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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
My Lady's Gown
In the westernmost tower of my liege's manor, there is a room that is frequented with desperate regularity and perpetual resignation.
The room is high-ceilinged, well-maintained, and furnished richly enough to inspire the envy of many a noble. Luxuries from distant shores are strewn about room: fragrances sit upon the hand-carved vanity, scarves lay draped across the overstuffed chairs, necklaces and brooches lie tucked away in drawers. Any one item could be sold for a small fortune, but it is not the ceiling that draws the attention of the room's visitors, nor the furniture, nor the various trinkets, for all of these pale in comparison to the dress.
Milady's gown is commanding.
The form it is draped upon stands proudly in the center of the room. It rules the space; even the servants who have spent their entire lives toiling amidst opulence and luxury are unable to enter the chamber without their eyes being drawn toward its silken lengths—the craftsmanship is such that the dress would stand out even in a king's treasury.
The guards stare at it for hours, from dawn to dusk to dawn again, until they are released from their watch and may seek refuge in sleep's forgiving embrace, where the silhouette of milady's gown stands guard over their dreamings. Sometimes, the guards dream of more than just the gown's shadow—but never to much success. Their slumbering minds grasp at recreating the garment's splendor much like an infant clutches at its soap-laced bathwater—able to touch but never to hold—and so night after night, they are haunted by fragments of the dress' beauty.
Milady's gown is lovely.
Cut from a cloth that seems to stir in a summer breeze even when still, the fabric is dyed with a blue so pure, so delicate, it could've only been stolen from the earliest tendrils of dawn—those first, hesitant streaks of color that press against the velvet of night, swaddling the stars in a dazzling swatch of newborn daylight.
It is a youthful color, vibrant and innocent and well-suited for a maiden.
Under close examination, the gown appears to sacrifice style for convenience. The beaded neckline tapers to a gentle point, rather than a plunging scoop; the bodice is tailored, but not so tightly as to be restrictive; and the sleeves—rather than flaring out to reach longingly for the ground—are a simple, fitted affair. There are no excess yards of fabric to weigh down milady's arms.
The dress's hemline is cut generously enough to accommodate even the most unladylike of behaviors. Indeed, the front edge of the gown is slightly worn and threadbare—as though repeatedly trodden upon while its wearer struggled to find purchase for her foot in a wall or tree. The cuffs, too, bear signs of not-so-refined activities. Faint shadows line the sleeves, for the land's soil is rich and nourishing and not so easily washed away, when one's hands are muddied after an hour of picking flowers with the cobbler's son.
The garment's imperfections end not with meager stains, though.
Milady's gown is soiled.
The generous hemline—so suited for climbing, for running and riding astride—is missing a wide strip of cloth from front to back. The fabric at the edge of the absent section is frayed and torn, as one would expect to see when a skirt snags and its wearer cannot afford to spend the time to coax it loose.
The dress has occupied the tower room for many a month now, but the faintest hint of creasing can still be seen criscrossing the fabric like the remnants of a pattern. Indeed, if one were to dutifully recreate each haphazard fold, one would be left with the same wadded-up ball of discarded fabric the bloodhounds found in a ditch in the farthest reaches of the fiefdom.
Upon its bodice, milady's gown bears new embellishment. A pattern of deepest russet blooms from several gaping holes in the gown, each slit possessing the tell-tale precision of steel in its clean-cut edges. The stains—once-crimson flowers that dared to spread their petals from the punctures in which they were planted—mar the gown's otherworldly beauty with the stark heraldry of mortality.
Milady's gown is empty.
The crinkling and staining differs in the front. Two sets of wrinkles flank a section of tearstains, where my liege kneels nightly before milady's memory, gathers her skirt in his battlestained hands, and weeps whispers oaths of vengeance, as though destroying his neighbors could bring back his daughter's smile.
Milady's gown smells of ashes and blood.
The room is high-ceilinged, well-maintained, and furnished richly enough to inspire the envy of many a noble. Luxuries from distant shores are strewn about room: fragrances sit upon the hand-carved vanity, scarves lay draped across the overstuffed chairs, necklaces and brooches lie tucked away in drawers. Any one item could be sold for a small fortune, but it is not the ceiling that draws the attention of the room's visitors, nor the furniture, nor the various trinkets, for all of these pale in comparison to the dress.
Milady's gown is commanding.
The form it is draped upon stands proudly in the center of the room. It rules the space; even the servants who have spent their entire lives toiling amidst opulence and luxury are unable to enter the chamber without their eyes being drawn toward its silken lengths—the craftsmanship is such that the dress would stand out even in a king's treasury.
The guards stare at it for hours, from dawn to dusk to dawn again, until they are released from their watch and may seek refuge in sleep's forgiving embrace, where the silhouette of milady's gown stands guard over their dreamings. Sometimes, the guards dream of more than just the gown's shadow—but never to much success. Their slumbering minds grasp at recreating the garment's splendor much like an infant clutches at its soap-laced bathwater—able to touch but never to hold—and so night after night, they are haunted by fragments of the dress' beauty.
Milady's gown is lovely.
Cut from a cloth that seems to stir in a summer breeze even when still, the fabric is dyed with a blue so pure, so delicate, it could've only been stolen from the earliest tendrils of dawn—those first, hesitant streaks of color that press against the velvet of night, swaddling the stars in a dazzling swatch of newborn daylight.
It is a youthful color, vibrant and innocent and well-suited for a maiden.
Under close examination, the gown appears to sacrifice style for convenience. The beaded neckline tapers to a gentle point, rather than a plunging scoop; the bodice is tailored, but not so tightly as to be restrictive; and the sleeves—rather than flaring out to reach longingly for the ground—are a simple, fitted affair. There are no excess yards of fabric to weigh down milady's arms.
The dress's hemline is cut generously enough to accommodate even the most unladylike of behaviors. Indeed, the front edge of the gown is slightly worn and threadbare—as though repeatedly trodden upon while its wearer struggled to find purchase for her foot in a wall or tree. The cuffs, too, bear signs of not-so-refined activities. Faint shadows line the sleeves, for the land's soil is rich and nourishing and not so easily washed away, when one's hands are muddied after an hour of picking flowers with the cobbler's son.
The garment's imperfections end not with meager stains, though.
Milady's gown is soiled.
The generous hemline—so suited for climbing, for running and riding astride—is missing a wide strip of cloth from front to back. The fabric at the edge of the absent section is frayed and torn, as one would expect to see when a skirt snags and its wearer cannot afford to spend the time to coax it loose.
The dress has occupied the tower room for many a month now, but the faintest hint of creasing can still be seen criscrossing the fabric like the remnants of a pattern. Indeed, if one were to dutifully recreate each haphazard fold, one would be left with the same wadded-up ball of discarded fabric the bloodhounds found in a ditch in the farthest reaches of the fiefdom.
Upon its bodice, milady's gown bears new embellishment. A pattern of deepest russet blooms from several gaping holes in the gown, each slit possessing the tell-tale precision of steel in its clean-cut edges. The stains—once-crimson flowers that dared to spread their petals from the punctures in which they were planted—mar the gown's otherworldly beauty with the stark heraldry of mortality.
Milady's gown is empty.
The crinkling and staining differs in the front. Two sets of wrinkles flank a section of tearstains, where my liege kneels nightly before milady's memory, gathers her skirt in his battlestained hands, and weeps whispers oaths of vengeance, as though destroying his neighbors could bring back his daughter's smile.
Milady's gown smells of ashes and blood.