Stay in guesthouse. Wash, dry. Others will come, provide dress.
"Guesthouse? You have human visitors often enough for that?"
Amusement danced over the bond. Others like us, from elsewhere.
Alim's breath caught. There were other demon cities? It made sense, he supposed, but what an astonishing confirmation. He would have to ask more, when he got the chance. A report on that would make Jack's cadaver look like garbage in comparison.
Scout flinched at Alim's unspoken spite, and shame at poisoning this gentle creature with such thoughts washed away Alim's satisfaction. Please bathe. Others will come soon. We will meet with the Authority when dressed.
Scout, Sentinel, and Watchdog left their human charges alone, and Sylvestra wasted no time in locating the washroom. There was only one, so he and Liam waited in uncomfortable silence in a spare bedchamber until she was finished, stepping out wrapped in only a cotton towel.
She was pretty enough in her university research uniforms, and gorgeous when stripped down to the sort of "compromising" dress worn by the heroines of the smutty books stashed in Alim's desk, but the attraction was unenthusiastic in Alim's exhaustion. While Liam went next in the washroom, Alim pushed aside his listless interest in Sylvestra, remembering something that he wanted to say to her.
"I'm sorry."
He sat on the foot of the room's wide, round bed, but she had taken up on a nearby ottoman facing him, trying to drape her hair over her shoulder so it would drip onto the towel wrap rather than the furniture.
"About never reporting Liam's plagiarism?"
"Oh." Alim sat up a little straighter. "No, I meant about calling you a… about the inappropriate remark I made about your sexuality."
She glared at him. A little reassuring—that she was doing that again must have meant she was feeling better. "You already apologized for that."
"Under threat of violence. I wanted to say it again, sincerely." He laced his fingers together. "Though I am sorry for not speaking up about what Liam did to you, too. I am a great ass in a number of ways."
"Yes, it's quite impressive." Alim returned her glare, but now she was smiling. Gorgeous. "Though I believe Jack has you beat for the record."
"Quite. I'll have to give up my title as the University's Greatest Sniveling Weasel." He said it as a joke, but wouldn't it have been nice to have everyone sneering at Jack instead?
"You never had it." Liam's growl held as much warmth as bitterness when he stepped into the room, toweling off his now-clean hair. His clothes, of course, had been discarded—likely anything any of them had been wearing that day was ruined beyond repair by seawater, except for Alim's demonweave bracelet. Liam only brought out the sample of Fool's Gold fungus, wrapped in a now severely damp handkerchief, which he set on a nearby end table as he dried himself off. Alim tried not to stare, so instead glared at Liam for showing off, though that just gave him the same distracting eyeful of Liam's sculpted muscles and the dark golden tangle of pubic hair creeping from his groin to his bellybutton.
He had no right looking like that. Worse, Sylvestra appeared not at all impacted by the sight, making Alim feel even more like a fool for his attraction. "Oh, Liam, you say that as though you already have a great rant prepared," she said.
Liam lowered the towel, leaving his damp curls ruffled and twisting wildly around his square face. He wrapped the towel around his waist, though Alim wondered why he bothered at that point—modesty was clearly not a point of contention with him. "Not a great one. I merely feel that the environment of university politics is quick to poison even the most ideological scholar, which feels a rather cliché observation. But Alim is hardly the most corrupted by that system."
"Yes, we were just talking about Jack," Sylvestra said. "That was rather the point of Alim's remark."
A slight frown cracked Liam's expression. He quickly masked the brief flicker of emotion by gesturing toward the curtained doorway leading to the washroom. "All yours, Alim."
While Alim would have liked some proper recognition for his apologies to Sylvestra, he understood that she owed him no forgiveness, and he was just as eager to wash the dried sea salt from his skin and hair. Leaving Liam and Sylvestra to converse amongst themselves—or, more likely, sit in awkward silence—Alim stepped into the washroom for his turn.
