-Private- Working Late (Continuation from "The Journey Home")

(This is a private thread. Please ask to enter, though access is unlikely to be granted. It is a direct continuation from "The Journey Home" thread intended for Bruxa and the Puppeteer.)

Ice could not be as cold as the Puppeteer’s demeanor when he had left the quaint scene of the girl, his and Bruxa’s intended victim, in the company of her would-be protector, the librarian. Once his Doll had resumed her place upon her master’s arm, his pace had quickened and like a chill winter wind, he whipped through the streets with a speed no normal human could possess. Given her own dark gifts, it was likely that Bruxa could match his swiftness though should she ever seem to struggle to keep up with the stride of his longer legs, he would nearly drag the petite female along with him, but he would not slow his pace. Other than his initial statement, explaining where he planned to take her as they departed from the others, the man kept his silence, going so far as to not even acknowledge her whispered question. The Puppeteer, in his haste to leave, had not even noticed the arrival of the demon she mentioned.

At last, the far more familiar street on which his shop resided lay before him, and he finally slowed to a leisurely walk again. Within the deeper shadows cast by the brim of his top hat, the Puppeteer’s eyes flicked right and left, examining the vacant avenue. Once the Puppeteer was satisfied with his scrutiny, having discovered nothing amiss, he continued towards his shop, guiding Bruxa. On reaching the door, he waved his hand and unbound the lock, strands of black thread dribbling from the keyhole like oil before evaporating into the air. The Puppeteer retrieved the key from his pants pocket, his cane momentarily tucked beneath his arm, and slid it into the lock. With a twist and click, the primitive device released and he soon had the door open. He gestured for Bruxa to proceed him into the darkened shop.

Racks of clothing slouched in the shadows like the silhouettes of an army of muggers waiting in back alleys for an easy mark. Some stood tall, others crouched low. There were dozens of outfits, full and incomplete, shrouded in the darkness of the shop. The only light came from the glow of the street lamp outside sifting in through the large window at the front of the store. “Well, here we are, my Doll,” he stated as the door snapped shut behind them, once they both were inside, if she entered at all. The chill had left his voice and face, melted by the reassuring comfort of his shop.

Bruxa kept up with the fast paced stroll the Puppeteer had set. Even with her head turned, watching the trio fade from view before redirecting her focus back to the road ahead. Before she knew it, the walk had slowed and they found themselves in front of the quaint shoppe.

Eyes slid to the lock on the door as the magical black threads spilled from the keyhole and dissapated into nothingness. The childlike wonder of awe affixed itself upon her pale visage. Always amazed at the masterful traits of her companion so that a chitter of giggling tumbled from those lips at the display. The Puppeteer retrieved his key and briskly opened the door, urging her to enter before him.

Within the darkness of the room those ebon hues seem to gain an eerie glow, not unlike an animal at night hidden within the shadows so only its eyes appeared blazing from the pitchy dark. Taking in the scenery within the Nimble Needle, espying the shadowy figures of cloth displayed around the room.

Head snapped to the sound of the door shutting behind them before those caliginous orbs alit upon her escort as he welcomed her into his establishment. The light cascading through the store front window seemed to highlight the exposed alabaster skin of her small form, making her seem more porcelin than flesh. "Yes...here we are..." She mimicked his words in that southern drawl. "And tonight you shall use your artistry to create a cleverly cunning attire I presume?" The smile turned sugary sweet as it often did when she selfishly craved something.

While Bruxa’s eyes, with their cat-like glow, could sharply see the shapes in the shadows, the Puppeteer suffered with the night sight of a normal human, and if not for his thread-sense, he would have stumbled across racks or the occasionally fallen garment that lay in a rumpled pile on the floor like a disrespectful rag. Every time he noticed a discarded article of clothing, he commanded it to return to its home, and the clothing leapt from the floor and slid itself onto its hanger on the rack again. The Puppeteer was in no mood for disobedience. Even though his annoyance and anger had seeped from his voice and expression, it remained at the back of his mind like a nagging thought that refused to be quelled.

“No,” he whispered, giving a shake of his head as he headed towards the counter on which the cash register sat. For a moment, a sneer of frustration flashed across his face, as he realized in his state, he’d forgotten to flick on the light switch at the door. With a waggling of his fingers, he summoned a loop of thread to perform the task, and the room erupted in the bright lighting of the brass wall lights converted from old gas lamps. The shadows retreated, like beaten dogs, to cower beneath the racks of clothes, and the Puppeteer was almost pleased to see them go. In his heyday, men and women used to flee from him just as the darkness fled the light, but now, he was a humble tailor again, and his harem was a pitiful number of one, even if that one was a prize of a Doll.

Only two things could distract the Puppeteer from remembered grandeur and current limitations, and he was still too weak for one of them, so all that was left to him was his trade. “No, tonight I will make you an entire wardrobe, my precious Doll,” he whispered as he set his cane down upon the polished wood of the counter. The Puppeteer turned to face Bruxa and leaned back against the counter with his elbows propped on the edge of its surface. His top hat vanished in a flurry of black threads that dissipated like dark smoke into the air, and he regarded her with eyes finally removed from the shroud of shadows of the hat’s brim. With a wave of his hand, fingers writhing like serpents, he cast all the racks against the walls, clearing a wide area in the center of his shop, leaving her as a lone mannequin begging to be stripped. He contemplated doing it himself then, but with a soft sigh, he gave a shake of his head.

“You should undress.” The Puppeteer’s hand moved again and crimson threads appeared in front of the window that wove themselves into a thick curtain to hide the tailor and his customer from any passerby on the street and attached themselves to a formerly bare curtain rod with a soft jingling of the hooks and rings like the tinkling of a bellydancer's zills.

Dark orbs flitted hither and tither as clothes lept up from the floor. Affixing themselves properly upon wooden hangers as if the very presence of the proprieter had squelched the clothings plans for a long night of rumpling. With that singular whispered word, Bruxas gaze moved back to the Puppeteer as he found his way through the shoppe and to the counter. The lights shot on abruptly and she found herself sheilding the glare with one hand until her eyes acclimated to the sudden brightness.

A quaint smile slipped onto that bowlike mouth with the Puppeteers next words. "An entire wardrobe in just one night?!" The smile stayed perched upon those pursed lips, though faintly as the racks of clothing were pushed back against the wall, leaving her as the centerpiece of the room. “You should undress.” His words seemed matter of fact...like she should have already been out of her clothes.

Head turned to the large window behind her as the red threads wove a nice heavy curtain so prying eyes would not be able to espy what happened within the shoppe. "Mes d'égouts peu délicat..." Bruxa seemed to purr at him with that thick cajun accent. "So you do need to take measurements eh?" She teased sweetly even as that large duster was shrugged from her body with a roll of those slender shoulders.

The coat slid down her arms and billowed to the floor behind her, puddling around her feet. Exposing the black leather pants that fit her lithe form like a second skin. Knee high boots and the silky white poets shirt beneath the red fitted vest all coming into view. "Or do you merely need to start with a blank canvas... so to speak?..." Booted feet placed slightly apart, one hip tilted out where she perched her right hand, accentuating the curve of those hips. The left hand reached up, plucking open the top button of that brocaided vest as eyes leveled upon the Puppeteer and the puckish smile twitched onto those smooth velvet lips.