this is Salem, a land filled with magic and maladies. It is a place where witches and their elemental familiars gather, a home to legend and
lore that predates time itself. Yet of all the wicked and wonderful stories the past can tell us of, the most magical are the ones yet to happen.
This is Salem - this is the start of your very own journey. Welcome to starfall
Starfall is an animaga witch roleplay set in mostly modern times. Members play as witches in a world plagued by monsters, where the only safe spots are walled cities. Starfall strives to be a character-driven roleplay with expansive lore and a highly interactive plotline. We want to allow members to
create and look back on a magical journey, and mold the site and its plot as their characters grow.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 28, 2017 11:09:15 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
a soft tinkle - silver chimes announce his arrival, the door swinging silently shut behind him. early morning light refracts his eyes into a prism of green scintillating over the displayed wares: soft satins in rich mauves, velvets of purple so deep it is almost black, gauzy silk in yellows and blues and pinks like primroses and forget-me-nots and azaleas; suits with crisp, clean lines, thin cotton summerwear in the latest cuts and cloaks of timeless style - a single glance and it is obvious: laurent borchardt is a highly skilled tailor.
but - and his eyes drift to the silvertongue hourglass sitting inconspicuously on a high shelf tucked away from the glance of the average customer - whether he is to be trusted is yet to be seen.
he certainly hopes borchardt can be trusted, if not to be professional enough to refrain from humiliating kasimir, then at least to be discreet about this detail of his mission. ( and he wonders, briefly, why task kasimir with this mission when it would be so much easier to simply assign it to a female? of course, it was not explicitly stated in ink and pen that he must crossdress, but it may well have been with the circumstances and the much higher chance of success if he were thought a girl )
it is not too late to turn back now, not here in this high-end store surrounded by displays of fabric and skill, when he has yet to speak, to ask for what he needs. but with responsibility heavy on his shoulders, obligation shackled around his wrists ( and the ghost of honour flickering in his blood ), again, it may well be.
[attr="class","much_text"] ◥◤ A soft grey drapes over pure white, the monochrome casting a mature aura in the mirror that it faces. Long, slender fingers stretch a thin strip of tape across fabric and affixes pins neatly in a line. There's a sketch of the intended design behind the mannequin and pale blue eyes flicker occasionally to regard it with intense focus. The tailor's movements are patient, certain and confident. There is a fire behind his cool gaze and his features are schooled into a expression almost distant. It's only when a feline prowls silently behind him, her steps frighteningly soundless as they hit the wooden floor, does he react slightly to the brush against his calves. Her purring voice caresses his mind as she says, "There is a customer."
[break][break]His hand stills at those words and he blinks out of his concentration, gaze looking towards the door that lead into the shop. Carefully placing his pins down onto a table, he straightens his grey tweed vest and collects himself, putting on thin leather gloves. (They serve as a barrier for strangers, as well as the more delicate fabrics that he might need to handle). The aloofness he displayed earlier has dissipated and what's left is a nervous and shy man, steeling his nerves against an unassuming client. He runs a hand down the thick and silky fur of his familiar for comfort before pushing down on the golden handle of the door.
[break][break]Brushing away the long bangs that covers his right eye, he comes out into the open, emitting sophistication and poise as he strides to the counter. The lynx roams behind him, her amber eyes ever watchful and never straying from the red-haired stranger. A small welcoming smile graces the witch's lips as he murmurs, "Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?"
[break][break] tag:kasimir burovski ✨ [break]ooc: o3o i...haven't quite gotten the hang of him yet.
[attr="class","alive_mucha"]
[attr="class","alive_much2"]-- Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Sept 30, 2017 13:04:18 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
a flicker of movement in the otherwise still shop- green eyes flicker up to the opening of a side door, out of which strides a tall man with a lynx at his heels. quietly sophisticated, elegant with his pale blond hair and silver-grey vest and an air of aloof poise settled around his shoulders, kasimir... admits to having second thoughts regarding his request. intimidating, he thinks, despite the welcoming smile, the polite greeting; hyperawareness of the watchful amber eyes unwavering against his skin steals away any hope for ease, for relaxing ( not that there was much hope regardless ).
