It was winter in the righteous principality of New Celest, the familiar ocean
breezes of the Inner Sea carrying with them an unfamiliar chill. The sky was a
hazy shade of grey that obscured any form of true sunlight, the occasional
snow-flurry finding its way down onto the rooftops. It just so happened that
beneath one of these rooftops, within the warmth and comfort of the Starweaver
Tailoring Cartel, worked an Aslaran named Fandrin Gyl.

Fandrin was a rather old cat well into his one-hundreds, with a hunch in his
back from too many years spent bending over a spindle, and a hitch in his step
that marked his approach from almost any distance. He was something of a
personified landmark, well-known in Celest and beyond as one of the best tailors
who had ever lived. His personal designs were flawless and in high demand, his
prices unmatched, and his impeccable sense of style hadn’t dulled even after
decades of practice. The slitted pupils of his emerald green eyes were
especially focused on his latest work, a set of flowing layered robes of a smoky
grey that when worn, would give the impression of actual smoke wreathing the
wearer’s body.

Finally, with the proper stitching, folding, and pinning of fabrics, it was
complete, and a quick trip to the city post office had his specially-tailored
robe on route to its soon-to-be owner. Yes Fandrin had led a good life,
emerging from the Portal of Fate with a bent towards the bardic profession,
joining the Cantors as young as 18 and falling in love with tailoring only a
year later. He was one of many success stories within Celest’s walls…but
few knew of his deepest longings.

For as long as he could remember, Fandrin had always felt helpless. He was not
a combatant by any stretch of the imagination, and when the time for raids or
city defenses arose, he quickly found himself visiting the Fates and having them
re-weave his thread back into life once more, to the point that Lachesis gave
him a playful wink when he arrived, even as Atrops griped and complained about
sparing yet another “witless fool” from her scissors. Often, this didn’t
bother the old Aslaran much; he considered his talents much more prominent in
design than in death-dealing, but he often pined for the respect that came with
being a combatant, marching into battle wielding one’s skills with an
effortless grace that made his friends swoon and his foes shrivel up and tumble
like dead leaves.

“Yes, I suppose I understand how you feel dear,” spoke Treida Gelthus, the
current Paladin guildmistress who was known for her skill at giving personal
advice and guidance. She and Fandrin had been friends since childhood, and often
he came to her for an encouraging word or a bit of direction when he needed it.
Standing barely five-foot four inches in height, and slender at that, Treida
didn’t look like much of a trained killer, but Fandrin had watched her rend
numerous agents of the Taint to pieces with her rapiers many a time, always
caught off-guard by the intensity of her eyes during those moments. “But
Fandrin, you have a talent that many do not, and though you often feel left out,
many of us would be remiss to not give you any credit.” She paused, letting it
sink in, before continuing. “Where would our proofed cloaks and coats be if it
weren’t for people like you, hm? What would the mages wear to protect
themselves?” It was true, Fandrin was one of the few tailors left in Celest,
and it was he who had personally woven more than half of the city’s current
clothing supply.

And yet…

“I know Treida, but…I find myself wanting to be seen out there among you,
to be given credit for something more tangible…” Fandrin spoke slowly; this
was the first time he’d ever told anyone about his insecurities, even to a
friend as old Treida.

Treida simply smiled, her expression disarmingly warm as usual.
“Fandrin…every time we march out there bearing your robes, cloaks, coats,
boots, or otherwise, you’re getting more credit than you know.”

Fandrin sighed in bittersweet defeat, knowing she was right as usual. No matter
how he felt at times Fandrin knew he was useful, just in a different way.

“…still,” Treida admitted, “It’s a shame you can’t turn your love
of clothing into a dangerous weapon, now that would be something, wouldn’t
it?” At this they both laughed, and Fandrin nodded his head in agreement.

“Aye, if I could do that, I’d be a dangerous man.” He chuckled, giving
Tredia a hug as he prepared to leave the park bench upon which they sat.

“Thanks again Treida, I suppose you’re right; I’ve got a lot going for me
after all these years; most men my age are all dried up!” Fandrin laughed
before bowing courteously and heading back to the cartel.

