22nd Winter 518av.
Gods, I wished they would stop moving.
Amelia, quite aggrieved with the dancers’ inability to be still for even a tick, watched as a tall dark-haired woman glided across the floor, turning and turning with impressive, liquid-like elegance. The seamstress glanced back on her sketchpad, and with a dramatic groan, she yanked at the paper, scrunched it into a ball and let it fall on the floor beside her feet. The graveyard of the other dozen other half-started sketches would indicate to any observer how poorly Amelia’s progress was going.
The issue was not a lack inspiration; quite the opposite! It was the overwhelming speed at which Amelia would feel obliged to sketch an outfit for one dancer, before another would enter the stage and steal the limelight. Or, rather, the designer’s attention.
There was just so much to consider! When Amelia had agreed to design the costumes for the next performance held at the Ethereal Opera House, she had not expected to be as overcome as she now was. And yet with every pirouette, plier and sauter, Amelia’s mind became full of costumes and outfits that rivalled the talent and beauty of the performers.
“How are your designs coming along, Amelia?”
Lili Arealia; the owner of the opera house and, for this job, Amelia’s employer. She was the personification of professionalism, and Amelia found her own spine straightening up as she took in the imposing appearance of the slightly older woman. Few people managed to intimidate Amelia, but Lili always had. Perhaps it was the very stern, almost distant, persona of the other woman, or the fact that she successfully ran a business when she only a few years older than the seamstress.
Despite all of this, Amelia was not the type to lie, even to the very person paying her wages: “Not too good, to be honest. I think I’m struggling to really know what direction to go in. I haven’t a great deal of experience designing clothes for this purpose.”
If Lili was unimpressed or irked by this statement, she didn’t show it. With a slight purse of her lips, and glanced down at the pile of discarded designs that lay at Amelia’s feet. “Sometimes it takes a while to settle on an idea, I agree. But remember, The Dance of Storms is an homage to Zulrav’s background and His story. It’s important that the costumes compliment that. We want our audience to be taken into the eye of the storm, to truly feel His wind and rain, even if they’re actually indoors.” With that safe, taut piece of advice, Lili resumed her slow walk around backstage.
Amelia considered what the manageress had said. She disliked the wind – or more accurately, how it would mess her hair – and so Zulrav was not exactly Amelia’s favoured deity. The young woman generally struggled to identify with any of the Gods and Goddesses she knew of, but few others ruled over a domain that annoyed Amelia as much as the God of Storms did.
But she had to admit there was a sense of power in Zulrav’s province. She had marvelled at the speed with which a gust of wind could capture an object – a hat, a tree branch, even a small dog – and bluster it miles and miles away. She had observed birds battling against the God as they tried to seek shelter and safety during a storm, noting how they had suddenly seemed incapable of gliding back to the ground whilst the God pushed and blew them about.
It would be fair to say that Amelia respected Zulrav, as would be expected of a young woman who was not a complete fool. Perhaps she could bring this reverence somehow into her designs?
She looked back to the stage, where the dancers continued to rehearse and stretch. She focused on a particular individual – this time an auburn-haired dancer who was currently being lifted above the head of her partner – and Amelia tried to imagine what their movements would look like if they were in performing in the middle of a storm.
Her dress would look almost ragged, like it was torn. As if it was made of many layers of different lengths
The seamstress started to sketch, drawing the gentle outlines of a full-length skirted dress. Then she stopped, tilted her head and glanced from the dancer to the design and back again, lips pursed in deep concentration. No, not a dress. But a two-piece costume. A full-length skirt, made of a light material that would blow and twist as the dancers moved, and a top that was more fitted. Perhaps cropped?
The waist of the skirt would need to be fitted, as well, to save the performers (and Amelia) the unfortunate and embarrassing situation where a dancer might be caught with her skirt falling down mid-twirl. ”And the skirt would need to have at least two layers, to bring even more movement.” She murmured, noting down these details. Amelia thought best when she did so aloud, where her ingenious could be noted and appreciated by whatever audience she may have at the time.
