A-Dress the Musician
Sordina Crescendo a niente Part 1

Written by Septia.


Demacia's skies laid muddied under brown tones of bustle and noise. Along the streets I witnessed citizens converse in hazes of rusted red. Even those dressed as prim as can be had a tone of scarlet defiling their vocals. We passed by a patrol of mage-hunters, and the clangs of their boots sliced through the air in streaks of sharp soot… In my core, there was always that worry, the fear that the gift I bore would be uncovered, and this city of white and gold would turn against me, even if I knew its appearance was a facade: dress it up however you want, but the song of it spoke the truth. 
	“Sona?”
	Drawn from my lonesome gaze out the window, I looked towards Kahina. She signed to me with a dust of her shoulder: 'Okay, you?' 
	I smiled and signed back with a tap of my palms together and then brush them off of me. 'Fine. You worry too much.' 
	My sister drew in a breath, as if to speak, but took a few moments, signing. 'Dad?' 
	My expression doured. A lock of cerulean trickled down my forehead. 'Fine. Worry you not me. Today fun.' Despite my expression, this calmed her. I did think of him at times, though it had been, so long since. He had been her dad, more than mine. To me, he had just been… Lord Barrette Buvelle. 
	'Fun today.' She signed, as the carriage slowed to a halt. And as she stood, she started speaking. “I'll see you. If you need me, you know where to find me.” 


~ 1 ~


Soon as Kahina was out of reach, I wandered down the streets of the district. Further than my sister thought my errand would take me. It was best she knew not where I was going. I wandered through the streets, weaving through the hustle of voices drawing a haze of colors through the air ahead. Until I reached my destination… 
	The dress boutique's atmosphere was welcome, serene and quiet, with a handful of attendants assisting browsing patrons. The air was bright and easy. My black and orange linen dress matching the bright attire of the aristocrat patrons. I had my eyes open for, someone in particular. A dower of particular renown. Following down the scheme of a pattern with a pen. Her deep skin and blond hair standing out from the descriptions. I walked up to her, adjusting the case on my back as not to hit someone on the way in. Waiting at the desk a moment for her to notice me. As her eyes glanced over to me, back to the pattern, then snapped back to me. 
	“Lady Sona,” she stammered. 
	I waved courteously. 
	“Something the matter, Olivier?” An assistant asked. 
	“Oh no, no, tend to the patrons. I have to see the regal lady in private.” 


