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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 



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."




"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."




"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, 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 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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  • 2 weeks later...
Posted (edited)

Atomic Tower

Some time earlier…


Jean stared at the envelope sitting neatly on her table. It hadn’t been there when she had turned in the night before. Cynthia had given no indication of intrusion, and yet there it was. It bore her name, written in a smooth formal script. Though plenty of people knew she had taken residence in the tower, she could think of no one who would send her mail, let alone a mysterious letter.

She frowned at her own hesitation and took up the envelope. Breaking the seal, she pulled the contents out and studied them. Opening the invitation she read it twice.

Brow furrowed, she wondered if it was a joke. Turning her attention to the card she actually recognized the shop’s name. It was well known in her own world by those ‘in the know’ as it were. Card in one hand, she read the invitation again, giving it more weight.

She had met a handful of entities claiming some form of godhood in her adventures, as some would call them. Destiny and her ‘champion’, Ishtar, and a few others. If this was indeed being hosted by entities claiming the Greek pantheon she would do well to give careful consideration, though she was still hesitant.


It was an unexpected visitor a few days later that solidified her attendance to the gala and shortly thereafter she stood before the doors of an unimposing tailor shop. A small bell chimed as she entered and she waited for the gasps or other sounds of surprise from the staff. To her own surprise the proprietor approached her with a practiced friendly smile and asked how he could help her. Jean returned the smile and withdrew an envelope from her pocket.


City proper

Sometime later…


Jean regarded herself in the mirror as she smoothed the hips of her dress. She had been surprised by the shop’s staff, they hadn’t even batted an eye at her appearance when she presented the invitation. They were flawlessly professional with her and she found a sliver of comfort in that. It was almost like being home again.

The black lace of the top fanned out from a loose bow at her neck to the top of the dress over her chest, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. The cobalt blue fabric was silky and smooth to the touch, bringing the blue of her eyes. It was accented by the faux corset that, to some embarrassment, helped to accentuate what little chest she had. In the back, the corset sat just above her tail and an opening in the dress settled just under it, leaving her tail free and comfortable. At her waist the dress spread out in a high-low style. It was shorter in the front then in back, showing her slightly digitigrade legs up to just below her knees. Visible within the interior hem a lace trim hid stylized foxes in playful poses if you looked closely.

Jean had to admit the shoes were a bit of a cheat. The natural shape of her feet already emulated the position the heels would have had human feet at. The open toed heels were matching blue with straps that wound around her ankles. 

Small dark blue flowers decorated the hair comb that pinned back her hair on the right. Small sapphire teardrops hung from her fox ears, their gold fittings complimenting the gold rings around each wrist. Her features didn’t allow for makeup in the regular sense for the most part. Mascara and some blue powder though we’re able to further bring out the blue of her eyes.

She hoped her escort, Agent Tran, would find her appearance acceptable. She wouldn’t want to embarrass her after so kindly inviting her along on such an important errand. She paused for a moment and thought about it. When Ashley arrived she would have to find out want name  the agent would want to be addressed as while at the gala.

Glancing aside at the clock, the time told her they should be there soon. It wasn’t the first ‘formal’ gathering she had attended, though she had to admit it was most likely the nicest dress she’d ever worn. Giving herself a final look in the mirror she hoped she would have no reason to call on her armor, she wasn’t sure what it would do to the lovely dress.



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Tiamat and Sekhmet - Extremely Frilly, Wildly Impractical


The moment Sekhmet, Mistress of Dread and Lady of Slaughter, had known she was in trouble was when the tailor with whom Teagan had arranged an appointment asked what she would normally wear to a formal event and responded to ‘the blood of her enemies’ with only a polite laugh and expectant look. It would have been overstating to say she felt fear. A timeless and eternal being born of the very concept of battle with the fires of the sun itself roiling in her veins, she was fundamentally incapable of feeling something as petty as fear.


Looking between the full-length mirrors and mannequins draped in gowns that filled the private ground floor studio however she was forced to concede that a sort of anxious discomfort may not have been out of the question.


Batting irritably at the asymmetrical bangs that fell over one of her luminous golden eyes she turned to the muscular redheaded woman to her right. “I could attend in lioness form. Attire cannot be at fault if there be no attire. Tis tactically sound.”


