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When the idea comes to Occtis — it’s simple. Something that makes logical sense. Something that might keep some eyes off of him without having to waste all of his energy on disguising himself magically.
The rooms they’d been given in Castle Klippenblicke weren’t exactly full of clothing, sure, but it wasn’t like there were no options. Walking around in the same clothing that he’d, ah, died in, did… not do much to hide his identity. Just the style of them screamed Tachonis. Now he had options. Even if none of those options made it possible to part with his jacket — he had too many components that were too volatile to just throw around in a bag.
Still… when he glanced at himself in a new blouse and trousers, he couldn’t help but feel like he looked just as much like himself as he had before. It was a start, maybe, but it… actually did very little to obscure who he was. Which was quickly going to become more and more of an issue as more and more of his family learned that their special little corpse had woken back up and walked away.
When they eventually came looking, they’d be looking for Occtis. The eighth child, the youngest son. The boy that had to work for what they were gifted. Even if they’d never met him, they’d be looking for him.
So.
…So.
Why not wear a dress?
‘Why not?’ is because of the shame that hits him for even thinking about it.
It makes him feel perverse — especially after his embarrassment in the bathhouse. It’s not like he was ogling or anything! Least of all at Thaisha; he’s seen more than enough of her body for… several lifetimes. But, ah, like the dress thing, it’s something he’s… curious about. Before the social connotations of looking at a woman’s naked body hit him, at least. It’s academic, he tries to tell himself, it’s the same kind of interest he has with any body.
Occtis has never worn a dress. For most of the last five years, he’s worn the same clothes that he’d been torn open in. He’s gotten good at repairs. You’d barely notice. But the clothes he died in are old. And they haven’t fit him quite right since before he even started at the Penteveral. The clothes here do. Better than those, anyway. He can move just fine in these. They don’t pinch at his shoulders or elbows or knees. They don’t stop just before where they should at his wrists or ankles. They’re fine clothes.
But he still keeps looking at the gowns. Simple ones, mostly. Nightgowns and things. A few seem more like… evening gowns? Is — is that what they’re called? Or, uh, no… that’s… for events, maybe. He’s not — he doesn’t actually know much about clothing. He hasn’t really looked into what everything is called. They’re simple. More simple than not, but not as plain as the nightgowns.
Not that… it matters.
It’s just — he knows dresses aren’t as comfortable. Thaisha has bitched to him enough about how stifling they are. Too big and inconvenient. It’s why she doesn’t bother. Thaisha wears pants. Pants are — they’re normal. Especially for someone like him to wear. “Like him”. He can’t help but scoff at the thought. What does that even mean? A boy? Man? He’s not exactly a child anymore. (Even if he isn’t ever going to look much older than one.)
The shame comes in waves; the kind of feeling that would make his face flush if it still could. Because as he stares at his reflection, his corpse is the least of his worries. Which, after his conversation with Vaelus, is sort of the last thing he was expecting to be feeling. Instead, all he can see is the way this blouse fits him. The way the pants sit on his waist. There is some amount of logic that tells him that this is what he should look like.
But, ah, the whole… point is to have a better disguise, right? So if that’s what Occtis should look like, he should actually do… anything else. Right? And that makes sense, really. He — well — he sort of needs it to make sense. Because otherwise, the discomfort at letting himself do something like this might eat him alive.
Except — except he’s not exactly uncomfortable with it. Is he? He’s… nervous. That people might see. That people might laugh. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Thaisha laughed about something like this. Not that she’s never laughed at him before. It’s just… different. There’s something different about it with this. He knows Julien will probably laugh regardless, but Occtis doesn’t think there’s much he can do to get his trust. And if he can’t do that, he absolutely can’t get his respect. Julien still sees him as a threat. Would this just make that worse?
Surprising no one (least of all himself): Occtis is… spiraling. He struggles for some amount of comfort, a grounding, and throws his sight into Pin. Aranessa and Thaisha are having a conversation. He tries not to overhear, it seems a little bit… intimate? But what he does catch makes him pull back into himself pretty quickly. It is… extremely unhelpful.
