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rainbowfic2025-03-31 05:04 pm
paradoxcase) wrote in rainbowfic2025-03-31 05:04 pm
Ecru #18, Color of the Day 3/31/25 [The Fulcrum]
Name: Creative Tailoring
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #18: Devise, Color of the Day 3/31/25: Elucubrate
Styles and Supplies: Photography
Word Count: 801
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: 1911.8?.?.?
Summary: Setsiana makes some modifications.
Notes: I didn't try this at home, haha. Let me know if you think this seems completely unrealistic, or if what she did isn't clearly described enough.
Setsiana arose very early from a dreamless sleep, even earlier than she usually did at the temple — the benefit of going to bed early. She checked under the mattress; the knife was still there. Without dressing or braiding her hair, she retrieved the knife and one of the skirts she’d been given, and then went to the small bathing room, locking the door behind her.
She sat on the edge of the tub, inverted the skirt, and spread it out on her lap to see the pockets. She laid the knife against the pocket, and then moved it further down, until the end of the handle passed the waist. It was generous for a pocket, and made of sturdy material, but still much too shallow for her to simply extend it and keep the knife in there. But if she completely relocated the left-hand pocket… She used the knife to cut the seams that attached the left-hand pocket to the inside of the skirt, and experimentally wrapped the material around the blade of the knife. Yes, that might work. It wasn’t big enough to contain the entire knife, but she had the right-hand pocket to work with, too.
She put the knife back under the mattress and left the room in her nightdress. As expected, the main room of the apartment was empty. She immediately went to Qhoroali’s desk, and retrieved a spool of thread, a needle, and a number of pins, which she stuck through the folds of her dress for safekeeping. She thought she could be done before Qhoroali woke up and noticed their absence.
Back in the bathing room, she quickly stitched up the hole where the left-hand pocket had been, and then went back to work on the right side. First, she cut a hole in the very bottom of the right-hand pocket, and then pushed the knife through the hole until the end of the handle seemed to be at a comfortable height for a hand placed inside the pocket. Then she took the fabric from the left-hand pocket and pinned it to the inside of the skirt below the right-hand pocket, over the blade. Removing the knife, she flipped the skirt back the right way around and put it on. On second thought, she took it off again, returned to the bedroom, and put on an underskirt as she would wear it normally, before trying the skirt on again. She experimented with putting the knife into the pocket, down into the pinned secondary pocket, and drawing it out again - the alignment wasn’t quite right, so she marked the outside of the skirt with pins in the place where the lower pocket should go, took the skirt off again, and repinned the pocket on the inside. When she was satisfied with the position, she turned the skirt inside out again and brought out the needle and thread.
She sewed the new lower pocket on with the strongest stitch she knew, and then did it a second time for good measure. Would mere cloth and thread be enough? Would it hold?
When she was finished, she put the skirt back on and cautiously lowered the knife into the pocket… and released it. The pocket held; the handle of the knife was not visible above the lip of the right-hand pocket and the folds of the skirt concealed any distortion of the fabric. She paced back and forth in the bathing room, to see if jostling it changed anything, but the pocket continued to hold. Eventually, she took off the skirt and turned it inside out to examine the stitching, to see if there were any weak spots, or if the knife had damaged the stitching, but everything appeared to be fine. A success. She would have to modify the other two skirts in the same way, and then she could be armed at all times.
She thought about what she might do with this. She had originally just been thinking of stabbing Qhoroali when she left or entered the apartment and then running out the door, but she would have to be careful unless she wanted to have to fight Liselye or Peatäro or Mosetai (or whoever else lived here) as well. She was fairly sure she could stab Qhoroali without too much trouble (or Cyaru, if it came to that), but she didn’t know if she had it in her to stab the others.
She put on the blouse that went with the skirt, and darted out of her room to survey the living room. Qhoroali was still not up yet — good. She went back for the needle, thread, and pins and quietly returned them to Qhoroali’s desk. When Qhoroali awoke a little while later, Setsiana was lounging in the chair reading her novel once again.
