happy worldbuilding wednesday, tell me about the types of fashion or what people wear in your world? feel free to talk about more than one wips!
This is another one I wanted to do an Asylum posts deep dive for. There’s a flashback scene Seth has, getting ready for a big holiday performance, and it seems perfect for this question:
Llorinda’s fingers on the laces at his hips tickled. He wanted to bat her away, but he understood her need to make sure everything looked just so. He’d asked her to do it, out of the same fastidious need. And because she was the only female who’s eye he trusted that he actually could ask such things of.
“You’ll be fine, Meron,” she said lightly, eyes still on her work.
He wanted to scowl or give some curt reply, but the annoyance in his aura, and the anxiety underneath, were clear enough. Though he held his aura more closely than his neighbors—especially after visiting the h’somu in the mountains—skin to skin contact would tell her almost his every thought. It didn’t help that she was one of his oldest friends.
Or rather, it did help. Llorinda’s presence, her support by extension, did much to soothe his frazzled nerves. She didn’t say, “I know,” didn’t give the laces a firmer tug than necessary to drive the point home. She just quietly went about her work, sitting back on her heels occasionally to judge their evenness, and let him stew in his own dread.
It’s just a dance, he told himself. Just one stupid little dance you’ve practiced a hundred times. With his nerves this ramped up, he was just as likely to call the fire on accident as with the ceremonial dance. Either way, the central fire would be lit for the year, and his people’s prosperity would be assured.
The only real question was whether or not his dignity would survive the winter.
He started from his thoughts at Llorinda’s question, and stared stupidly down at her until she asked again.
“U-up, of course,” he said.
She nodded and began to lace the pants just under his knees. Her lack of comment prompted him to continue. “It’s traditional, isn’t it? Cuffs are worn high for any fire dances.”
Llorinda nodded again, holding one end of the cord in her teeth as she worked. Once free of the burden she answered. “I know how to dress a leh’shcarmn for a ki’ramn. I was asking you how you’d prefer to be dressed.”
He paused and mulled over her words, knowing she’d made the distinction for a reason. Was it belittling his skills, calling his footwork into question? If he wore them down, his calves wouldn’t be painted with the gold markings that would glint in the firelight, showing off the steps.
No, that wasn’t it. Llorinda would tease him about just about anything, but not things of real importance. He was truly nervous about this, and she would know it, and wouldn’t undermine his confidence.
So what was she asking? She hadn’t stopped lacing the cuff up around his knee, like he’d asked, so why even say anything? Would she be willing to take them back down if he changed his mind? He wouldn’t want to make her redo the all over again—
And it wouldn’t be like her to waste the effort, if she thought he really might. So she knew he wanted them up, but wanted him to think about why.
Was he wearing them this way, simply because of tradition? What was he trying to prove? Yes, the night was about proving their reijye was a capable areta, able to call the magic of his birthright and fit to lead them. But most of them had seen him call fire at one time or another before, albeit informally. So what was this evening really about?
How would you prefer to be dressed?
She was asking him to present his real face to the people, he realized. His friend was challenging him to be more than icon and leader to the people he lived and loved with. To stop holding himself back, to truly dance when he called the fire.
But could he do it? Could he let his people in, let them see the pain that hovered just behind his smile, darted in the shadows at the corners of his eyes, sighed out with his every laugh and joke?
“I prefer them laced down.”
Still she laced them above the knee, moving on to fix the next cuff.