Teagan, the great and fearsome Wyrm, was taking visible pleasure in Sekhmet’s discomfort. “You could,” she agreed, “if you wanted to be mistaken as someone’s exotic pet or familiar. That might get you enemies enough to slake even your need for their blood, but it isn’t really that kind of party. Which is a shame,” she added, eyeing a garment more for its cloth than its cut. “They should throw those parties. This one’s probably all finery and no brawling. Have you really never crashed a fancy party? No showing up feeling powerful, wilting the proud and unworthy mortal fools?”


Sekhmet narrowed her eyes to distinctly feline slivers. “For the majority of mortal reckoning the appearance of a lioness at a bacchanal inspired far more than ‘wilting’.” She folded her arms under the bust of her shendyt, became immediately too aware of the practical but simplistic garment and dropped her hands to her hips instead. “In that age I appeared as a beast large enough to blot out the sun, imparting the terrible knowledge that Ra had turned his blessed sight from their irredeemable sins. Such parties were utterly, awesomely ‘crashed’.” The warrior goddess clenched a fist before her for emphasis.


These fools don’t care about Ra, and are almost certain to be looking to sin,” said Teagan, grinning a grin that said she might be the latter herself. “Not that you should dress for them, anyway. They shouldn’t wilt because you dressed to wilt them, they should wilt because that’s what happens to mortals who gaze upon true glory.” At some point, her eyes had become slitted, some old memory or another stirring in her lizard brain. “As they should, in truth. Dress to feel powerful and beautiful and glorious - I will. If they do not already know who you are, they will be reminded, and all the better.”


Grumbling under her breath Sekhmet shot a glance at the tailor, who was studiously busying themselves with organising a drawer of shears and tape measures, maintaining the conceit that they couldn’t overhear the imposing women’s conversation. With a huff she squared her shoulders and turned her singular focus on the array of dyed fabrics on display. “‘Dragon stuff,’ then. Very well!” She punched her clenched fist into the opposite palm. “Pride demands nothing short of excellence, truly naught to do with thy appeals to sin and beauty and so forth, thy understand.”


Before that characteristically subtle bit of flirting could be reciprocated, the frantic jingling of bells interrupted as the studio’s front door was thrown open with enough force to collide loudly with the wall. A gorgeous dark skinned woman with a shaved head and bright golden eyeshadow and lipstick strode inside, arms laden with a half dozen massive boutique shopping bags. She wore a flattering turquoise sheath dress that ended perhaps two handwidths from her cinched waist and dramatic floating heels with broad, hoof-like toes.


“Cherished sister!” she cried, throwing both arms over her head despite the apparent weight of the bags she carried. “Despair no more! I departed the moment I heard thee were being forced to attempt glamour.”


Sekhmet regarded the newcomer with a raised eyebrow and mouth slightly ajar. As the announcement continued her other eyebrow raised in a mixture of realisation and disbelief.


The bald woman paused for a beat then lowered her arms to drop the bags to the studio floor with a bright laugh of inspiration. “Ah! My sense of charity overcame my impeccable decorum!” She flourished with both hands and her eyes blazed with a familiar golden light. Above her head a pair of spectral horns formed from the same light, creating a great curving crown that ended in two upturned points above her forehead. Between those points a disk of stellar flame gracefully rotated, suspended in the air. “Ta daaaaah!”


Teagan crossed her arms, tilting her head back an inch to regard the new god. Behind her, the tailor - no new hand at their business - decided it was time for a lunch break and quietly disappeared somewhere into the back of the building. “Sister, huh,” said the dragon; her nostrils flared slightly as she got the smell of it. “Do you think the Master Mage gets an itch when one of you steps over the Pact? I bet it itches. Do tell about your charity.”


Clapping her hands the latecomer turned to Sekhmet with wide-eyed delight. “Is this the…?” She mouthed the word ‘dragon’ as though Teagan weren’t standing directly in front of her. “Glory to Ra, thee be darling! Fret not, some deities know to grace the mortal plane without making a whole fleshy incident of things,” she assured the glowering redhead with a pursed smile. “Tis one of my high priestesses, Nailah. Observe!”


The glowing horns and sun disk faded and her golden eyes took on a deep brown, nearly black colour. The woman’s demeanour changed completely in an instant, mouth set in a serious line and gaze cool and composed. “She Before Whom Evil Trembles,” she greeted Sekhmet with a deep - and impressive, considering her footwear - bow from the waist. “I am honoured to be of service to both my goddess and yourself.”