The seamstress took me to the back of her shop, then through a hidden passage, into a basement carved through the white marble foundation of the great city of Demacia: Petricite… A material so gluttonous, wherein no magic could reside, nullified by the presence of ancient calcified rock, ash and lime. 
	“Your request frightened me, Lady Sona Buvelle, glad our communication was not intercepted,” Olivier said as we entered a cellar, dressed with tools, bolts of yarn, thread and tools hung on hooks carved from the walls, and at its center, was a wide, black loom. 
	“It is here I spin cloth of mage-hunters, for royalty and knights, those who need to resist the vile sorcerous arts, but your wish,” she said and turned, “Is quite different.” 
	I nodded gently. 
	Olivier looked somewhat awkward. “Right, do you, understand me?” 
	Another nod. 
	“Good, should I, fetch you a quill and parchment? The matters we are to discuss would be, rather one sided if I were just speaking to a mute.” 
	I sighed, closed my eyes, and felt my surroundings. The webs of intertwining cadence of sound, people and intention. I saw into Olivier's mind, the melody of her thoughts, attuning myself to them, and warping them into new notes, new sounds… my voice. 
	“That will not be necessary,” I spoke through the weave tones of her mind. 
	Olivier stumbled, clutching her forehead. “Y-you… The rumors were true, then… The Virtuoso of the Et al does practice the arcane arts.” 
	“You know I am no witch. And you I know your desires, we do not need to hide, I would not betray you, we can make something beautiful together.” 
	“Olivier shook her head, unused to my intrusion. She looked over on table, of patterns, pulling out the ones I had described. 
	“This is what I have rafted for, drawn up from our conversations. But you have explaining to do, lady Sona, you want to imbue the fabric, with raw magic?” 
	“That is correct, seamstress.” 
	“And you said I would understand how, when we met, so… how?” 
	“Eager, aren't we?” I said, took off the case of my back, and traced my hand on the petricite wall. “Petricite nulls magic, that is what people say, what has kept Demacia from magic's hold left by the rune wars. But magic does not disappear.” 
	Olivier's lip firmed. 
	“It is absorbed, stored in the rock, magic through the ages, suspended in time.” 
	“How do you know? That is something…”
	I looked at her. 
	“… Something only a Durand would know.” 
	“A family secret, informed from the noble house who first crafted petite.” 
	“How do you know?” she repeated. 
	A pause. “Because I see it…” Music and memory laid close intertwined. With nary the same ease as I saw sound and tones as tangible hues and chrome in the air, I could peer into the strands of memories. And Petricite… It screamed. A low, dull stream all of torment, of essences locked away through time, merging what could be with the ashes of what once was. It always screamed, muffled in the depths of the rock. 
	“And I know, how to draw it out, seamstress.” 
	Olivier quivered. 
	“Enticed, are you? To further know its nature. To understand the material of your birthrite, even if it goes against the laws of Demacia, is that not so… Olivier Durand?” 
	The lady Durand scoffed, acting as if she had kept her noble status a secret. She walked to me, placing her palm next to mine, feeling the cool of the alabaster stone. “If you can draw out its magic, that would free it from the stone, freed from coursing into itself… Petricite is like a glass, a glass filling with magic, and at some point, it as any glass can overfill.” 
	I nodded.
	“And you want me, to sow a dress of it?” 
	“A master seamstress of cloth and heir to the knowledge of Petricite, who better?” 
	“I understand,” she clenched her palm to a fist, and brought bolts of thread, flax fiber, wool and nylon, and slotted them into place in the loom. “Then we shall begin, when you are ready.” 
	I pried the case, and strummed the strings of my Etwahl. Through its chords I tapped into the surrounding walls, loosing myself into the emptiness of thoughts, seeing through the strands of melody, into the depths of memory within the stone. I played a sonata, a private concert for two, as the seamstress set to work. Silent from the rest of the city, but heard by the Petricite, a calling to the magic it had consumed since immemorial time. Slowly, spooling from the depths of Demacia's foundation's guts. I brought them together. As I strummed the threads of my instruments, Olivier Durand strummed the warps and wefts of her loom. I was not the only performer now, but we were equals; disparity in craft but equal in our art, married by the flood of magic, channelled into the loom. And as we strummed together, the white threads she fed into the loom, darkened, to a deep, lush, blue. 


~ 2 ~


Of all the performances I have starred in, the one in a seamstress's basement stuck with me, clung fresh in my memory, echoing over days and days. And now, after weeks of hearing the tunes of our craft in the back of my head, I could gaze upon the result. The dress was laid out across my bed. Modelled after forgotten dreams of my homeland. The dress shimmered like a Demacian noble's attire should, but the pattern was Ionian. A soft covering bust reaching down to a mermaid tail hemline, with a flowing, draping shawl collar in a blue deeper than the bottom of Conqueror’s sea.. It was, as if it reached deeper than any trench Wrapped around it, in a cerulean turquoise which was a close match to my own twin tails – as if they were but an extension of me into the dress – rolling down into long straps of court trails. Their trim a pale gold that snared into an embroidery of gilded patterns at my core as the shawl met at the enter of the midriff. 
	I could… feel it shining. My sight peering through the veils of cyan, turquoise, and cerulean to feel a chorus of soft cerulean, the voices of the Petricite, calmed, orderly, at peace… It was wild magic no longer, freed from the captive hold of Demacia. And it was… so pretty… I knew this was a step for the better. The voices of the Petricite had been ravenous, unruly, and like a wild animal. One day, it would breach its cage, Demacia had been a ticking bomb, a cage for a beast of their own making. But now, with a few more sessions, perhaps we could rid Demacia of this threat. Maybe… a whole wardrobe to fill… I shook my head. But, couldn't look away from the dress. I… had to try it on, didn't I? I had to feel what it was like… 