It wasn’t until a few hours later in the midst of his work that Fandrin
thought back over their conversation, remembering one line in particular that
stood out in his memory, if only for its absurdity. Clothing as a weapon, what a
redic-

…wait.

The old Aslaran’s thoughts were interrupted by a rather sudden idea, one that
seemed both perfectly impossible and perfectly brilliant at the same time. Just
what would happen -if- there was a way to turn his love of fabrics into a viable
set of skills? Could it be possible to somehow bend fabric to one’s
will…without the use of anything but the mind? Half of the old Aslaran’s
mind told him to hush and keep to his tailoring, that such a venture was nothing
more than a capricious waste of time. The other half of his mind was almost
certain he’d stumbled onto something incredible, and that to skip out now
would have him regretting it the rest of his life. Whether or not this would
actually lead to anything…well, there was only one way to be sure.

Thus, Fandrin temporarily dropped his tailoring and became a scholar, huddled
up in the library for hours at a time as he studied up on every tome concerning
tailoring that there was, as well as a myriad of other topics. He took note of
the key attributes of clothing: tensile strength, texture, and elasticity, which
fabrics were the best in each attribute, as well as how to make commonplace
fabrics better. The topic of Pisonics was also of great interest to the old
Aslaran’s studies, especially the specialization of Telekinesis. The ability
to generate actual forces with only one’s thoughts was surely the foundation
of what he Fandrin was trying to do…but how? In order to focus solely upon
articles of clothing, one had to know fabrics in and out…so some skill in
tailoring was a requirement, it seemed.

Days passed, then weeks, then months, yet despite all the research notes piling
up within his manse, there didn’t seem to be any progress. Fandrin had even
crossed through the psionic archway upon the Water Plane in order to perhaps
awaken some latent ability of his, but to no avail. Weeks of meditation and
concentration led only to frustration as he found himself unable to move so much
as a hair with only his mind. In his excitement and zeal to find the answer to
this mystery, Fandrin had turned off all his mental aethers in order to stay
focused on the task at hand, but unfortunately it led to the old man nearly
dropping off the face of the Basin. Few people knew where to find him without
using an scry, and no one knew exactly what he was up to, as he could never be
stopped for a conversation. He had become a complete recluse in the pursuit of
his lofty goal, and his old business had suffered for it, not to mention the
entire city of Celest, which had come to rely upon the old man for important
staples like greatrobes. Neglecting his taxes had forced the city to close down
his shop, which meant all his clothing items were now unavailable.

Despondent at his failures, Fandrin had asked Treida to meet him in the park
just as they always had, for the first talk in almost ten months since he
started his research. As he sat on a nearby bench sulking, the familiar clink of
her armor sounded her approach, a look of deep concern written across her gentle
features.

“Fandrin!” she exclaimed, running towards her old friend and throwing her
arms around him. He wanted to apologize for acting so strange, and for
abandoning his work, but she wouldn’t even let him speak before she did once
more.

“Listen to me Fandrin, you’ve got to come back to your work! Our cloaks
have nearly all decayed, and those graduating from Novicehood are still going
around in their old Newton rags or worse! No one can get anything proofed or
mended, and the Aquamancers are having more than their share of trouble finding
adequate robes!”

All of this had come out in nearly one breath, and Fandrin stared, completely
dumbfounded at the situation his foolishness had created. He had been so
preoccupied with shoring up what felt like a weakness that he’d allowed
himself to briefly forget what he was truly good at. Clothing had been his love
and life since he was very young, and despite not being able to chop off heads
or blast foes with frigid water, Fandrin always had a role to play, and never
again would he forget that.

“Alright then Treida, tell them all I’ll get right to work.” Fandrin
smiled a warm smile that his old friend gladly returned, happy to have the best
tailor in the basin back at work. Upon announcing proudly over the city Aether
that he was indeed coming back, a series of happy exclamations piped up from all
over the city, men and women of both high and low status thankful for his
return. It was then that it finally hit him: no matter what, his role was
important.

As they left the park, Treida turned to Fandrin with a curious look, unable to
help asking, “So…what’ve you been studying all this time?”

“Eh…mere fabrications, my dear.”