"good afternoon." he returns the greeting quietly with a small dip of head. wondering how to phrase his request, his mission, wondering how much to say. wondering how to start, and his gaze darts to the silvertongue hourglass again before returning to borchardt. "you... are silvertongue, correct?" there is an agitated itch in his hands, fingers longing to twist themselves into knots in a nervous habit; kasimir forcibly casts himself into stoic stillness and attempts to similarly calm the stutter of his heart.
"i... i have been assigned a mission, and i find myself in need a dress for the required disguise. i- i have limited experience in such a task and was hoping you could help," he blurts out, syllables tumbling from his tongue in shatterglass shards. a hesitation, a shadow of breathless vulnerability invisible except to those who look. "please," he whispers, quiet enough that it could easily go unheard; only half intended to be heard.
[attr="class","much_text"] ◥◤ His hands are clasped gently in front of him in a practised gesture of elegance and poise. He maintains his pleasant smile, hoping deter his young ( it would seem so, in hindsight ) customer from conjuring any semblance of animosity from him. Sigrun lies down in the gap underneath the central work table, her view of the stranger much clearer but she shows no sign of ill will.
[break][break]"You... are Silvertongue, correct?"
[break][break]At that, his smile falters slightly, flickering as if it were a candle and he tilts his head slightly, his friendly countenance not quite disappearing. There is increased steel in his eyes, comprehending his guest, but not of the malevolent sort. Rather, he'd thought it to be wariness instead. His heart thuds heavily within his chest, a sign of the gradual panic that arises with each passing second.
[break][break]He is...wary, but not frightened. Were he in public without the comfort of Sigrun's presence, perhaps he might be far less composed and flustered but with the security of his shop and his familiar, he manages to hold onto an image of tranquillity. Releasing his professional posture, he turns briefly in the direction of the hourglass, sitting on his shelf before breathing in deeply. In response to the boy's question, his tone has altered from its hospitable 'tailor'-tailored character to something more private and reserved when dealing with less 'savoury' individuals. "Indeed, I am. May I inquire who it is that is asking?"
[break][break]"I... I have been assigned a mission, and I find myself in need a dress for the required disguise...and was hoping you could help."
[break][break]The request startles him, his one visible eye widening slightly in surprise. It closes as he huffs a laugh into a leather-gloved hand, before suddenly opening again when he realises that he is being incredibly rude. The boy has turned out more adorable than he'd expected. Perhaps he had been too quick in judging that all Silvertongue members had distasteful motives, or at least, any that required his services.
[break][break]A quick analysis of the boy's form is enough for him to devise a suitable outfit for him and he smiles into his hand. This boy seemed to be completely detached from the nature that he'd seen other 'mission-bound' individuals and he wonders to himself if the boy was the same as himself. If so, then he has no reason to deny him a dress of all things. Smile brightening further, he says gently and holds out an arm, gesturing for the boy to walk into the dressing room, "Of course! A dress I can surely manage. Please, this way." [break][break] tag:kasimir burovski ✨ [break]ooc: and have at it
[attr="class","alive_mucha"]
[attr="class","alive_much2"]-- Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Oct 14, 2017 12:44:55 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
the instant the sibilant syllables of 'silvertongue' slips from his tongue, kasimir worries he has made a mistake. borchardt's smile flickers, a shadow cool and hard falling across his pleasant expression; professionalism demands a politeness the tailor continues to meet with impeccable standards, but he has a feeling that had the blond held himself to any lower standards, kasimir would no longer be a welcome presence in the shop.
perhaps he is overthinking. perhaps he is overreacting, panicking- but when borchardt next addresses him, there is a noticeable added distance and reservation to his tone - and his heart sinks to his stomach; and his intestines twist themselves into knots. not two minutes in and he has already succeeded in antagonising the one he is depending on, the one he is asking favour from - he gives in to the nervous urge to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves before realising what he is doing and stilling his hands once more.
