Thread: Omnisin Verse&Sesu

The city itself was a dark spectacle ominous spears to the sky, shadow lacing into shadow. While structures might seem haphazard on first look, sewn together as they were by jagged parts, nothing was left to chance. Pretty plates and onyx - matte fences and onyx. The chaos had a design, had a purpose, followed an ideal. The streetlights, some with emerald in their cages and some with crystal, bathed stained cobblestone to the best of their abilities. Still the skeletal motorbikes and ivory umbrellas fought to be seen through blackness. Smoke from passers-by built up a promise of an uglier tomorrow - a promise the inhabitants always made sure to break. Even if their city was vile, unfriendly and hostile it had always been beautiful, this was a story reflected and corroborated in the puddles just before hard heels distorted that truth. And to exist in Aivonstad you had to be just as full of sharp edges and just as fair. The event of the night, a Tuesday - crowned by elevated lips to be the new day of recreation - was the launching minglette of Lark's recent line of clothing. The brand boasted most sales of last year, their revenue surpassing even that of advanced electronics and the energy source itself, Alfite. Planner of the party Yari Montegra had been given no choice but to promise the board a tasteful but resounding get-together for the finer lifeforms of Aivonstad. So the whole thing was held in Hotel SilkVerk, where the entire business had been rented so that the guests could haunt whichever nook they desired. The main room could be nothing but the main hall, rebuilt entirely for the occasion. Competing and winning over the detailed, dark wood walls and sizable chandeliers were the tall and narrow podiums that served to carry the concepts of the new line. Forming this seasons fashion among the cockroaching crowd were experimental boots and intricate plates of jewelery, more fit to be shields than broaches. Lithe, black feathers sprung from stone incrusted nests, everything coated in that recently invented alloy Lark had dared name The Aivon Blend. It was obvious they didn't want to abandon a decade of decadence with this new direction, but rather control it, channel it into important pieces of the ensemble instead of letting everyone mix everything. In Aivonstad with so many lifetimes in front of the mirror, fashion was blood, and in this era Lark was the heart. The demonically detailed subjects where there for the elite runt to drool and gossip over, while the elite elite had a chance to hear the latest deign genius speak about his little infant that would soon grow into a monster and obsession for the masses. Or so the plan was. Leilan Veris was always alive, always filled to the brim. But that didn't mean he was the rosy-cheeked lad that swayed as he walked, giggling and waving to the nobler dames of lower classes. He was an engineer at heart, not a cloth illusionist, and as such he was more eager to see his deceitful articles do their work instead of being on display. The spear-like creature that he was, tall and sharp and thin, swirled the ember in his glass as his eyes were on a particular piece of his collection. The brown was deeply set in his eyes, long blades of black hair brushed to stab backward and up for the occasion. His face was therefor free in its bothered thoughtfulness. Dressed in black clothes and lace, these spindly shadows sometimes broken by cut, orange stones, he received more compliments on his attire than his creations. Of course. Who would suspect someone who makes gaudy things to have a subtle palled as well? Did you hear of the designer? I hear he fused demonology with technology. Have you heard about the new favorite on the Lark board? Leilan Veris, the alchemist. The chatter made him laugh. Maybe it was magic to them, the science that he had doctored in. He reached out, penetrating the invisible field that protected his work. The computer recognized his signature and let him touch the fabric. Masterpieces that would let him take lives without ending them. And no one knew. He retracted his gloved fingers before anyone caught on. The cackling crowd thinned, which only meant they opened the tables for food or the ones for samples. The art in the main hall was for shining a light that the mainstream clothes would strive for, cheaper clothing with a dream of something more divine, because even Lark couldn't mass-produce what he had put together. He brushed his chin against the soft lace of his collar when he looked down into his drink, smiling. Perhaps it was enough that his art existed. It was perfect, he knew. Maybe that was all it needed to be.