As she straightened the golden accoutrement flared back into view. “Truly, how perfect, aye? Nailah finds time to be a priestess and a professional model and an accolade winning designer! Love her to bits.”


Sekhmet rubbed her temples and unclenched her jaw with tremendous effort. “Teagan Delphyne, I present my treasured sister, Lady of Contentment: Hathor.”


“...if my sister showed up unannounced,” Teagan slowly mused, “I’d probably try to kill her. Is this a god thing, where you have to be nice?” She was looking at Sekhmet, genuinely curious, though she didn’t let Hathor out of her line of sight entirely. “Do you want her thrown out, with plausible deniability? I didn’t hear ‘world-class fighter’ on that list, and priests and gods the worlds over have always found it pretty convenient to blame the dragon anyway. You could return the favor later.”


“Oh!” Hathor placed the fingertips of one hand delicately to her chest in surprise. “Thy usually go for the soft-spoken, intellectual sort, beloved sister. She seems rather… toppy. Mayhaps tis a better fit, given past attempts! I like her!” She gave Teagan a much shallower bow than her high priestess had affected. “Dragon Delphyne, thee have my assurance I came seeking no unseemly brawl.” When she met the other woman’s eyes again however, there was a certain predatory hardness to them that made the family resemblance clear for the first time. “Should any injury be done to my Naliah, however, I should be bound to demand severe recompencence.”


Sekhmet let out a long groan and stepped partway between them. “None shall be slaying anyone’s sibling,” she insisted, looking skyward for patience. “Why did thee come, hallowed sister?”


That earned her a huff and a pout as Hathor stomped one foot lightly. “As I said, to help! We cannot have thee arriving to the Olympians’ event wearing just…” She gestured vaguely to Sekhmet from head to toe. Cheering immediately she made an excited little hop. “I bear gifts! Holding up one index finger to forestall any further arguments she bent down to retrieve something out of one of her shopping bags. “Here!”


Her twin tilted her head slowly to one side, regarding the strips of pearly white material being held toward her, too pliable to be leather but stiffer than cloth. “Belts? Or bracelets?”


“Eh? Nay, tis the whole outfit,” the horned woman clarified after a nonplussed blink. She held it in front of herself to illustrate, looking to Teagan for support. “Forgive the wordplay but we do not mean to pussyfoot around, surely!”


Teagan had rolled her eyes at deific threats, and had just started to turn away unneeded after Sekhmet stepped in, but the almost-an-outfit Hathor was holding up caught enough of her attention to turn her head back around. “<Maybe the pun loses something in translation,>” she said in pitch-perfect Old Egyptian - almost an apology. And then, in English, “You should keep that one. Maybe not for the gala, but I bet you’d feel powerful in it.”


She was grinning and her teeth were too sharp to be human, arms unfolded and hands tucked into her jacket pockets. “I don’t know if it screams ‘fearsome warrior god cat’, though. I was once lectured for an hour on how the outfit should suit the wearer and the occasion both, and it’s been pretty good advice so far.”


Hathor returned the strappy garment to its bag and slid it toward Teagan while Sekhmet gave the dragon a reproachful, betrayed look. “Mayhap thee the best hold onto that until an opportune time then, friend dragon.” Out of the corner of her mouth but still easily heard by everyone in the studio the fertility goddess added, “Tis a matching collar and leash within as well.”




She puffed out one cheek and scrunched up her nose, placing her hands on her hips in a familiar pose. “Thee be my dearest sister, I cannot rest easy without the assurance thee be having good sex!” In the same perfunctory sotto voce she added to Teagan, “Twas a dry spell.” 


Sekhmet clenched both hands and mimed strangling the air in front of her. “Hathor!”


“In so much as the Sahara be a ‘dry patch’.”


“Hathor, I swear to glorious, vengeful Ra–”


The visiting twin raised both hands above her head again with a put upon sigh. “So very sensitive! Very well. Thy have a better idea for ‘suitable’ garb?”


The goddess of battle looked about the studio space for a distraction from imminent deicide. One sandaled foot tapped faster and faster with impatience until in desperation she stalked over to a mannequin near the street-facing window wearing a high necked, lacey wedding dress with puffy sleeves and a ball gown skirt of genuinely impressive volume. “There, extremely frilly, wildly impractical. ‘Fashion’, or what have you,” she grumbled gesturing to it with a grimace.


