips as she looked down at her chestplate, at the design embedded into the topmost plate. Small, white precious gems picked out the emblem of the Arrowhawk, a white bird shining subtly as the facets glimmered. She turned to look at herself once more in the mirror, and her jaw firmed. It would do. Her brilliant blue eyes were silhouetted by swooshes of eyeshadow, a midnight blue which glittered... but not like Midgard make-up shimmered, like the twinkle of the night sky. Her hair was one curled braid tight against her scalp, a golden swirl against her pale skin. 

 

A long time ago. Asgard.

 

Tears streamed down Osla's face. Her rough grey garments were muddy and ripped in a couple of places, her young face red as she tried to fight them back. She couldn't look weak. The Asgardian guard had crudely tossed her into the mud. "Child, why would you think you could enter such an event? You're here on the All-Father's mercy alone. After your mother showed up here, and in her condition, you were granted a considerable amount of tolerance. Do not confuse that tolerance with welcome, child.

 

She turned, looking over her shoulders, fury blazing on her face, quite uncharacteristic of a normal eight year old. "I just wanted to see! I heard the violi-" She wasn't able to finish as the guard spat a curse and cut in, pointing away to the city, to the hills. Their house was out there, away from where anyone else would be bothered by them being there. 

 

"I do not care why, and neither will any of the guests. Begone!" He turned on his armoured heel, quick marching back to the palace gates. Back to Asgard. In the distance, she could see the Rainbow Bridge, promising other places. Better places. Maybe Dad was out there. Why wasn't he looking for her? Didn't he know she existed? She sniffed loudly, a wet squelch of tears and snot, as she picked herself up and began to trudge. The Arrowhawk would have beat that guard so badly. He'd have made him apologise to her. 

 

Late afternoon, 21st June, The Glade of the Armourers, Ljósálfheimr

 

"I do hope you enjoy your evening, Orheidr. And I trust this settles our debts?" The elf was helpful as Osla outfitted herself with her weapons. The bow which bore the name of her formal title hung at her waist from the sash, resting atop a thigh-strapped quiver, carved by hand out of a single slender branch of one of this realm's majestic willow trees. Arrowhawk tucked an axe into her sash on the opposite side. After all, she was meant to look at her best, and at her best meant a regalia she would not only be proud to be seen in, but still as capable as she would always be. She'd worked for this for a long time.

 

She managed a genuine smile, for a moment as beautiful as her mother had been on her best day. The elf transparently wanted the debt settled, but still... There were even gloves of the same leather as her trousers, albeit thinner, softer, more pliable. They slid up to mid-forearm, fine stitching of golden thread tracing a willow tree design on the back of her hands. "We're even, Simekr. I feel adequately compensated. There was offer of payment from Hades, but well..." Osla arced her neck. "I've only once asked a favour of gods, and once was more than enough for one lifetime." She began to stride out of the glade. Despite her height and strident pace, the elf attendant kept up well, graceful strides allowing him to walk at what was at once a languid amble and a swift advance. "I'll leave from where I arrived. Your home is beautiful; I don't want to mar it with Bifrostburn."

 

"Quite so, Orheidr," Simerkr's delicate expression twisted with disgust at the idea of despoiling the paradisacal realm of the light elves with the clumsy tools of the Aesir. In no time at all, they were in a secluded glade. The canopy was so dense here, it was like walking into a Bedlam alley, even the grass did not quite grow here, the ground dry and dusty, the stone of Ljósálfheimr poking through the verdant soil in places. Without breaking stride, she drew and fired a Bifrost arrow, the coalesced shard of the rainbow bridge shattering as a shimmering hole in reality opened up. Before stepping through, Osla turned, looking over the shoulder to give the elf a final nod. "You look radiant, good lady."

 

The Arrowhawk beamed. "Well, if it's just for the one night... well, why not?" She let it linger for a moment, as she turned, and walked unflinchingly into the rainbow paths.

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Crimson Tiger

 

May 15th, 2022. Early Afternoon. Freedom City

 

Mali gave a little turn and waited patiently. The designer was sketching her body to get a better handle on things. Mali's figure was a bit unusual, she knew, so the designer wanted to design for her. Once a brief outline of her body was done, the designer motioned her over.

 

"Now, color, what are you..."

 

"Crimson and black, please. They're my signature colors, and they look good on me."

 

"I should have predicted." The designer chuckled. "I've been working with you for a while. Dresses aren't my usual forte, but I've designed a few. Besides, you've got a good eye for fashion."

 

Mali nodded. "I'm thinking backless, sleeveless."

 

"Sleeveless?"

 

"I put hours into these guns." Mali shrugged. "I'm a superhero. I wanna be me." 

 

"Very well." 

 

The designer began to sketch. The top of the dress was attached to a pair of straps that ran up to a choker that Mali would wear. The straps would connect to the dress on her upper torso, split to cover her chest and expose her sternum, then connect to the rest of the dress, which would then extend around her lower body. That gave her plenty of mobility and gave Mali a chance to show off her sculpted upper body. 

