A Pretense Triptych

January 15th, 2008 at 08:38am Secundus Jacobus

“Master D’Orsay, the time for delivering has long since past.” D’Orsay’s valet AO’d something of his own creation, wherein he tapped the side of his leg impatiently with his left hand while raising one Spocklike eyebrow. It was a deft piece of script, designed to indicate exasperation, cheek and no small measure of the insolence that invariably comes with familiarity. “We are expected.”

“I am aware, Tiro,” D’Orsay acknowledged with his usual equanimity. The fact was, the drafts the Lady Astarte has commissioned of him were perhaps half complete, and his valet Tiro called him now to an appointment for which he was more than a little underprepared. Tiro’s impatience was just; and their conversation was holed with the vacuum-bell pauses indicative of one who is doing some work offline and ALT-Tab’ing back and forth between World and Word. D’Orsay was, rather guiltily, engaging his deadline pace.

“At least you are properly attired,” Tiro sighed. Part of his duties was to ensure D’Orsay’s often piquant dress was appropriate to the event, and for a meeting with his patroness, there was nothing so appropriate than the aptly named Pretense by Raven Pennyfeather (House of Rfyre, Isle RFyre 97, 119, 23). For the Lady, D’Orsay had chosen a somber and dignified gray, its coils of brocade lending the entire an element of depth and a sense of ornamentation. His cloak swept upward with aplomb and trailed him as he walked, and his stockings lent an aristocratic, almost medieval element to the suit. A burnished line of buttons in the outline of a cross guarded his breast.

D’Orsay ran a hasty spellcheck and then reluctantly ctrl-c’d what copy he had and pasted it into a pair of notecards. And he mentally prepared to be charming – milady was forgiving, but only to those who could be entertaining, and rarer still to those who planned to borrow another quarter of the commission against the finished product – the third quarter he’d begged of her. “Were you half a de Bergerac, Tiro, this pending chore would be simpler by far.”

“Were you half a Stephen King,” Tiro observed wryly, “… you’d have completed Lady Astarte’s commission twice over, and needn’t worry to gull her with honeyed words and flirtatious banter.”

D’Orsay grimaced and said nothing.

+++

Pure aristocracy, the Pretense by Raven Pennyfeather is a study in darkness etched with halogen - silver, red, blue, swirling in majestic Renaissance swirls that nearly swagger by themselves. This suit is not for the wallflower - it dares the plebes to snigger and handily rebuffs them with a cutting remark. At 14 pieces, much of brocade, the Pretense is not an airy suit - layer upon layer of thick eclectic cloth enfolds the wearer, and yet? It is armor of a different sort, made for a crusader not of Malta (the Knights of St. John also wore the cross upon their breast) of the court of a Medici prince. The intricacy and attention to the design detail bespeaks a sense of purpose behind the forthright shout of the garment - the buttons of the cross like small harlequins, the translucency of the cuff lace, the small variations in the tracery, in the bow and at the knee between each color. All these elements evoke a sense of sophisticated arrogance.

+++

“Don’t look so shocked to see me, my friend!” the self-styled comte D’Orsay said as he strolled through the massive, brushed brass doors. “I will be forced to mistake your gape for an unseen leap in your normally slow but steady slip toward cretinhood!”

D’Orsay didn’t shout, but all heard the jibe, and he deftly picked his way across the gilt wood tiles of the speakeasy casino with his usual aplomb. Scattered about, the various players – some furtive, their rodentine profusion of complicated hair flexi-waggling in echo to their gestures of triumph or loss; and some brazen, tight-jeaned ur-plutocrats taking a night off from their escort-besotted revels to gauge bets and display winnings for their fellows – eyed the newcomer with a jaundiced glare. Some IM’d greetings, some questioned after loans unpaid, all received silence in response.

D’Orsay headed for his favorite table at an easy pace, a good-natured wraith in crimson and ebonite. His black lace cuffs flowed over his wrists like espresso crema, and the bow of his neckcloth, wrapped round high and tied in an ornate fleur-de-lys, was garrotted beneath the chin with twin diamond clips. He leapt into the club chair with all the speed of a lonely teen’s right-click, gestured a cordial nod at the Away sign in the chair two down, and essayed a wide smile as a martini appeared on the kidney-colored leather in front of him.