Alim didn't think about the oddity of demons possessing technology to match humans' until he had already spun the dials on the wide bathtub. Warm water gushed forth, blowing steam into his face and already relaxing some of his tender muscles. How long had demons had indoor plumbing? Humans had only been utilizing it for the past hundred years, long after they had lost contact with demon society. Did the two species invent it independently?
As Alim stripped and stepped into the tub, not bothering to wait until it was full, he wondered what came next for them. He would have liked to spend some time in this underground city, recording his firsthand experiences with these beings and learning more about the eight centuries' gap between their civilizations. But he also needed to get home, as Jack no doubt would be telling everyone how he, Liam, and Sylvestra had all perished in some terrible "accident". And Alim couldn't have Farrah worry about him like that.
Farrah. He glanced down at the bracelet, the only item he had not removed before climbing into the bath. He focused on it, but all he felt from it were quivers of anxiety and perhaps a bit of excitement. Scout seemed to marvel at the humans as much as Alim did the demons. It was almost adorable to consider, but Alim did wish he could reach Farrah over that link.
Of course, there was still the matter of what the Authority wanted with them too. Whatever it decided would impact whether they could return home at all.
Just as Alim was about to undo all the relaxation from the warm water with his worrying, he heard Liam and Sylvestra's voices in the room outside. He didn't catch what they said, but there was a hint of alarm to their tones. He understood why when the curtained door parted and a demon floated in. It was shrouded in fibers of vibrant purple, and its carapace mask was molded into an expression considerably less agonized than Scout's.
This must have been one of the "others" that Scout had mentioned, but Alim didn't see it carrying any clean clothes.
It reached out for him, grabbing for his arm. Alim jerked away, splashing water over himself and this forward intruder. "Wait, wait! Let me finish, first." The demon tilted its head—it didn't understand his words, but when he made an effort to shrink further away from it, it glided back. To his dismay, it remained hovering just an arm's reach away from the tub, staring at him as it waited for him to finish washing. Given that it had done as he had demanded, he didn't feel he could shoo it out of the room entirely.
Alim finished scrubbing himself and rinsing his hair, disappointed not to find anything recognizable as soap but relieved to be rid of the grainy salt on his skin and scalp. When he finished and stepped out, the demon approached again, raising its spindly fingers to his left arm.
He stood still, even as the demon's intentions frightened him. Was it trying to escort him to another room where the fresh clothes Scout promised were laid out? But as the demon's hands hovered over his arm, he felt a tingling like from the orange bracelet.
Be still, strange thing. Weave is difficult.
Alim shuddered, realizing he could feel the purple demon's intent just as he could Scout's. Distracted by the telepathic warning, he hadn't noticed the thin threads that danced between its fingers before settling on his arm.
This was what Scout had meant when it said these others would "dress" them.
Alim stood frozen while the demon—a sort of tailor—twisted its fingers in rapid, delicate patterns, stringing its demonweave through them and building upon the fibers wrapping around Alim's arm. He now noticed the lock of fibers running from under its luminous skirt, threaded between ridges on its forearm to hold it in place. Alim had not seen those ridges on Scout, but it made sense that their anatomy must have had appendages to help control th
e spinning of their thread. Strumming its fingers as though playing a piano or flute, it guided the demonweave around Alim's body. Unlike the loose threads shed by Scout in its injury, though, Tailor was able to form the demonweave into a pattern, quickly materializing into the shape of an intricately-laced sleeve on Alim's arm.
It was astonishing, but at the same time terrifying. These demons had non-magical cloth—could they not give them clothes made of the same fabric as the sheets?
We wear the silk. The Authority would think you too alien to dress in sheets.
"Fair," Alim said, realizing that Tailor would be able to feel his internal processes the same as Scout could.
Perhaps when you go you may drape in bedsheets. Not when meeting with the Authority. Tailor was not as warm and curious as Scout. Its thoughts came in abrupt pulses through the demonweave. It was distrustful of the humans, which was also fair.