a rumbling growl at the back of his mind and the sensation of warmth draped around his shoulders reminds him that he is not alone; kasimir sends a wordless pulse of gratitude to his beautiful familiar and steels himself to forge ahead. "i- i am kasimir burovski, sir," he responds quietly, eyes drifting down to the floor before jerking back to borchardt.
surprise, then a huff of laughter meet his request, and he should not be this sensitive, should not be this stupid or childish or temperamental; but he is, and he had hoped - kasimir flinches, eyes shuttering, shoulders tensing, before he manages to control his reaction to expressionless stoicism. he should have expected as such, he did expect this, but somehow, somehow it is worse when fears are forged into reality.
but it is too late to back down, now, and he should know better; so kasimir stands straight and still and simply hopes it will be over quickly.
but then, but then, perhaps he has misjudged, despaired too quickly. borchardt smiles at him, eyes bright, and holds out an arm; kasimir stares blankly at the tailor for a moment, startled at the change, before hesitantly entering the dressing room. there is none of the earlier reservation in the blond's expression, nor any trace of mocking laughter, and he wonders, what has changed? what has he said, done? he holds himself stiffly, still, warily watching borchardt's every move, waiting to see what the tailor will do next.
[attr="class","much_text"] ◥◤ Where bright sunshine shone upon thin lips, shadow suddenly descends over a brief shallow expression. Cheeks rapidly pale and eyes flicker uncertainly, the tailor loses his charm for a split second when anxiety overcomes him. The confidence exuded mere moments ago has fled his body completely and he freezes on the spot after his welcoming words. Keep calm and everything will be fine. Such words circulate in his mind at a terrifying speed as he squashes down the urge to hurl.
[break][break]When Kasimir Burovski walks into his dressing room, the boy's back is turned on him giving him leeway to brush a gloved hand through the gap between his familiar's ears. While completely unprofessional, such acts of affection or rather, mental reinforcement, are necessary to keep him going through the day without feeling the need to hide away.
[break][break]He lets out a sharp burst of cold air through his teeth, gently pressing a fist to his cheek; a subtle reminder that he has to keep it together. Swivelling neatly on his oxfords, he strolls into the dressing room while smoothly tugging a slim measuring tape around his neck.
[break][break]Hopefully managing to slip on that friendly smile again, he steps behind Kasimir gazing at him briefly on the mirror in front before turning around to close the door. Right before the lock slips fully, he stops, leaving the door on the brink of closing. It's strange, but it helps settle him down, knowing that escape will be simple.
[break][break]Blinking shyly at his customer, he murmurs softly, sliding the measuring tape into both hands. "Arms up please."
Post by kasimir burovski ✨ on Jan 10, 2018 12:03:22 GMT
blue moon
you saw me standing alone
kasimir does not like mirrors. he does not like seeing his own reflection: there is too much wrong, to much to shy away from, too much he wishes were otherwise, too much. it is confronting in a way difficult to articulate - confronting of his own materiality, his own existence. kasimir sees himself far too clearly in the reflection of his eyes to ever be comfortable with mirrors.
but there it is only discomfort, and it is very much bearable - especially if he does not meet his own gaze.
the tailor steps into the dressing room with quiet footsteps, his pale blonde hair almost white-gold in the light. for a brief, terrifying moment, kasimir is afraid that borchardt will close the door, will lock the door - if that so happens, he has no delusions about how the already tight bands constricting his chest will react - but it seems his fears are in vain, and for that he is ever grateful.
borchardt does not seem to be the type to expect conversation out of his customers, another point of relief. kasimir follows his instructions in silence, lifting both his arms and attempting to relax the stiff set of his shoulders so that the measurements can be more exact. his heart flutters like the wings of fledgling bird caught mid-flight between ivory-steel fingers; his eyes studiously trained on the dressing room floor.