“Come now, don’t be sore, Anatine! They weren’t your Lindens, after all, right?”

“Before I deal you a single card – a single card, dandy - you cover your markers.”

“But of course,” D’Orsay said coolly, his smile growing even wider, the points of his patent leather dress brogues, thin and sharp as a gentleman’s rapier, seemed to lead forward in expectation as the triple silver buttons gleaming dully in response to a forced sunset sun. Peter was robbed, Paul was paid, and a fresh deck of French 52’s began to scatter itself at D’Orsay’s fingers.

+++

The Pretense begins with a large, floridly tied bow that covers the entirety of the throat and draped elegantly over the upper chest. Two diamond clips, along with a large pewter ring, hold the bow together. Below, the cross of hammered silver buttons lends a medieval spark, tempering the far more modern lightstick scrollwork. Over the entire torse drapes a brocade jacket of the same design, hung with flexi tails that billow out behind like a brigantine’s mainsail. Underneath the cloak, the wearer is afforded the option of either brocade trousers, cut languidly but high at the ankle to accomodate the buckled brogues, or breeches and hose, reminiscent of the mid-to-late 18th century. The shoes themselves are fit for cobblestones, sharply drawn and seigneurial.

+++

“Now aren’t you just a delight!” D’Orsay IM’d to the passing woman. Dressed in latex analog and high boots that opened at thigh with more than a little Aeon Flux, the woman slowed and turned to see who had messaged. “Greetings, my dark little angel,” he said when her eyes found him in the booth he shared with the two women he’d met there. To port was a tartly escort who posed, flexed and periodically repeated her standard working girl entreaty to “…get out of this joint and have some real fun.” At starboard, a marketing exec from one of the larger firms/clubs bobbed her unnaturals and looked bored.

“Who the hell are you?” Aeon said with a bit of sneer.

“I am D’Orsay, mio angelo, and none other,” he said. “And your hair is a vision.” And it was – stylized and spiked like a poured curtain of flash-frozen night, stabbing out with every challenging tilt of her face. “I must make a bit of a confession – I have a teensy thing for hair.”

“Is that so.”

“I want to dance,” said the marketing exec.

“Then please do so, my darling,” D’Orsay said.

“I’ve never heard of you,” said the Aeon, turning to face him fully as the exec got up and headed for the dance floor.

“Perhaps it’s because I don’t really advertise,” D’Orsay said mock apologetically. “Why don’t you join me and we can discuss it…?”

“I don’t think so,” said the Aeon – but then, she added a grin. “I can see you’re already… busy.”

D’Orsay paused for a few long moments, leaned over and kissed the escort, and she disappeared in a swift spangly swirl.

“That was quick,” said the Aeon as she sat on the freshly vacated slab of temperfoam couch.

“Just business,” D’Orsay said with a smile. He materialized a glass of wine the color of old garnets in front of her, and crooked one leg upon the other. The electric blue tracery of his trousers formed around his crossed legs with the audacity of a prince prone to banditry.

“I like your suit,” she said as a cigarette magically appeared between her fingers.

“I know,” D’Orsay said, and he looked like a forest cat who had fed recently, but not enough. “Me too.”

+++

The Pretense, by Raven Pennyfeather, at House of Rfyre (Isle RFyre 97, 119, 23). Fourteen pieces, includes jacket with tails, brocade shirt, two embroidered trousers in boot and regular length, lace cuffs and ribboned collar. Available in midnight, cobalt and crimson, L$700.

Disclosure: Seen in World: Yes | Review Copy: Yes | Friends List: Yes

Notes: On Secundus: GAVIN-bald shaved skin by Melvin Demain (Mirror Image). Rayon glasses 1.12 by Nibb Tardis (primOptic).

Entry Filed under: Costumes, Formal, Goth, Outfits, RFyre