Stripping down to my bare skin, I let myself feel the cool air against my birthday suit, staring as the dress stared at me. It saw how cold I was, it saw how indecent I was… and it wished to help, it needed to be worn. I clutched the dark blue skirt, holding it pinched between my fingers, already… there was a shuddering sensation through my skin, a creeping warmth exuding from the velvet cloth, this soft, plush material, warm… and… almost fluffy… From the taut weave and delicate thread count, the cotton velvet was smooth in its fuzziness, and as I draped it over myself, I felt it spiral drape down my skin in a wavery hug. It clutched to my skin, sweeping across my form, folds straightening out as I let if drape from on high, like the flutter of a falling feather, it soothed into place. 
	My bust provided the final stop, as the cloth budged just above the peak of my cleavage, I felt my modest bosom jostle as the fabric settled, a light bounce -Bwwnnngs- as I breathed out, so long, my lung emptied, and sighed as I breathed in… my chest filled further than ever before, as if I was breathing the crisp mountain air of Ralin island in Ionia. Or, no, more than that, better, fresher… as if… I was sharing a breath with someone, as if… it was my mother's air, the… I remembered, in the womb, when hers and mine breath were one, all the same… I stood there, only breathing, panting, feeling my chest swell into the folds of the dress to straighten out the rugolosue texture, then deflate to form pinches of the silken velvet in a cleft down my bust. It felt so light, even as it clutched into me, it was lighter than being naked. As if I was, floating on a cloud… 
	Then, looking down, I realised my feet were not touching the ground. I was hovering. And, I hadn't even noticed. I had to hide it, being careful with any levitation, to not attract suspicion. But, with the mermaid tail skirt sweeping down over the surrounding floor, all my legs laid fully covered, and one could not see that my feet were nowhere near the ground… it hid it… perfectly. This freedom warmed my heart. I leaned down, daintily lifting up the shawl, wrapping it around my shoulders, the buttoning meshing together without a fuss, the straps trialling down into four court trains along my dress, resting just over the ground, the trim shimmering under the piping, glistening gold to match my diadems… My hair draping down with them… the warm base tones of it drumming through the air. They sung a soft aria with soft major chords, and together, the dress was an orchestra of soothing voices, all thanking me, all pleasant, all in the perfect place, the only place they wanted to be… 
	I caressed down the silken touch of the velvet fabric of the skirt, to the polished linen of the bell shaped bands, hanging gently around my shoulder. My fingers, playing, toying, exploring them. Feeling the shudders within me tremble and ripple, coursing through my veins. Soft pants leaving my mouth, the smooth touch of cherry blossom petals light and delicate under my fingers, it was all so, so… 
	“Sona?” 
	It was my sister. I stopped. The orchestra dampened. She looked… embarrassed. I… felt a bit embarrassed, as if she had walked in on me… tending to my garden. But, I was just trying on my dress… It was, nothing embarrassing at all… I turned to her with building confidence. I gestured down my frame, and pointed to myself. Signing. 'How, good looking me?' 
	Kahina smiled with a chuckle. And gestured back in sign. 'Gorgeous, you…' 


~ 3 ~


All throughout breakfast Kahina had her eyes on me. It was not a look of disposition, nor merely a glance, but there was, some charge to it. I tried not to bring attention to it, savoring the soup of fresh seasonal fruit, which was not much of a challenge: despite this being a regular meal, the flavor today was… sparkling, ringing allegro tonesallegro through my mind. 
	“Your dress, your new dress looks, stunning,” Kahina eventually said. 
	I looked up at her, smiling. 
	She chuckled, brushing her hands down her sides, pointing to me and spreading her hands to make a heart. Signing: 'Dress, you, beautiful. Concert you beautiful. When time.' 
	My next concert was in two days, I was glad it had arrived in time. 'Thank you, me glad dress suits.' I signed back. 