His hands ball into fists at his side, nails digging into his palms. It’s just hard enough that — now that he knows the sensation — he knows it hurts. In that dull sort of way everything feels for him, where he can’t tell without paying attention. The frustration builds in the all the little gaps in his shame as he glares at his reflection. A part of him wants to scream, but he knows that any damage to his vocal chords might go unnoticed until it’s too late.
So instead, he grabs at the blouse and claws himself out of it, stepping back onto the ends of his trousers to yank them down around his feet. It’s a wild and unpracticed sort of motion, and it makes him feel stupid as soon as it’s done. Because he can’t look at himself like this — stripped down to his underwear. Everything feels raw and rotten, so he doesn’t really trust himself to look at his own body in this moment. There’s no thought behind it, he won’t be able to see himself without bias.
He turns his head away, instead looking to the wardrobe and the gowns he’s been avoiding. Like he’s in a trance, Occtis reaches a bony hand forward to brush the fabric. His fingers stall as he thumbs over the sturdy, heavy texture of wool. Pulling it towards him by a sleeve, he can see the almost-blue grey of the dress. It’s thick, long, and the shoulders are too broad for him. Someone had mentioned, at some point, that this place — the Schneffenkeep — was made for the winter. It was no wonder they kept clothes built for the cold on hand.
Before he lets himself waste more time, he gathers the dress in his arms, pulling it from its place. But Occtis has never worn a dress before. He doesn’t know how to put it on. There is lacing in the back that he doesn’t know what to do with, having only ever seen people in dresses that were already tied. He doesn’t want to undo the knot, but upon a very clumsy attempt to pull the dress over his shoulders, realizes that it won’t fit until he does. He’s not sure he’ll be able to retie the knot, but he will be able to get it onto his body.
For all that Thaisha has complained to him, he’s never really took to heart how difficult wriggling into a dress would be. He’s sure his joints start to shift — threatening to dislocate as he shoves himself into something that is absolutely not made for him. It’s not that it’s too small, it’s the opposite, really. It’s just… very unfamiliar, and he ends up flailing. The fact that he doesn’t manage to tear fabric or rip stitching is a testament to the quality of the dress, if anything! Something so flagrantly expensive, just sort of… tossed into a guest room. The Einfasen love to do that, it seems.
(Not that House Tachonis doesn’t do the same.)
When the ordeal is done and he’s gotten himself stuffed into the dress as best he can, he moves to all of the things he needs on hand. He keeps components, as well as his spell book, on a strap around his waist. It’s something that can be fairly easily tosses over things, except… he secures the book (and a syringe) with another strap around his leg. Which isn’t so simple to do with a skirt. He could keep the syringe on an arm, but arm movement was much more varied than leg movement, and the chance of accidentally stabbing himself was very real.
So instead, he hikes up the skirt and straps only that around his thigh, as though it’s some kind of medical garter. It feels stupid, and he knows that it’ll end up looking very awkward if he ever needs it, but it’s… better than the alternative? With a sigh, he slips his coat and boots back on. It’s as he moves to look at his reflection that he brushes against something. A pack — but not his.
Ah. Right.
Julien had given him his bag.
To… “sell the hireling thing”, or something.
He should… probably return that. It isn’t his and he doesn’t exactly want to give Julien another reason to distrust him. But he also… should not be leaving his room. Because he isn’t supposed to be here.
If he gets caught, it’ll cause trouble. But maybe — maybe nothing will happen! Maybe everything will be fine and no one will notice him or how out of place he is. Because if he keeps looking at the bag, now that he remembers it, it’s going to make him panic. Like he isn’t already panicking. Right now, though, he’s — he’s panicking in a way where he can do things. And he might not feel that way later.
So. So he grabs the bag, quickly and quietly walks from his room, and follows the hushed sounds of talking. With some urgency, he raps against the door. The talking pauses for a second, but he doesn’t get a response? So, just in case, he knocks again—
“…Who is it?”
Occtis exhales, relieved, and leans close to the door, “Um. It’s — me.”