Teagan’s grin nearly split her face, shiny pointed dragon teeth filling a jaw too small to hold them as she threw back her head and laughed; not a malicious sound, but a deep noise that couldn’t be held back by even a dragon’s bite.


It took her a moment to get that back under control, and another to make her teeth less menacing. “‘Tis a wedding dress,” she said, still amused. Her accent had slipped entirely, falling back into something old and vaguely Celtic. “A grand and impractical thing, an impression to be sure, but you’d want something to raise eyebrows and not questions. And you might need a bride or groom to match you in the set.”


A couple of rumbling chuckles followed, but even a dragon had the decorum to clear her throat and stop antagonising a god. “No.” A more modern accent again, familiar deep tones of American with hints of Britain. “I’m no great fashion designer, I haven’t the patience. But I’ve had my ears talked off by princesses and courtiers and courtesans, and even I think you worry too much about the…frills.” She gestured at the dress, and others like it, snorting. “Pick a theme. A goal. If you wish to dress yourself in blood, seek a dress that clings and flows like blood might. If you wish to be a goddess of war, look to the uniforms of the military. To be a lioness, seek a lion’s pelt and colors. Then make it your own - add, remove, change, dress it in Egyptian gold to shine against the skin. Get the advice of those who do know fashion, once you know where to start.”


She grabbed the edge of the dress she’d looked at earlier, pulling it out to gesture at the fabric, dark red and heavy. “There was a dress where I am from - near to your medieval, I suppose - with cloth much like this. I was thinking to begin there, a long and corseted dress in my colors, but split and slitted to show off a warrior’s legs and arms. The original was fine clothing, but with changes and fine jewelry, I could be no princess born but a fearsome and savage dragon queen. You see? Not practical, but powerful.”


While Sekhemt’s grimace stretched into a look of weary resignation at the laughter, Hathor’s golden lips formed an appreciative ‘oh’ as Teagan described her thoughts on an outfit. After a long deep breath the lioness deity rolled her neck as if preparing to lunge and pulled her own lips back from pronounced canines. 


“Blood red,” she said without preamble, with the force of a general giving an order. “Tight at my waist, broad belt or sash, loose in the legs. Slit in front to the knees so the fabric falls like life from the neck of an antelope.” She walked purposefully to the counter toward the back of the studio and grabbed the pencil and pad of paper the tailor had abandoned to start recording her instructions. 


“Matching jacket. Wide… folded part. Lapels. Wide lapels with a golden sunburst design, around my neck then down to here.” The almost violent scratching of the pencil into the top several sheets of paper paused so that she could indicate her lower abdominals. She paused to give Teagan a significant look. “Bare beneath. To display a warrior’s physique.” The look she gave Hathor carried an almost imperceptible hesitation. “Mayhap the goddess of cosmetics would lend assistance in that arena.”


Her sister looked genuinely surprised for the first time since barging into the studio but quickly covered with a light clearing of her throat. “Mayhap that could be arranged, aye. Also…” Hathor retrieved another of her bags and sifted through its contents. “Naliah predicted you would like this. She shall be impossible tonight, alas!” She stood back up with a delicate, almost transparent chain stretched between her hands. Bright red gems hung from the piece at irregular lengths and intervals, forming a beautiful if macabre illusion of falling droplets of blood. “Twas intended as a necklace but instead a clasp for thy jacket, I think. Poor manners to ravage some poor mortal’s sanity by display more of thy ‘warrior’s physique’ than intended, esteemed sister.”


Hathor crossed the studio to present the jewellery to Skehmet, who gingerly accepted it in silence, holding it in her upturned palm as though it were much heavier than it were.


Teagan made an appreciative rumbling noise, stepping closer to eye the gems and chain. “It’s a fine gift,” she said, red eyes reflecting red jewels, “and a prescient one. It would make a fine clasp, and draw the eye nicely without…exposure.” She seemed amused by the idea. “Your priestess has good taste in accessories, and must know skilled artisans.”


Phantom horns and glowing eyes fading, Naliah nodded to Teagan with a faint smile. “I’m gratified to hear you say so.” With Sekhmet’s hands occupied she retrieved the pad of paper on which the goddess had been writing. “I’ll have this taken care of,” she stated in a light tone that managed to be deferential without stopping to ask for permission. “Along with Ms. Delphyne’s ensemble.” She retrieved a tape measure from the counter as well, extending it with a whip crack. “I have a good sense of your measurements already but if you’ll allow?”


