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Tailored to perfection
(2013-06-20 - Now)
After a rough night, Sammy finds himself wearing rags. Unsure of what happened, he heads to the nearest clothier around.
Sammy Colt The darkness was everywhere. Surrounding him. Just inky blackness. This wasn't like 'Heartless' blackness, this was simply 'nothing'. He had been floating in it for, what, hours? Minutes? Seconds? Time didn't make sense here. It was endless and immediate, all at the same time.

The darkness distorts for a moment, almost like digital snow across the horizon as sound pierces the infinite black of the void. Another distortion as the sound becomes clearer. Soon, the horizon is merely static and the darkness begins to retreat.

Sammy Colt's eyes slowly open themselves to the ray of light across his face. The chirping of the local birds fill his ears, only disturbed by the ringing noise that won't stop traveling through his head.

A hand sturdies the little guy's form as he sits up, a hand reaching to his eye and pressing against the cheek to rub the sleepiness away.

As the back of his palm touches flesh, Sammy blinks in surprise and shifts backward - so backwards that he falls out of the tree. A tree he only now realizes he was in.

Luckily for him, a rosebush broke his fall. Unluckily for him, it was a rose bush. The sound of torn clothing fills the air as Sammy pulls himself free from the rosebush, wearing tattered rags of what used to be his Turk uniform.

"Oh! Oh crap! Reno'll have my hide!" He exclaims as he pats himself down. No equipment in his pockets, no weaponry, not even his trademark signed ShinRa shades.

The turk gives himself a calming glance at his hands. Hands whose colour did not match anything on the kid. With a nervous glance, Sammy removes his jacket and wraps it up around his arms, hiding his hands from the world.

After minutes of traveling around the downtown, the poor Turk's eyes finally catch sight of what he was searching for. Stepping up to the door, Sammy glances at the entryway before raising his cloth-covered hands to knock. There's a pause. He wouldn't make enough noise with his hands covered up like this. How could he...

*THUNK* Sammy uses his head in this situation - literally. The Turk lets out a groan of the sheer stupidity of the act, but follows through with another one, just to be safe that the person inside heard him.

Of course, now he also has a bit of a welt on his forehead. Oh well, he knows healing... just not tailoring.
Morgan Albaste The one whom Sammy ultimately seeks to assuage has woes had not observed the fiasco of the young man's arrival. Morgan, who is days away from closing up her home and departing Cornelia for a stint, is busy in her homestead packing sundries and the like. No, no.. someone /else/ has observed Sammy's tumble... and as the boy rights himself as best he can and sets off, that 'someone' is following him...!

Through the streets of Cornelia.... silent and sure like a NINJA.. +_+

... okay, not /quite/. IT's not a Heartless; it's not a Ninja. It's an ancient old woman, wielding the broom that she was sweeping her step off with mere moments before. It's not everyday that a boy in tattered clothes falls out of a tree into rosebushes, covers his hands up with cloth, and goes about doming himself upon the local tailor's storefront door. The little woman, in her late eighties and as meek as a mouse, looks taken aback at the sight of Sammy 'knocking' on Morgan's door in such a fashion.

My, that pointy-eared woman gets such odd visitors. The elder's knotty fingers tighten a bit more around the wood of her old broom, and she takes a few steps closer. By the time the ol' girl is at the bottom stoop of Morgan's stairwell, the door opens and the lady of the house herself steps forth to greet Sammy. Sensitive Elven hearing had, rest assured, caught both the cloth-muffled knocks and.. yeah. Morgan's soft gray eyes flit to Sammy's face firstly, and /then/ to his forehead. "My word.." She whispers.

"My boy, what happened to you?" Asks the tall, willowy woman as she observes Sammy.. standing over him by quite a few inches and clad becomingly in understated noblewoman finery. She pauses to look over his shoulder briefly, seeing the old woman with the baleful glare. "Elsie! Stand down.. he's a customer.. I do believe.."

"Hrrmph.." Puffs 'Elsie' as she turns on a heel and hobbles off, broom in hand.
Sammy Colt the Turk hadn't taken note of the old woman. She was an old woman, after all. No, he was much more worried about his own situation than to be watching out for possibly old ninja crones. The door opens and Sammy stands before this woman in pristine noble attire, dressed like a ragman from the slums of Midgar. It's kind of awkward as well, considering the height difference, his eye level being in a somewhat questionable area compared to the woman.

Naturally, however, the Turk's eyes are locked on the elf's. She asks him what happened and Sammy gives a smile before glancing over his shoulder at the old crone who hobbles away. Confused, the Turk looks back to the elven maiden.

"Oh, uhm... I don't know. I woke up in a tree and fell into a bush." He states, almost like it was a casual occurence. He clears his throat and keeps his charismatic smile on his bruised features. "I was wondering if you could, uh, fix... this?" He asks, gesturing to his clothing with his eyes.

The clothing itself looks like it was put on by someone ten times its size, who then rolled around in the dirt, trampled over it multiple times and then took claws to every possible seam. Sammy looks just a little bit better than the actual clothing, but only because his hair has somehow remained immaculate throughout whatever ordeal he was in.
Morgan Albaste "Don't mind her," Morgan says in her smooth way, indicating the crone as she hobbles along. The broom is lifted high like some manner of longsword, and swung at a pesky throng of pigeons that so happened to be in her way. "I have to fend her off daily, it seems... it's any wonder I have return customers." The Elf concurs, laughter alight in her eyes though her expression remains neutral. THe 'threat' dealt with, Morgan once again takes a moment to crane her neck and take in the boy's disheveled appearance. Slender fingers, pale as alabaster, reach forth to pinch up a piece of the tattered fabric along the shoulder seam.