After a comment he can’t quite hear, the door swings open and he is yanked inside. A sound squeezes out of him that might have been a yelp, but comes out as a death rattle. Julien glowers at him, waiting for an explanation. And then he does a double take, an eyebrow raising as he looks Occtis over.
Dread bubbles in the back of his mind, but he just… thrusts the bag forward. “Sorry, I just — your bag?”
“…Thank you.” Julien says, with surprising restraint.
“Yeah, yes, um… just.” He pauses, trying to articulate himself. “What — what are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same thing, boy.”
And there’s the, um, charm that he’s used to getting. It makes him duck into himself, wringing his hands together. Because what is he doing, really? This is… this was a stupid idea, he knows, he knows, it just felt like — since he had the chance — it doesn’t matter. It’s just an idea he had, is all.
“I, ah…” his mouth feels dryer than even death can make it. “It — um — since I can’t, I can’t — you know — magically disguise myself all the time, I thought I might… do this? Because, people will… my family will be looking for a boy — man.”
He can’t look to see what kind of reaction this gets, but he does hear a soft hum from Aranessa. Still, it startles him when her hand rests on his shoulder. He jolts, eyes snapping up to stare at her.
“That makes as much sense as anything else has, recently.” She tells him.
It must be a joke, because when he doesn’t react she cringes and continues. “But: a lady of your age should probably know how to properly lace her bodice. May I?”
Something sparks in him, flashing like a warning. Or maybe just an invitation. Either way, it makes him almost dizzy. It isn’t something that should be possible, just from raw emotion, but it blooms outward. Of course, it’s not real, but for a moment it could almost be.
“Um.” The feeling is disorienting enough that he almost forgets to respond. “Sure — yes. If you, I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all, Occtis.” She says, and there’s a question in the way she says his name.
It’s a question she — he doesn’t understand. Or… it’s not one he can answer. Lady Aranessa waits a moment before nodding, lips pulled into a thin line, and wraps around him to fix the damage done. He stares a hole into the ground, ignoring the vague sensation of cords being tugged at his back.
…She should hate him, he thinks vaguely. His family ruined hers.
But she was in the room when his brother tore open his chest (sliced it open — tore makes it sound like it wasn’t easy). Aranessa watched him die. And, from what he’s been told, she fought tooth and nail to make sure someone got ahold of his body as they fled. She doesn’t hate him, somehow, even if Julien does.
He thinks of how she played a song for him as he tried to stitch himself back together. She’s helping him again, now. Being way too nice in a way that he doesn’t know if he can repay.
After one a last tug, she smooths his coat back down behind him. Stepping back around, she sizes him up.
“One moment.” She announces, excusing herself to the window.
Leaning forward, she grabs a vine that’s made its way to the top of the keep. After traveling with Thaisha, watching someone Druidcraft isn’t new to him, but the magic Aranessa works is much different. A golden glow bleeds from her fingertips as she snaps the vine off at a leaf, growing it out into a long strand.
“I’m going to tie up your hair, if that’s okay?”
He nods mutely, unable to respond.
“The lady can tie knots after all.” Julien says, speaking out for the first time in a while.
Hands stalling as she gathers his hair, Aranessa scoffs.
“Ah, yes, because this is just the same as tying down a horse.”
He’s not looking, but Occtis can hear the expression on Julien’s face. A tired laugh escapes Aranessa as she gets back to her work. The wound around his neck might be visible with his hair tied back. In this moment, though… he almost can’t bring himself to care.
“You make a very pretty young woman.” She tells Occtis, stepping back once again.
A comment about not being that young dies on entry, eyes instead fixing on her intently.
“…Would I?”
Aranessa smiles, warmth in her expression despite her exhaustion. “It makes for a convincing disguise.”
Words fail as she struggles to choke out, “I, um… thank… you?”
“Yes, yes, very good.” Julien cuts in, “Let us get back to it, hm?”
“Ah, right.” Aranessa nods. “We were discussing how safe we feel here at Castle Klippenblicke.”
It’s a sobering thought, one that immediately brings Occtis back to reality. A reedy laugh escapes her lips, fading part way into a sigh.
“Not at all…?”