 

The lower part of the dress would hug her hips and then split somewhere around her right thigh, giving her lower body maneuverability as well. Malia also requested long black gloves to match the dress. She was planning on some plain, relatively simple and comfortable black flats. She enjoyed looking elegant, but she did not enjoy foot pain.

 

"Oh, one last idea." Mali said suddenly to the designer. "I want a shawl. A faux fur shawl."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Yeah, I want it to cover my upper body, my shoulders and upper arms. I want to wrap it around myself and then when I'm out there in public, I can just take it off and wow them."

 

"I can arrange that. What are you going to do for a mask?"

 

"I've got this composite alloy...thing, that someone agreed to make for me. It'll offer basic protection. It has a little clasp I can attach to put it on easy. OH, and I'm getting these contact lenses that will color my eyes greenish gold, like a real tiger."

 

The designer nodded. "Well, I can get this put together with plenty of time. You'll come back for a fitting, we'll make adjustments, then I'll have it ready for you before you leave for the Gala."

 

"Thank you so much. Just let me know when I need to come in for a fitting." Mali said. She stood up and walked out of the store. 

 

June 21, 2022

 

Crimson Tiger arrived. She held up the burner phone she brought and used it's camera as a mirror. Her makeup was flawless, even though people would only really see her lipstick. She smirked into the camera, and put her phone away. 

 

Trap or no trap, she was going to have a hell of a night.

 

And who knows, maybe some actual fun for once?

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Set

 

Set, timeless primordial god of the unspeakable unknown and continuously trending social media darling tossed the gold foil embossed envelope onto his kitchen counter and seethed. “A gala. An Olympian - one who famously espouses the rules of hospitality as though pulling teeth with ill-spun piano wire - plans to hold an event of culture and fashion.” Wisps of dark grey clouds formed along the ceiling, following overhead as the storm-caller paced and made irritable gestures to the empty room. “As though Hades would recognize style were it to break a gaudy marble pillar over his furrowed brow.”

 

Spinning on his heel Set pointed an accusatory finger at the full length mirror mounted on the back of the apartment’s front door, crimson lightning flickering amongst the indoor clouds. “And clearly reformed deific destroyer turned gregarious gadabout tis my brand! Unconscionable!”

 

Jaw set stubbornly the gosling snapped his fingers and his shirtless shendyt look transformed into tasteful if subdued tuxedo with a blood red cummerbund and a lapel pin in the shape of the was sceptre. “Mayhaps I ought to ‘phone it in’. Spats as passive-aggressive spat.”

 

He considered the outfit in the mirror for a split second before snapping his fingers again. Instantly the godling took on a female presentation and the suit was replaced by a backless gown in the same deep red, her dreadlocks twisting themselves upward to accentuate her slender neck and shoulders. She turned in a half-circle and looked over her shoulder at the mirror, placing her hands on either side of her read and experimenting with how far the neckline should plunge. Her painted lips curled into a grimace. “Ugh, nay. Subtlety be for cowards.”

 

Turning back around she snapped her fingers rapidly, trying different iterations. The tuxedo returned but cut for a feminine figure, with then without a dress shirt underneath. Set tried the gown with a male presentation, the something high-necked and severe, something with a massive bustle, a sailor uniform-inspired number with buttoned hot pants, an asymmetrical leather daddy meets Roman centurion look, low-rise bellbottoms with a tight t-shirt that read ‘Demeter Was Right’ over the silhouette of a snowflake, a Sunday-best dress with petticoat and a peacock feathered fascinator, followed by an outfit that was nothing but three strategically placed such fascinators.

 

The outfits sped by one after the other with Set’s form changing just as quickly as they snapped their fingers faster and faster. “Professional, then? Make it a work trip.” In a male presentation this time they adopted a more ornate version of their usual shendyt with a wrap over one shoulder that called to mind a toga. His head took on the aspect of the pointed eared Set animal, short black fur covering a long, canid snout. Considering for a moment he snapped his fingers again and grew two more such heads on either side of the first, each looking down at the outfit from a different angle before turning upward with a chorus of unimpressed groans.

 

“Unbelievable,” the leftmost head grumbled before winking out of existence along with the rightmost. Set returned to a fully human appearance and narrowed his eyes at his own nude reflection. “Not an allusion, nor antic, nor affront, then. Simply… Set.”

 

The godling stood in silent, motionless contemplation for several long moments before slowly adopting a more androgynous physicality than they usually preferred. They reached back to run long fingers through their dreadlocks, letting the brick red hair grow out until it reached down to their ankles in fluid curtain that swayed in the preternatural indoor wind.