The dragon and the priestess held eye contact for a moment before Teagan gave her an uncharacteristically respectful half-nod. “If you can make or acquire that,” she said, pulling off her leather jacket and gesturing at Sekhmet’s ruby-red gift, “I’d be a fool to refuse.” Her boots came off too, heavy as they were, and she dropped the jacket over top of them and held her hands to her sides for the tape.


Naliah did her work with a practised efficiency, jotting down the results in shorthand before tearing the sheets from the notepad, folding them in half and tucking them into the top of her sheath dress. Once she’d put everything else back down on the counter the sundisk and horns blazed back into view above her shaved head and Hathor folded her arms. “Truly, I did not even need to be here! Ugh, forever unappreciated.”


“Thy priestess shows far greater skill and competence, aye,” Sekhmet agreed without hesitation, almost managing to maintain her deadpan as she mirrored her twin’s folded arms. “However, there may have been - arguably - value in thy presence.”


Hathor stuck her tongue out and made a rude gesture before her expression turned a bit more serious. “Infallible Ra would grant thee at least leave to return home briefly. Another could watch the Deceiver, surely.”


The warrior goddess paused briefly before slowly replying, “Tis… more complex. We two could speak more often though, aye. I do miss my favourite sister.”


“Well, obviously.” Hathor’s exaggerated petulance returned with a broad wink and she made ready to leave the studio. “Naliah and I have a date with a pint of gelato so I shall leave thee to wait about for the return of this shop’s owner. I assume thee have nowhere else to be.”


Sekhmet made a rude gesture of her own. “Take thy parcels with thee, at least,” she demanded, gesturing the remaining oversized shopping bags on the studio floor.


“I named them gifts, so gifts they be,” Hathor shot back over her shoulder. “Beside, tis naught within that I would be caught wearing.”


Teagan waited for Hathor to leave before shrugging her jacket back on, frowning thoughtfully at the front door. “I admit,” she said, slowly, “to some sibling envy. I wasn’t kidding when I said I would have tried to kill mine. You and yours seem…kinder, perhaps. Less…” She shrugged, flatly miming the stabbing of a dagger into someone’s stomach. “I would not take her for my own, I think, but it’s nice to see.”


“In Heliopolis we would have come to blows somewhere about the usage of the phrase ‘toppy’,” Sekhmet admitted with an eyeroll powerful enough to move her whole head. “But there, in our full glory, the consequences of such be a different sort.”


She moved to idly nudge one of the abandoned bags with a sandaled toe. “Twas different in ages past, when we were two sides of the same blade. After the Pact, there was little for me to do while Hathor remained ever popular, ever beautiful, ever…” Sekhmet made an all encompassing gesture in the air. “Playful banter became mean-spirited and cutting. I could not tell her in as many words but being on the mortal plane has given me purpose. Perspective.” She looked toward Teagan. “Among other things. Mayhaps was far-sighted Ra’s intent all along.”


Kneeling to inspect one of the bags, Teagan pulled something halfway out to inspect it; the bit of gentle cloth had aspirations of being a dress when it grew up. “I have met several gods, and suspect more of them could do with the perspective. No coincidence, I think, that her priestess was more capable than her in everything but banter, even while being possessed.” She released the garment back into its bag, standing up and looking around the shop - and its still-absent keeper. “Still, I think we got what we came for, and more besides. Are you suitably excited for your useless frills and bloodless party?”


“Suitably excited for thy corset, aye,” Sekhmet replied blithely, sticking her tongue out in an expression that now immediately reminded Teagan of Hathor’s behaviour. She continued with a huff, allowing, “Mayhaps some entertainment will be had, after all. In preparation, I would hear more of thy exploits ‘crashing parties and wilting the proud,’ aye? An enticing turn of phrase.”


“Where I am from,” said Teagan in her best - if not wholly serious - storyteller voice, “few were so proud and in need of humbling than lords and kings. And yet, time and again, they forgot a cardinal rule of party-throwing: never forget to invite the local gods and dragons…”

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Glamazon - Still Waters


“I still believe, this attire requires more armor.  Perhaps a full helmet.  That would be most fashionable,” Thaelia openly opined.  The Atlantean princess was standing in the center of a raised platform.  There was a semi-circle of mirrors giving her full coverage of her appearance.  It was the tidiest spot in the room.  As her surroundings were filled with stacks upon stacks of rolled fabric.  Whose metric volume was only matched by in measure by the sheer amount of dust in the room.  Clearly a large returning customer base was not expected. 