The process of "dressing" took a good half hour, which was awe-inspiring given that Tailor was constructing an entire outfit upon Alim's body. The torso went especially quick, with Tailor designing it based on the cut of its own toga, covering arms, shoulders, the upper back, sides, and swirling as a collar around the base of the neck. Every other part of his torso was left exposed, with the lace design ending in raw edges to frame his mostly-bare chest and stomach.
When Tailor had finished with the top, it hesitated on the skirt, seeming perplexed by Alim's long legs. It began spinning a skirt like its own but changed its mind halfway through when it was only a flounce frilling Alim's hips. Instead, it made the effort to try creating leggings. By then, Alim was quite tired of standing still, only moving to shift his limbs to give Tailor a better angle. Despite the awe of an interspecies interaction, it began to feel as dull as a visit to the regular tailor.
I, too, am burdened by this. Alim could feel Tailor's exhaustion through the link now cocooning his arms, pelvis, and legs as it neared the end of its task. It must have been a rare thing to produce so much fiber at once. Scout trusts humans, wants to rebuild coexistence. A dangerous endeavor.
"What makes you say that?"
Your kind wears our weave. Tailor tied off the loose strands into such a precise knot that it was not visible amongst the interlocking threads of the right pant leg. I feel it off you. You worry you will have to harm our kind for the fiber. You do not want it, but you have your own authority to obey. I do not trust you. Nothing personal.
Did Scout feel Alim's dread, too? He had no chance to ask, as Tailor rose and drifted over to the curtained doorway. Alim lingered behind a moment, stretching his arms and legs to get a feel of the strange, almost-living cloth that had been woven around him. The fibers clung tight to his skin but flexed smoothly along with the movement. Comfortable, though chilly with that unnecessarily stylized opening in the chest and stomach. Given the demons' hospitality so far, he didn't feel he could complain about the cut.
Alim stepped back out into the bedchamber, not entirely sure what he was supposed to do next. Tailor was not in the room, but Alim still felt its intention. Wait. I must confer with others, then we will bring you to the Authority. Alim was fine having a moment to collect himself now that he was clean, though his hair still dripped. He noticed a discarded towel draped over an armchair against the wall. Grabbing the towel, he pressed it over his hair to try to collect as much moisture as he could, though it always took hours to dry.
"Well."
Alim peeked out from under the towel to find Liam across the room, watching him. He hadn't noticed Liam there at first, standing in front of a hanging oval mirror that he must have been examining himself in before Alim returned. And no wonder—Liam was dressed as elaborately as Alim in dark crimson, though his getup fully covered his torso and lacked the fringe skirt and lace patterns. The red demonweave clung as tightly to him as Alim's did, accentuating his muscular build. The university uniforms did not do justice to his thighs and calves.
"Well, yourself," Alim said, dropping the towel and trying to comb his hair into place with fingers. "Glad to see I wasn't the only one dolled up into some ridiculous getup."
Irritation flared throughout the violet demonweave. You prefer wet rags? Alim ignored Tailor's indignation.
Liam fidgeted with the cuffs on his sleeves, sending a glimmer throughout the entire surface of his outfit. "Please. I'm self-conscious as it is."
"Why? You haven't got your entire ribcage on display." Not that it would have been embarrassing for Liam even if he had. He wasn't all sinew and bone like Alim.
"I think you fit the demon's aesthetic better than I. You look quite dashing." If he had said that to make Alim feel self-conscious in turn, it worked. Liam's eyes scanned the tight weave that encased Alim in the most impractical fashion, seeming to linger most where the demonweave was absent.
Alim cleared his throat, ready to change the subject. "I look like a circus acrobat, you mean. The demon who dressed me did not seem the sort to take creative input, so I'm afraid this is what I was left with. I suppose we should check if Sylvestra is done being similarly humiliated?"
Liam agreed and led Alim to a chamber across a connecting hallway, nearly identical from the one they had stepped out of. Sylvestra was sizing herself up in the mirror there, much as Liam had been doing, and Alim could understand why.
