Our world is made up of truths, which are fundamental pillars of existence. The suns will rise in the morning, and set in the evening. Life as we know it, must end in death. The love of a mother for her child is pure and unbreakable. Of course, with the existence of man, our world becomes clouded by false truths. The truths that remain present become obscured or distorted by lies and subjective interpretations. Purity is sacrificed for duplicity, and the world no longer exists in a definite form, instead being nothing more than the most convincing set of falsehoods.
It is this set of principles, upon which my art relies. The very fabric of our beings rests atop the Bones of reality, stretched taut in the form of Skin, which I can dye, take in, take out, stitch, cut, fold, or perform any other number of processes to alter. To be a Tailor, is to be capable of looking beyond these Skins, to what lies beneath. The Bones are what we must look to, when attempting to work with Skins. It is from the knowledge of the Bones, that the power of Skins can be accessed and manipulated. The sheer potential which is created when one is capable of imposing a mismatched Skin over Bone, is almost limitless. There are many examples I could provide as demonstration of my art, however I will cite a simple one for brevity’s sake.
Just this morning, a woman came to me, distraught and in tears. She told me at length how her husband had abandoned her for a whore the past evening. The prostitute in question, a woman in her blushing twenties, was in the wife’s opinion astonishingly beautiful. It is not this humble tailor’s place to presume to know all the facts, but on the point of the estranged wife’s inferior beauty to that of a young call girl, I am not at all in doubt. Thus, even as she was laying out her case in plain speech, I had already surmised her request and begun to examine her Bones. Sure enough, she soon made her desperate request to “Sew me beautiful again, Mr. Tailor, please just sew me beautiful!”
A common enough misconception, further warped by her assumption of prior beauty. This plaintiff was awash in Skins of self-assurance and presumptuous confidence, now lying in tatters about the Bones of her true self. An ugly, middle-aged, spouseless spinster. Of course, this particular spinster had gathered interest on her dowry, and the Skin in question was not terribly costly to make. I was bemused, but willing to offer up my services.
I accepted her offer, and told her to make an appointment with the relevant offices. In the following week, this woman, along with countless others who had made their appeals to me, arrived with their hopes held tight to their breasts. They were gathered together but separate, in their own rooms, where their Skins were to be refashioned. I had set aside this day for personal fittings, and made my way from room to room.
I eventually reached the hag’s room, and upon entering the door, she flew at me in a rage. She screamed about how she had to wait for ages without any comforts or refreshments, and that I was a cold-hearted villain for treating a woman such as herself with such wickedness. While she was in the storm of indignance, rage, and general discontent, I willed the Web to encroach upon her Bones. Thick strands of silvery essence wrapped around her being, invisible to her and anybody other than those who were Tailors. This essence perfectly mimicked her true self in shape and likeness, save for the silver tinting that marked its presence by my own sight. A True Skin. Those that fit best, yet seldom are comfortable to the wearer.
With my part mostly complete, I apologized profusely, begging the forgiveness of “an uncommonly beautiful woman,” to which she cocked her head. She may have been in doubt at this most crucial moment, about whether I was sarcastic in my compliment, despite my utterly earnest tones. Thus I made the final performance, a look of pure admiration and the faintest touch of lust, which clung to my face. As I turned to leave, a final apology died in my throat, and I licked my lips. A blush ran across my face, well-trained to appear on command, and I hurried from the room.
It may now come as less of a surprise to you, as to the why of most Tailors being professionally trained actors.
In short, I politely waited outside the room. The customary squeal of shock accompanied my client’s inspection of herself in the mirror we had left inside with her. Her own assumptions, originally incapable of affirming themselves against her Bones, had now lended themselves to the Web, shaping her Skin in ways I never could. Truly, people become the lies they tell themselves. And in a world made up of truths, this is the real reason Tailors are as successful as we are. People pay handsomely to ignore the truth, pretend it doesn’t exist, and to take shelter from it.
I could not possibly give you every permutation of why or how a Skin is woven, just as nobody could tell you why their Bones grow into what they are. What I can say, is that when the drop-dead gorgeous patron exited her room, she did not merely pay for my services in her generously increased dowry. I waived the fee, and received the dowry nonetheless. You see, this is the story of how I met my wife.
It should be noted that this story was never corroborated by Erlinus II’s spouse, or any other sources, however there is very little evidence to the contrary of this story. Perhaps it was to Erlinus’ credit that this story finely straddled the line between truth and falsity, because the hugely famous Grand Tailor left unspoken the most important fact about the Tailory. Every one, every single one, are notoriously good liars. -Appended by Darsy Jonson, of the Librarians Guild.
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