I remained at the table when Kahina left. Despite a hearty meal and two saffron buns, I was a bit peckish. Turning around, there was a fruit bowl atop a cabinet – A decorative bowl, but real fruit. I stood and reached out my arm. -Fhhhw- The air displaced around my arm, as the matching right train of my dress rose up into the air, following the motion of my forearm. I hesitated, and the shawl floated in a faint flutter. I looked at the dress, then to my hand. I raised my arm again. This time, no reaction. A moment of silence. Then… I raised my arm, without thinking of it, letting my mind wander to memory. -Fwwhhhvhvhp- The strain rose once more, I could feel it… hear its melody. As it reached out towards the bowl I sensed into the fabric itself. Into the very threads… the warps, the foundation of the fabric – were airy, linen threads, entangled with wafts weaving between them of cotton and silk, I could, hear its pattern, faintly, and the sounds made colors, disassociating. I could see the pattern ahead of me, a satin weave to capture a gossamer luster, the little that the sparse tue silk the fabric was enhanced by the weave itself, hiding lower, sturdy quality beneath the warp, to let it shine above. An impressive technique… I was so lost in the visage of the pattern, I didn't realise it had ensnared an Demacian tangor and brought it to me. The shawl strap holding it in a pinched curl before me, like a cupped palm. Suppose, I should be careful. I peeled it, took the tangor to my mouth… And bit into empty air. Opening my eyes, I stared at my empty palm, holding the satin cloth. My fingers wrapped around the fabric, a clutch of confusion, eased by the flush texture cradled between my fingers, so satisfying. Perhaps I had just imagined the tangor. Besides, I wasn't hungry anymore. 