Gods, I wished they would stop moving.
Amelia, quite aggrieved with the dancers’ inability to be still for even a tick, watched as a tall dark-haired woman glided across the floor, turning and turning with impressive, liquid-like elegance. The seamstress glanced back on her sketchpad, and with a dramatic groan, she yanked at the paper, scrunched it into a ball and let it fall on the floor beside her feet. The graveyard of the other dozen other half-started sketches would indicate to any observer how poorly Amelia’s progress was going.
The issue was not a lack inspiration; quite the opposite! It was the overwhelming speed at which Amelia would feel obliged to sketch an outfit for one dancer, before another would enter the stage and steal the limelight. Or, rather, the designer’s attention.
There was just so much to consider! When Amelia had agreed to design the costumes for the next performance held at the Ethereal Opera House, she had not expected to be as overcome as she now was. And yet with every pirouette, plier and sauter, Amelia’s mind became full of costumes and outfits that rivalled the talent and beauty of the performers.
“How are your designs coming along, Amelia?”
Lili Arealia; the owner of the opera house and, for this job, Amelia’s employer. She was the personification of professionalism, and Amelia found her own spine straightening up as she took in the imposing appearance of the slightly older woman. Few people managed to intimidate Amelia, but Lili always had. Perhaps it was the very stern, almost distant, persona of the other woman, or the fact that she successfully ran a business when she only a few years older than the seamstress.
Despite all of this, Amelia was not the type to lie, even to the very person paying her wages: “Not too good, to be honest. I think I’m struggling to really know what direction to go in. I haven’t a great deal of experience designing clothes for this purpose.”
If Lili was unimpressed or irked by this statement, she didn’t show it. With a slight purse of her lips, and glanced down at the pile of discarded designs that lay at Amelia’s feet. “Sometimes it takes a while to settle on an idea, I agree. But remember, The Dance of Storms is an homage to Zulrav’s background and His story. It’s important that the costumes compliment that. We want our audience to be taken into the eye of the storm, to truly feel His wind and rain, even if they’re actually indoors.” With that safe, taut piece of advice, Lili resumed her slow walk around backstage.
Amelia considered what the manageress had said. She disliked the wind – or more accurately, how it would mess her hair – and so Zulrav was not exactly Amelia’s favoured deity. The young woman generally struggled to identify with any of the Gods and Goddesses she knew of, but few others ruled over a domain that annoyed Amelia as much as the God of Storms did.
But she had to admit there was a sense of power in Zulrav’s province. She had marvelled at the speed with which a gust of wind could capture an object – a hat, a tree branch, even a small dog – and bluster it miles and miles away. She had observed birds battling against the God as they tried to seek shelter and safety during a storm, noting how they had suddenly seemed incapable of gliding back to the ground whilst the God pushed and blew them about.
It would be fair to say that Amelia respected Zulrav, as would be expected of a young woman who was not a complete fool. Perhaps she could bring this reverence somehow into her designs?
She looked back to the stage, where the dancers continued to rehearse and stretch. She focused on a particular individual – this time an auburn-haired dancer who was currently being lifted above the head of her partner – and Amelia tried to imagine what their movements would look like if they were in performing in the middle of a storm.
Her dress would look almost ragged, like it was torn. As if it was made of many layers of different lengths
The seamstress started to sketch, drawing the gentle outlines of a full-length skirted dress. Then she stopped, tilted her head and glanced from the dancer to the design and back again, lips pursed in deep concentration. No, not a dress. But a two-piece costume. A full-length skirt, made of a light material that would blow and twist as the dancers moved, and a top that was more fitted. Perhaps cropped?
The waist of the skirt would need to be fitted, as well, to save the performers (and Amelia) the unfortunate and embarrassing situation where a dancer might be caught with her skirt falling down mid-twirl. ”And the skirt would need to have at least two layers, to bring even more movement.” She murmured, noting down these details. Amelia thought best when she did so aloud, where her ingenious could be noted and appreciated by whatever audience she may have at the time.
