Having Saint Gabriel this close was making Solomon aware of some things of which Erskine had made him aware not all that long ago. (He seemed to remember China laughing about it forever ago too.) Namely, the way that Archangel's brightness stretched backward toward Skulduggery, and the way the detective's stained-glass beamed sunlight toward Saint Gabriel. Solomon would have averted his eyes, except Saint Gabriel's proximity made that rather useless.
He did so anyway.
"They do have their merits," Merlin said thoughtfully. "Why not? It's been a while, and I miss them sometimes. They were so much more dramatic than most of the clothes nowadays."
"Speaking of," Corrival said, "is Tipstaff stuck behind that roadblock in the doorway, or did he leave you to go do something else?"
"He's here," Saint Raphael guffawed, and although Solomon couldn't see it, he got the faint impression from the ripples that the Archangel had all but picked the man up to shove him through the crowd. Tipstaff's soul was certainly startled. "Corr wants ya, Stewy."
"Yes, Grand Mage?" Tipstaff managed to ask with admirable dignity given how frazzled his edges were. Like frayed parchment.
"Ghastly's accusing these robes of the crime of living," Corrival informed him. "He's not wrong. Wreath can't even get out of them on his own. They weren't designed with blind men in mind, apparently." Just what Solomon needed; to be used as a model. He sighed just as Saint Gabriel's fingers found the last catch and the ex-Necromancer was finally able to pull the robes off.
"Grand Mage--" Tipstaff began stiffly, but then cut off for reasons Solomon couldn't see through soul alone.
"They're traditional, I know. The thing is, we're soldiers. We like clothes we can move around in. In Wreath's case, they're practically a health hazard. Sure, we can have them made, but then we just won't wear them. So here's how it is: either you let Ghastly design something we'd like to wear, and might actually do so on special occasions, or we'll just come to work wearing whatever we're most comfortable in. Which for me happens to be my patchwork old coat."
The last was said ever so blandly, but Solomon smirked at the way Tipstaff's parchment fluttered and etched with a horrified image of a colourful old coat.
"But, Grand Mage--"
"That's how it is, Tipstaff. None of us are going to be caught dead wearing anything we can't move in, or else we might actually be caught dead. Given what happened to our predecessors, apparently it's something to be worried about. So we're worried about it."
"I--but--" Tipstaff's papers came to rest in a cascading pile, the metaphysical equivalent of a slump. "I suppose Mr Bespoke could draft a new design. But we still won't be able to pay him."
"I'm sure that will be fine." Corrival turned to Ravel. "What do you know? You were right."
no subject
He did so anyway.
"They do have their merits," Merlin said thoughtfully. "Why not? It's been a while, and I miss them sometimes. They were so much more dramatic than most of the clothes nowadays."
"Speaking of," Corrival said, "is Tipstaff stuck behind that roadblock in the doorway, or did he leave you to go do something else?"
"He's here," Saint Raphael guffawed, and although Solomon couldn't see it, he got the faint impression from the ripples that the Archangel had all but picked the man up to shove him through the crowd. Tipstaff's soul was certainly startled. "Corr wants ya, Stewy."
"Yes, Grand Mage?" Tipstaff managed to ask with admirable dignity given how frazzled his edges were. Like frayed parchment.
"Ghastly's accusing these robes of the crime of living," Corrival informed him. "He's not wrong. Wreath can't even get out of them on his own. They weren't designed with blind men in mind, apparently." Just what Solomon needed; to be used as a model. He sighed just as Saint Gabriel's fingers found the last catch and the ex-Necromancer was finally able to pull the robes off.
"Grand Mage--" Tipstaff began stiffly, but then cut off for reasons Solomon couldn't see through soul alone.
"They're traditional, I know. The thing is, we're soldiers. We like clothes we can move around in. In Wreath's case, they're practically a health hazard. Sure, we can have them made, but then we just won't wear them. So here's how it is: either you let Ghastly design something we'd like to wear, and might actually do so on special occasions, or we'll just come to work wearing whatever we're most comfortable in. Which for me happens to be my patchwork old coat."
The last was said ever so blandly, but Solomon smirked at the way Tipstaff's parchment fluttered and etched with a horrified image of a colourful old coat.
"But, Grand Mage--"
"That's how it is, Tipstaff. None of us are going to be caught dead wearing anything we can't move in, or else we might actually be caught dead. Given what happened to our predecessors, apparently it's something to be worried about. So we're worried about it."
"I--but--" Tipstaff's papers came to rest in a cascading pile, the metaphysical equivalent of a slump. "I suppose Mr Bespoke could draft a new design. But we still won't be able to pay him."
"I'm sure that will be fine." Corrival turned to Ravel. "What do you know? You were right."