Sylvestra's demonweave garb wore more like a ball gown than a bodysuit, the silver fibers clinging tightly to her chest and stomach before flaring into a draping skirt at her hips. The cut was simpler than either Alim or Liam's, with neat edges at the low V-neckline and no apparent embellishments or pleats on the bodice or skirt. Only its delicate, pale shimmer indicated it was anything more than the sort of gown Sylvestra might wear to a university soiree.
She was fussing with her hair when they entered, trying to fluff it dry without mussing it up. When neither of them spoke, she said, "Get a good look, gentlemen."
"Gladly," Alim answered. "You came out of this much better than I did."
She examined him from his reflection behind her in the mirror. "Nonsense. You look positively daring." Her eyes shifted to Liam's reflection. "The skintight look complements you both."
Her gaze did not hold the same hunger as the one Liam gave her in return. Alim nudged him with his elbow and offered a slight shake of the head. He wasn't entirely sure how appropriate it was for either of them to openly express attraction toward her given her own general lack of interest, and he didn't want to risk finding out that the answer was "not at all". He didn't intend to further insult her, nor to look the other way while Liam did so.
"Glad these demons have a sense of fashion," Sylvestra said, turning to face them. "Let's also hope they have as much compassion and mercy." She stiffened as if hearing an abrupt noise, but Alim heard nothing but his own breathing. When she relaxed, she picked at where the dress clung to her hips, though the skirt was not hanging crooked. "They are finished waiting. Their Authority is ready to see us."
*~*~*
Tailor, along with the two who had outfitted Sylvestra and Alim—Weaver and Seamstress, Alim thought of them as—guided them from the guesthouse to a lower level of the demons' cavernous city. Along the trek, they passed wide tunnels leading further into the earth, as well as a platform that was gated off and housing some kind of large animal, but Alim could not get a decent look at it. He did, however, have the perfect angle to admire the crystalline dome that the demons guided them toward. It was a jagged amethyst construct over twenty feet tall at its apex. The crystals were surprisingly muted, or perhaps they were outshone by the glowing mineral veins and shimmering demon togas, but they were no less stunning in their colossal simplicity.
Led into the dome, Alim scanned the interior which, like the guesthouse, was filled with abstract wall paintings and simple furniture. The immediate familiarity of the dome's foyer lured him into a sense of ease, but that was soon burned away by stark intimidation when Tailor and the others led them into a wide chamber.
At the center of the dome, t
he room's ceiling rose to its full height. The walls and ceiling were bare here, though ambient light shone from some unseen source. In the center of the chamber, a long dining table stretched across the majority of the room's length. The table's current occupants hovered at the end.
Scout lingered behind a smaller demon situated at the head of the table. Its skin was a dark, smooth gray, and its fibers—woven into a billowing skirt that pooled around it with a volume to rival that of the gaudiest debutante—were as black as the midnight sky, shimmering with silvery gleams of starlight. Its mask had fewer ridges than Scout or Tailor's, giving it a blank and almost youthful appearance.
The Authority.
Tailor and the others led the humans to stand along the table and took places hovering behind them.
The Authority wants to know who you are. Why you are here.
Alim could feel Tailor's translation echo through his bones, so immediate and thorough that Alim might as well have received the sensation of intent directly from the Authority. Tailor was a necessary conduit, but Alim felt the Authority's questions—demands—as certainly as if they had come from his own soul.
Weaver and Seamstress must have been providing the same translation for Sylvestra and Liam, as Sylvestra bowed her head and answered. "We are scholars in the employ of Pinnacle University, an institution of research and education. We were sent by our own authorities to investigate an island off of Crater Coast after discarded strands of demonweave were found there. We were to see if we could find more… or anything else pertaining to your species that we have lost contact with centuries ago."
Weaver shifted its head to stare at her, perhaps detecting the half-lie she threw in at the end, but it then turned to the Authority to relay the information. Although Sylvestra had spoken almost without hesitation, Alim could see her hands shaking in the silence that followed.
A Study of Fiber and Demons Page 9