 

A single piece of lightly coloured leather wrapped around the lean muscles of their torso in a sort of sleeveless romper, the shorts ending only an inch or two past their pelvis and the neck rising to just below their chin. With a more purposeful snap than their earlier experiments that leather split in a thousand diamond cuts, becoming a mesmerizing expanse of fishnet-like pattern where darker skin showed through.

 

Another snap and brighter red fur, thick and almost feathery, grew around their neck and bare shoulders, part boa and part mane. Light caught sparkling flecks of ruby red, stunning gold and the truest of black across Set’s cheekbone, down their arms and legs and behind countless diamond windows. At a glance it might have appeared to be body glitter but a closer examination would have revealed tiny, perfect scales dusting the godling’s form.

 

They snapped again. Thick golden rings appeared on each finger alongside curved talons that shifted from a smokey black at the base to gleaming red at the tips. Each ring bore a a single etched hieroglyph and as Set raised their arms to either side impossibly delicate golden chains trailed from them to connect to matching armlets then further still to disappear somewhere in the voluminous mane. They moved about is a slow dance and smiled at the faintly tinkling of the links.

 

Similar gold accessories appeared in their trailing dreadlocks with another snap, followed by a thin, practically filigree tiara across their brow that curved upward into two points, more than a foot tall and shaped to evoke the ear of their Set animal head. Their already dramatic kohl eye makeup became something that drew all attention inextricably to their piercing grey eyes, smokey shadow that seemed to roil like something alive and blood red liner cutting through it like the trail of a dagger.

 

They took a few steps in a lazy circle to survey their handiwork from all angles. Each time their bare feet would have set down on the apartment floor a shift pool of sand rose up to meet them, crystallizing into a breathtaking stiletto heel before dropping away into formless grains again as soon as their weight shifted to the other foot. The sand trailed along after them like the train of a wedding dress.

 

Set completed their circle and regarded themselves in the mirror with a smug upward turn from the corner of their lips. They rolled their neck and shoulders with a predatory sort of grace, setting the fine chains clinking in chorus with the soft shifting of sand. The storm cloud that had been hovering overhead rumbled and broke, showering them with a fine mist of summer rain. The beads of water refracted light glinting off of scales, traced crisscrossing lines down the leather netting and highlighted the arched curve of long calves. “Well now. Let none say the once guardian of blessed Ra’s barge has forgotten how to slay.”

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Terrifica

 

Terrifica was almost insulted. Almost. She’d never visited a tailor because she was one. One of the benefits of being an omni-competent supergenius was, in fact, being omni-competent. She had several ideas, but one stood out. She’d seen it in, of all things, a comic book. The heroine in question was fictional, of course, but it was a good look. Classic. Old school. But properly tailored? Oh, it would be exquisite. Creating more Nano-Fibers would take a while, but oh, so worth it. The key was making everything fit together. With her normal battlesuit this wasn’t a problem. Everything was all one piece aside from the gloves and boots. This, however, was going to have multiple pieces. They all had to work together in harmony for the same effect.

 

The outfit? Oh right, it was a suit. Pants, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. The pants, tie, and shoes would be her usual shade of dark blue. The shirt and socks would be, well, not neon orange. That was a bit bright for formalwear. Just the regular shade would do, thank you. Oh, dear. It required a hat. A fedora, to be precise. And something for a mask. A domino would do. Merrily did both Terrifica and Samantha Carson sew away. She liked making things. She really did. It gave her great job to be a creator instead of a perpetuator of violence. The tailoring of each item was to make them tight fitting but still leave her plenty of room to move and do acrobatics should she need to. Tack on a belt and one of her usual longcoats, and done.

 

It was enough to make her husband Stan whistle in sheer appreciation. Terrifica admitted, for once, that she indeed had a nice figure. Lean and athletic. She’d used her extensive knowledge of tailoring techniques to flatter every inch of herself. She had to admit, again for once, she looked good. No, she looked sublime. Her chest and posterior, well, there were more impressive ones on people she personally knew, let alone out there in the world. It didn’t bother her in the least, but my goodness she’d done a good job accentuating what she had. Oh, yes. Yes, this would do nicely. But first, Stan was feeling, shall we say, frisky? And the children were away with friends…

 

Well…that was…very nice…however Sam had a Gala to attend. It was important to look her absolute best, so she took a nice hot bath instead of a shower. Stan was kind enough to volunteer his backwashing services. On another day it may have led to more…mmm…frisky activities, but alas there was not enough time left for that. Underwear. The shirt. The pants. A modified version of her utility belt, with staff attached. The domino mask. The longcoat. The fedora. A little more mirror admiration. With one last kiss for Stan, she was off. Samantha Carson faded back, and Terrifica settled in. She had no trust in Hades whatsoever. So naturally she’d be quite interested to know the real reason behind this so called Hades Gala. This was the whole reason she was going in the first place. The Greek God of Death could not be trusted to be anything other than a villain. Persephone, however, was a different story. It looked to be an interesting night.

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