“And you would still be wrong.”  An elderly balding man tutted.  His silver hair and beard shined almost as brightly as the light of the single lit lamp in the room reflected off the man’s spectacles.  He man loomed over the Atlantean demigoddess taking careful measurements.  Or that’s what Thaelia presumed he was doing.  As the soft tape measure that sat upon his blue button-down shirt as if it were a set of suspenders connected to his khakis never actually left his hands.


Taylor the tailor’s weathered hands danced in the air as he motioned a loosening of fiber pills back into the attire.  If Thaelia had a less trusting nature perhaps she would question if the man’s name was simply a pseudonym for the sake of business.  But, it did seem a bit uncouth to question what was presented and open truth by family.  And at the end of the day.  Taylor was family.


The son of Plutus; grandson of Hades and Persephone.  Taylor, would ideally know what attire would meet the approval of her uncle.  At some point in his life, Taylor had earned ambrosia gifted immortality.  He was not a god yest still a capital I immortal.  As such despite his already…venerable appearance Thaelia knew her cousin was older. His chosen vocation of tailor to dimensional travelers and the divine while fitting with his superpowered control of fabric was not exactly filled with tales of harrowing daring that one would recount over mugs of mead.


Atlantean crownwork tended to have prongs akin to a trident.  There was a famous tale told in Atlantean nobility about her adoptive mother, aunt by blood, in which Queen Ariallis fended off three Atlantean raiders using her crown after the King had actually talked her into leaving behind her staves on their honeymoon.  The crown that Taylor had procured for Thaelia was hardly a weapon.  There was nary a sharp point.  In fact the way it wreathed upon her hair was more akin to a diadem.


Thaelia had no say in the chosen color scheme.  White represented her Olympian heritage.  Blue for Atlantis.  And Gold for her nobility.  Though Taylor had corrected her.  Gold was for the ichor that flowed through her veins.  Blue for Poseidon and the sea of which he held dominion.  And the white garbs represented herself and respected her mother.  It was the orichalcum that would represent both Atlantis and her nobility. Though Thaelia was quick to note that Taylor had not acquired real orichalcum.  This was the manufactured fool’s orichalcum that the surface had prided itself as a successful recreation.  Which was either a matter of scarcity or a hidden insult.  Thaelia had chosen to lean to the former conclusion.


Her arms were adorned with false orichalcum armbands and wrist guards.  Mystical engravings on the orichalcum sat inert.  Thaelia’s own education in the arcane told her they were to call upon a tremor within a limited range.  Likely for a grand entrance.  Though, she could create a more vigorous showing by merely stomping her muscular legs down with enough force to create seismic activity.  An act she had been able to manage since at least her junior year at Claremont years ago.


Which brought Thaelia’s attention down to those very same legs.  And the pair of blue heels waiting in front of her feet to wear.  A similarly colored blue tunic, a chiton, was fastened to her shoulder by a shoulder guard, a gallerus.  The gallerus had an azure corusqua gem sitting in the center.  Matched only by an ostentatious corusqua that the demigoddess now adorned on the center of her chest taking the place of a strophion.  Coupled with a himation it was clear the Ancient Greek inspiration Taylor had carefully crafted was not limited to the actual fashion of the day.  Nor was it limited to surfacer fashion with the inclusion of the Atlantean gems.


Still the footwear had no place in the ocean.  Even if Thaelia could not help but appreciate the color scheme darkening the lower on her body ones’ eyes traveled.  Akin to the depths of the ocean itself.  “I still do not abide by this.  I still have to swim to the other side of the country to attend the libations most exclusive.”


“I thought you would enjoy wearing knives on your feet,” the elderly man mused.  Kneeling down to reach for the heels.  But not before Thaelia quickly slipped her feet inside.  The strength of her digits allowing her to actually manage to force them inside without having to move from a standing position.  At the cost of stabbing into the platform.  For his part, Taylor simply smiled.  Knowingly manipulating the woman known as the Glamazon into wearing the heels without further rejection.