~ 4 ~


Serene, calm, lustrous. The Belle estate gardens let my mind wander. The purl of streams and the light scatter of avians weaving into the sounds of nature. I strummed my etwahl , less in practice, and more to harmonize with my surrounding nature. The cadence around me, tuned to my strings, flowing in to enhance the beauty of lush greens and blues with a soft turquoise to marry them. Everything felt so light, the melody flowing through my fingertips. And in this trance, I couldn't help but be drawn back to the warm attire that adorned my form. It hummed with me, I could feel it, see into its depths. The deep lapiz hue of of my skirt was soft velvet, woven in a traditional plain weave of horizontals and diagonals. Common, sure, though it was common for a reason. The interlocking crossing patterns were durable, smooth, harking back to ancient times, the origin of fabrics spun so long ago. Of linen and silk warps, with wefts of delicately spun wool. I could feel even deeper, what gave the velvet its cushion was the pile: interwoven threads of cotton in between the cross picks of warp and weft, a fuzzy texture up close, but its knots dense enough to make it a warm carpet of velvet, all swathed snug against my skin. 
	My shawl was of a lighter nature, a messaline satin cloth, thin and loose in its weave, though with a shimmer from its well-placed silk. The more I played, the lighter I felt, as if the weft of my own body eased, giving my lungs broader space to inhale nature's life lingering in the surrounding air. I could unravel myself… 
	-Scrrrrkkkth- A sharp, black screech cut through the air, sharp as a dagger and dark as onyx slicing through the nature of my garden. I halted. The sound so vivid in my sight, though out of the trance, I could barely hear it… Far away. I glanced down the garden, leading down the hill back to the wall separating the estate from the streets of Demacia, my etwahl ahead as I floated down the hill, listening for the noise, that, scraping. The closer I came, the more prominent it was. Black as tar staining the pallete of the Belle garden's symphony. I came upon the gate leading outside, a decrepit stone wall left without use for ages. And just outside it, I heard it -Scrrrhthc-. It passed by… I turned the handle, twice, thrice, the gate opened, and I soared out into a backstreet. There, to my right, a wagon clad in dark canvas, and hanging, so low to the ground, a blade hanging out from under the fabric grazed the ground, scraping into the cobble and petricite. What sort of cargo was this…? I moved ahead to halt it as it closed to the end of the alley… -Kkkdthnnsk- The stone gate slammed shut behind me. 
	-A hatch on the fabric came undone, and a body tumbled and toppled out of the carriage, metal making sharp clanks to the ground -Ckrkpsth--. -Chsthtwnwnk-. I froze, staring at the collapsed rag-doll of a body. -clth- Then it moved. 
	“Phfa… hnn… haaa.,” it breathed. The figure rose. What had looked like a blade was part of a larger structure, shackling the figure's wrists and neck: a Pillory, its sharp design invocative of… noxus. Memories long forgotten dredged up through my mind, and my spine went cold.
	“Ghhra. S-so long… ride.” The woman mumbled, it was a woman, pale skin, short hair, that looked scraped by the pikes of the pillory. She plodded to a stand under the pillory’s weight. By her gaunt, malnourished stature, she she carried the stature of a teen, she was shaking as her body balanced the weight of her metal prison. “S-soo… hungry… E-…eh eh. Ehahah…” she chuckled. Then her head snapped towards me with a damp crack -Crrggllrtk-. “You look like tasty meat,” she spoke through shark filed fangs. Then she darted forwards. Eyes opening to a sharp vermilion glare. With a thunder of forged metal the woman cracked her Pillory in twain mid leap, wielding the two boorish shards as blades as she rushed me down. 
	I had barely a moment to think, let alone time to strum any defensive chords as the woman launched herself towards my neck, in a torpedo of teeth and steel. 
	…I raised my arms to cover myself… then came the fluttering sweep through the air… -Bbdnwnggbsg-. And I felt the hefty pressure slamming into my bust. Yet, there were no cuts, no pricks, no jabs… 