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #18: Devise, Color of the Day 3/31/25: Elucubrate
Styles and Supplies: Photography
Word Count: 801
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: 1911.8?.?.?
Summary: Setsiana makes some modifications.
Notes: I didn't try this at home, haha. Let me know if you think this seems completely unrealistic, or if what she did isn't clearly described enough.
Setsiana arose very early from a dreamless sleep, even earlier than she usually did at the temple — the benefit of going to bed early. She checked under the mattress; the knife was still there. Without dressing or braiding her hair, she retrieved the knife and one of the skirts she’d been given, and then went to the small bathing room, locking the door behind her.
She sat on the edge of the tub, inverted the skirt, and spread it out on her lap to see the pockets. She laid the knife against the pocket, and then moved it further down, until the end of the handle passed the waist. It was generous for a pocket, and made of sturdy material, but still much too shallow for her to simply extend it and keep the knife in there. But if she completely relocated the left-hand pocket… She used the knife to cut the seams that attached the left-hand pocket to the inside of the skirt, and experimentally wrapped the material around the blade of the knife. Yes, that might work. It wasn’t big enough to contain the entire knife, but she had the right-hand pocket to work with, too.
She put the knife back under the mattress and left the room in her nightdress. As expected, the main room of the apartment was empty. She immediately went to Qhoroali’s desk, and retrieved a spool of thread, a needle, and a number of pins, which she stuck through the folds of her dress for safekeeping. She thought she could be done before Qhoroali woke up and noticed their absence.
Back in the bathing room, she quickly stitched up the hole where the left-hand pocket had been, and then went back to work on the right side. First, she cut a hole in the very bottom of the right-hand pocket, and then pushed the knife through the hole until the end of the handle seemed to be at a comfortable height for a hand placed inside the pocket. Then she took the fabric from the left-hand pocket and pinned it to the inside of the skirt below the right-hand pocket, over the blade. Removing the knife, she flipped the skirt back the right way around and put it on. On second thought, she took it off again, returned to the bedroom, and put on an underskirt as she would wear it normally, before trying the skirt on again. She experimented with putting the knife into the pocket, down into the pinned secondary pocket, and drawing it out again - the alignment wasn’t quite right, so she marked the outside of the skirt with pins in the place where the lower pocket should go, took the skirt off again, and repinned the pocket on the inside. When she was satisfied with the position, she turned the skirt inside out again and brought out the needle and thread.
She sewed the new lower pocket on with the strongest stitch she knew, and then did it a second time for good measure. Would mere cloth and thread be enough? Would it hold?
When she was finished, she put the skirt back on and cautiously lowered the knife into the pocket… and released it. The pocket held; the handle of the knife was not visible above the lip of the right-hand pocket and the folds of the skirt concealed any distortion of the fabric. She paced back and forth in the bathing room, to see if jostling it changed anything, but the pocket continued to hold. Eventually, she took off the skirt and turned it inside out to examine the stitching, to see if there were any weak spots, or if the knife had damaged the stitching, but everything appeared to be fine. A success. She would have to modify the other two skirts in the same way, and then she could be armed at all times.
She thought about what she might do with this. She had originally just been thinking of stabbing Qhoroali when she left or entered the apartment and then running out the door, but she would have to be careful unless she wanted to have to fight Liselye or Peatäro or Mosetai (or whoever else lived here) as well. She was fairly sure she could stab Qhoroali without too much trouble (or Cyaru, if it came to that), but she didn’t know if she had it in her to stab the others.
She put on the blouse that went with the skirt, and darted out of her room to survey the living room. Qhoroali was still not up yet — good. She went back for the needle, thread, and pins and quietly returned them to Qhoroali’s desk. When Qhoroali awoke a little while later, Setsiana was lounging in the chair reading her novel once again.
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