“My trident is blade enough.  However, I do not which to trample upon your kind intent.”  Thaelia rebutted.  As she was incapable of lying the words were either spoken with a measure of truth.  Or much more likely with a measure of belief.  The lies one tells themselves and all.  Thaelia spun around capturing the sight of her clothing twirling as she did so.  She could not raise much more in complaint the more it became clear that her tailor would not be fashioning up a helmet.  Though really, what kind of tailor would double as an armorer?


Thaelia’s hair was worn up.  Rather than the wild mid length appearance that screamed of battle this was more restraint.  Even if it took half a day of convincing from Nereid to allow a stylist to touch her hair.  “I suppose even a daughter of the seas has to accept that sometimes water does run still.”  A smile crept up on the demigoddess’ face.



Edited by Brown Dynamite
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Posted (edited)



Once upon a time, she could have reached out to her with but a thought. But that was before everything changed. However 'tailor to the supers' notwithstanding, there was only one person who's opinion she could trust with something like this. So a text was sent, and then a few hours later Lynn Epstein was standing in front of the Mirror of Al-Kazar in the secret room behind her office. Talking to her ex, Gretchen McDaniels.


"Hey." Gretch looked as lovely as ever in a red flannel shirt open over an Ozzy Osborne tee, tight black jeans and scuffed Doc Martin's, a wristwatch with studded leather strap on her right wrist. Her black plastic framed glasses made her look like a sexy, irritated owl.


"Hey." Lynn stood in what appeared to be a vintage Muppets Show t-shirt, loose cut jeans and light hiking boots. For several seconds they both stood there framed by their respective full length mirrors, arms crossed self-consciously across their chests, trying to avoid each other's gaze. 


"Thank God this isn't at all awkward."


Bless Gretch for breaking the ice! Lynn laughed out loud and was finally able to look at her ex-partner and ex-lover, who wore a wry and crooked grin.


"I'm sorry, I just...I didn't know who else to ask for advice, y'know? I mean, part of me doesn't even want to go, but-"


"You should go and you should slay. Show them what a badass bitch you really are."


"Okay, okay, I will. So, any suggestions?"


Gretch cocked her head to one side, the way she did when she was deep in thought. Oh how Lynn missed that look!


"You have an amazing body, especially in the ass department. Not to knock your tots, which are also exceptional."


"Oh God, uh...thanks."


"So you want to wrap all that sweetness in something fine. It should catch the light and hide as little as possible. How are you in heels?"


"I mean, you know I'm ridiculously agile, but anything over three inches just feels a bit much, y'know?"


"That's fine." Again with the head tilt. "I'm thinking...tell me you've seen Legend."


"The 80s movie with Tom Cruise? Yeah, but not in a long time."


"Lily's black dress, after Tim Curry corrupts her. Google it."


The shapeshifter pulled out her Android and deftly typed in a search.


"Okay, yeah I kinda remember that. Lemme see...oh...oh! Oh, that's a lot!"


Gretch sighed and showed her famous half-smile.


"Part of my queer awakening, I assure you. Mom wondered why I wore out two VHS tapes."


"I mean, I love it, but the collar looks like...like, I think I'd be knocking s### over all the time. Or put someone's eye out."


The former barista shrugged. "So make it out of something less dangerous."


"Like what, tissue paper? I'd think that would just be a fire hazard if there's any torches, and if this party is in Hell, you know there's going to be torches, so-"


Lynn froze, eyes wide with an ever-growing grin on her face.


"What. What do you have?"


"Smoke. I'll make the collar out of smoke."


"Hell. Yes."


- - -


Grimalkin stood before her mirror, which no longer showed her ex within its surface, and took in her own reflection. Her outfit of fine-spun glamour was like no material which existed anyhere in the natural world, borrowing as it did elements of spider silk and beetle shells. Depending on where the light was coming from, it appeared to be dark green, midnight blue or black. The three inch heels blended seamlessly into the gleaming material wrapped around her legs, torso and arms. There was also a dramatic plunge down the front, revealing everything from collarbone to navel, but impossibly everything was held in place through sheer force of will. Her mask evoked classic cat's eye glasses from the 50s, and her curly hair cascaded artfully down one side of her face. Finally the wide collar of black smoke billowed up from her shoulders, and trailed along behind her on as she moved.


"Hell yes, indeed."

Edited by Heritage
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