	“Mmwgwmg- -Mmf-mfggrrsmmg-.” Only a mumble of distressed voices. The cracks and steps painting my vision dark. I opened my eyes… and was met with the nape of the woman's neck, with her head submerged below the surface of my bust, top wrapped faintly to outline, her chin locked in my dress. Mouth agape I took in my surroundings. My shawl trains raised and ensnaring the woman's arms, coiled all the way down to her wrists as she flailed the weapons with a lack of experience. Her motions were restricted by the dress constriction, choking her grasp till the clutch of her weapons lapsed. -Cklglgnkr- -Cwkkgsk- the blades tumbled to the rocks below. I didn't understand what was happening, but it wasn't over. A wringing drag of the satin wraps brushed through the air -Cvvffssth-. As my dress hoisted the assailant up, wedging her down my cleavage -Thhbwp-. Her shoulders packed down, budging aside my modest bosom as the shawl pinned her arms to her side, a mumble descending into the quicksand of my chest. My breathing picked up, reaching for the girl, touching her back. 
	“Mmpghhw,” her struggles were making her flail like a beached eel. And the trembles roused through my chest, down my spine, through my neck… and down into my dress. I felt the struggles, pulse through the fabric and through the weave, the spun cotton pile of velvet vibrating like goosebumps. My breathing grew unsteady, my palm resting on her back, as she descended, sinking into my bust, her body weighing down the corset of the dress, bulges of her head and wrapped elbows wedging to and fro. But with the crinkle of fresh tulip petals, my dress warped upwards, extending over her chest, enveloping the bulges of her body wedging down my core -Chvllrlssh- -Fthjnnlgl-. In the depths, I could hear the fabric stretch. Reaping as knots of weft shifted along the warp. I felt it ply into my own skin, the warp and interweaving wefts of bends in the threads kneading into my body. 
	Her legs were hoisted up above me, as the gaunt hide of my assailant sunk into the clutches of my cleft -Hhfrbbghth-, clamped bands hewed by the grinds of my modest breasts -Chngngs- C-Cgngnsh-. The bulges of her body contorted the corset of my bust, the moonstone velvet straining under the load -Cnnnghs-. But… as she descended, the bulbs grew pliant, creaks and crinkles painting the air in a harmonious backdrop of cyans and emerald: the bumps receding, deflating, as her struggles petered out, thighs descending into the cleft, warming my rib cage. But I felt her… I felt everything about her as she sunk into my dress, vanished, into me… being siphoned through me. I heard the velvet sing, reaching a new octave as the rows of weft shuffled, making space for the fabric to expand. A shining warmth along the trim of my shawl, golden carvings joining the embroidery. Flush new threads woven in between the silk and linen warp as the fabric get dense, softer, bigger… I… felt us merge. I saw her memories, I saw the ceaseless hunger, but I also saw it calmed, smothered into my being, a raging soul… stilled, calm. Her knees and ankles wiggled out, jutting out of my bust. Like a little bouquet. 
	“Sona? Sona, where are you?” 
	“I could feel my breath again, I wrapped my arms around the woman's feet, shovelling them down, scoffed into my grasp, under my bust, into the cloth, wedging them in with all I had. 
	-Chrning- The gate opened. It was Kahina. 
	“Sona? I heard your music stop, saw you gone from the garden, what are you… doing?” 
	-Chhrlspt- The last of the assailant was subsumed and smothered in my bust, groping the lumps of cloth in my chest, feeling them deflate, smoothen, flatten to my chest. I slowly turned, signing with shaking hands. 'Fine me. Fine. You worry much.' 
	She breathed a sigh of relief. Signing. 'Relief. You here why?' 
	'Bothersome sound. Fine now.' I gestured, and soared up towards my sister, embracing her, feeling the supple velvet against her clothes as if it was my bare skin. My bust, compacting and budging against hers. Unleashing the hug, I looked down on her. Something to her, felt smaller. 


~ 5 ~


Creeping on the witching hour, a drunkard stumbled out of a bar. Holding his composure as steady as he could as he teetered along the streets. But when past the plantation park in the square, he'd begin to hear music. Tones syncronising with the thumps of his heart. And he'd turn from his path, wandering past the bushes, entranced by the melody, wandering right, into the open furi sleeve of my dress. His head encompassing the cloth's maw into the darkness. I'd grabbed the nape of his neck, and tugged him in, guiding him into the sleeve, and as it crawled and pinned over his shoulders I stopped, I stopped playing, and felt the struggle begin. 
	“What? What-ths the matter with th-this? Where ammfb mmfs-.” Muffled as my cloth extended forwards, slurping over his chest, swathing onto his body to cradle it in the bulges of his body into my hanging furi like a hammock. 
	I wondered if this is how spiders felt? Sitting in their webs, spinning silk, luring towards them, to be wrapped up. I wonder if spiders enjoyed seeing their prey squirm in their webbing, if watching them ensnared, bulges rippling and juggling, brought them pleasure? I panted, feeling droplets of drool trickle over my lip. Wonder if they enjoyed it as much as I did… I couldn't help it. All day, it was on my mind. I felt every second pass with my dress moaning to me, the sensation of enveloping my assailant, drawing them into me… weaving them to the tapestry that was this gown… -Chhflflr- 
	A shuffling brush of velvet swathed down under the man's belly, hoisting him up to hang in my sleeve, suspended from his crotch to his head, with his hair tickling under my armpit. The cloth contracted at his head with a crunch -Chnnffwtsh- Folds forming furrows like the skin of a prune -Chhrlpgh- -Cvrlrlpsth- -Cbbrrlspthfht- it travelled down the sleeve, crumpling, folding, compacting him to be smothered into the velvet. As more of him fed into the sleeve's maw the further the fabric crumbled, until it began to unfold again, starting form the armpit, hanging down, loose, empty, with his form melding into the filaments of the cloth. I patted his boots as they sunk past the sleeve, and the last crunch -Chnfnfagk- heaved him into me. My sleeve hung loose, heavier, weighed down by new threads, through this spread throughout, tingles rippling through the weft of my dress like the vibrating strings of my Etwahl, – the same – as it fed and bolstered the fabric. The jolts of sharp satisfaction cocooned in the comfort of the silken laced velvet… more picks knotted, and the knot density blossomed. 
	The velvet folding in a tighter weave, making each pick a new join to articulate and soften its texture. I felt it through the beat of my heart, resonance with the humming chorus of the dress, with new voices, buried in its depths. I caressed it with my fingertips, feeling tension bolt through me, as if the fabric was manned by an army of ants, each massaging my skin through my nerves in a silver ease of tension… My bell sculpt shawl buffed to the point I could not call it a messaline fabric. So soft, with a dull, pleasant satin shimmer, perhaps it was sultan fabric now?
	“Yeah, sure I… saw em wander this way… haey. This ain't home, gotta get your butt back.”
	Voices, near, stumbling through the underbrush. 
	“You can't just…” a woman peeked out through the bush, blinking as she spotted me. “M… maven Sona?” she mumbled. “Hard to mistake those, that, hair. You… you look bigger in person,” they mumbled. 
	I felt a grin budding under my lips. I hadn't needed to lure this one at all. With a gesture I let my train brush over the ground and sweep her off her feet, the cloth coiling up her legs in overlapping bundles of flourescent cyan. 
	“Whatathaoths what'ts going on?” 
	“Firro ? Firro where did you g-.” 
	Another one, as stunned as the first, though I could sense this one's old sweat. Adorably, he tried to run. I soared forward, the hemline of my mermaid skirt brushing over his feet, wrapping taught into him and throwing him to the ground. 
	“Zymal, run, I Sh-she's vile magic, the rumors, th-the r-… ruu.” 
	Ulvanna stumbled over her words as the wrap enclosed over her chest, lunching over soothened eyes. So I shuddered… even if she was just engraved in cloth, I felt as if she had passed underneath my skin… the golden trim gleaming around the assortments of wriggling lumps suspended in the cocoon of cotton cloth. I clutched, tighter, tighter… -Chrhrnng- -Cgnnhghs- wringing the shawl train into her like rag, tighter… she grew moist, a moan… her figure enclosed and vague under the fabric. The wrap glowed brighter, glistening in a sunglow radiating form the rumpled folds, as the wringing cloth compressed tighter to the limits of her body, to the branch of a tree, then the width of a pencil -Chhrltph- -Chthtphgh- flowing between the crevices, soaking through the hollows and checkerboard patterns of cloth, dripped a gleaming saffron, radiant in its luster like the fresh sap seeping from bark. The liquid light absorbed into the cloth as I revolved it open. Liquid essence glowing bright as starlight before fading as it soaked through my skin, through the cloth, moulding new fabric as her mass was devoured. 
	“U-Ulvanna? What did you do to her, yosmg amaghahahah, w-whats h-happening?” the man at my feet howled. 
	I peered down. So small he was becoming. I would have to kneel to reach him… But seeing him squirm broadened my smile. I watched his body on the ground, legs enveloped by the sprawling drape of my mermaid skirt, the hemline brushing over his thighs… the oblong outline of his calves, bulldozed flat to the ground. With a gesture, I raised my skirt's azure train, letting him gaze inside. His body shined in the same light as the woman's, but where his legs had been lay naught but nubs. And sprawling from his body into the darkness, there were untold tethers. The man's musceless, tendons, bones, frayed into individual strands that spooled into the depths of my skirt. Warping threads pulled by the loom of my dress, he was the bolt of wool I spun from. 
	He screamed, I gagged him with my shawl, leashing his face in the coils of my cloth. He struggled, muffled, muted, as he unwound, the threads drawing him under, ripping him to shreds as not but a knitted mitten with its knitting undone. He coughed a wheeze into my cloth. It was no matter, soon his lungs were only silken thread, and his pleas only amused. His chest dematerializing, his arms clutching and flailing as humerus were withdrawn in white strings. An armless hand raised to the air as if by a perverse marionette… before his fingers unravelled completely, the last thread spooled back under my skirt, leaving no trace of the three drunks… but oh, that was life, for I felt piles wrapping and expanding my skirt, my shawl, as a wave of goosebumps through my body, the concentrated pleasure and relief of having my threads spun, unwound and woven with all new thread… And not just my dress… for the sensation ran deeper through my core, my nerves were just an extension of the weaving, a different pattern of cloth, what fed my dress fed me in turn. Now to the point where my head nearly knocked into the branches of the tree I sheltered under in the park. The strands of my sleeves and hair, all and the same I felt my twin tails extend, sprawl down below me, draping over the ground, a third pair of trains along with those of my draping shawl. Together with my own arms, that made eight. I feel all the more spider like, but an arachnid of unparalleled beauty, weaving not with mere silk, but with lives. I felt them tremble in me, and the vibrations made sounds, and the sounds painted the world in beautiful cerulean and rose. I knew… that I needed more. So much more…