Lips pursing in thought, Morgan looks back to Sammy's face following the onceover. The palm of that curious hand lifts to hover just over but not /onto/ the welt that crowns his forehead. Her skin, even at that proximity, may feel rather chilly. "You've been through the wringer, simply put. I'll take that explanation.. you'd better come in." The Elf insists, stepping aside to admit Sammy into the foyer of her home. It is as warm, inviting... antiquated place; what would be expected of a well-off family homestead in Cornelia. Morgan directs a frank look to the boy's covered hands.

"Your hands.. have they been injured? I've faith in what I can do with your suit." Morgan says in earnest... and hey, she MEANS it! The suit, she can tell, is too big for Sammy's frame.. there will be tattered excess that she can clip away, pull in... the end result, the Elf's keen mind discerns, may very well be better fitting! For now though, Morgan is more concerned for the young man IN the suit.

"We'd best get some ice on that welt, sir. Come," Morgan insists again, moving further into the home and into a cozy den of sorts, skirts whispering at her calves. "Do sit. What is your name? Where do you come from?" Pause. ".. I mean... before this tree and bush business. Do you recall?"
Sammy Colt Sammy takes the kindness in stride and walks into the woman's parlour. He honestly doesn't take a second glance at the old crone. Rufus was known to have concealed bodyguards at all times, but that was Rufus, not some tailor. This would require more investigation in the future. For now, however, his completely destroyed appearance took precedence.

"My hands..." He starts, glancing down at his coiled up coat over his hands. "They're fine, just a little off colour today - probably due from whatever it is that happened to me." He states with a bit of hesitation as he looks to the side - an obvious tell that he's lying.

"Welt?" He asks, his eyes wide for a moment before he realizes that his forehead is hurting more than before. "Oh, uh, don't worry about it. I just need to heal myself and it'll go back to normal." He says with a smile. Of course, he didn't know exactly how much healing he could muster right now, but then again, he didn't need this nice seamstress to be worried about his physical pain. He was more concerned about his wardrobe malfunction.

Taking a seat, the Turk glances about the room carefull and places his coiled up arms on the tabletop. He takes in the elf's appearance once more and smiles. "Sammy Colt, member of ShinRa. I'm from Midgar, originally. It's just a small lapse in my memory from what happened last night -" There's a telling pause as he recalls how many of these there have been as of late. "I'm sure it's from one of my office parties. Nothing to be worried about." He says genuinely.

"What about you? You seem to be... packing?" He asks, looking around and trying to take control of the question asking. "Are you so widely known for your ability with a needle that you're being whisked away to some important gala?" Making with the small talk, easy way of avoiding important issues.
Morgan Albaste Ah, wrong woman to try to hide facts from! Morgan observes Sammy as he explains his hands; the bit of hesitation and the sideward glance tell the Elf many things. But who is she to pry from this boy? Whatever did this to him.. what if it's near Cornelia? Is his appearance a precursor to danger?! Ahem. Ok Morgan, take a step back here... her lovely eyes settle once more upon Sammy's wrapped hands. "I.. hn, I see. Off color? As in literally..? Stranger than what nature intended of you?" She asks softly, this being her final little dig in hopes of gleaning some manner of knowledge about this strange situation. However, a bit at a time...

Once Sammy seems to settle in at a small table, bearing four delicate chairs, Morgan glides around and stands opposite the boy. Her gaze is, without her even meaning it to be, rather intense... maybe she's just /really/ intent on figuring out what to do with this suit! Or maybe she's just not convinced. n___n;;

But again, who is Morgan to dig for details? Admittedly she was testing the boy for any manner of amnesiac response... but save for a memory lapse he seems to have it all together. Not the /suit/, but.... the brainmeats must be ok! Sammy's answer does draw laughter forth from the Elf, however; her hands settle over the back of the chair that she stands behind as her lips pull into a slight smile. "What a party. I know little of this Midgar..." A rueful look, before she continues. "A city, I take it?"

Sammy deflects with questions of his own and Morgan, a polite soul, does indulge him. "I've personal matters to see to... an old friend to seek out. I only wish my journey were as innocuous as taking my skills elsewhere." Morgan says sweetly with barely a twitch or tentative gesture to be had. The woman has a great poker face. "Mayhaps I am getting a bit shackhappy in this little town, as well. I must get out for awhile." She concurs... yup, seek out an old 'friend'! She's not hunting down a Shadow Lord...! Not at all!

Sorry, little Turk, you ain't getting away that easy. "I shall have to remove your suit so that I may better determine what needs to be done. I've spare clothing for you.. but, it may be a bit... dated." Morgan says softly, eyes again rivetting to Sammy's hands. Very obviously, too. "You, Sammy Colt, may call me Morgan. I shall do my best to have you fixed up before the end of the day, as I'm certain you've places to be."
Sammy Colt Sammy smiles sweetly to Morgan. It's obvious he's also playing the avoidance game. "Midgar's a city. Pretty big. Lots of people. You can barely see the sky on a good day." He actually seems proud of this fact and not disgusted. The elf mentions business out of town. Sammy's used to secret agendas, but he wasn't in any position to pry on this elf. She could easily turn him away and leave him in rags. A fact that has the young Turk a little on edge.

"Dated is fine. I just need /this/ suit working. It has sentimental value." He states, trying his best to hide the fact that it is magically embued with Time Lo- er, Hammer Space pockets.

"I'll just... uhm. take this off." No sense in hiding the hands. She's going to see them. Just play it safe. She's an elf, she's seen weird things. Sure.

Sammy slowly unravels his hands, recealing purple, almost hide-like hands with black fingertips. The hands themselves look a little swollen in comparison to his body. The most obvious not normal part, however, is the fact that the hide-like flesh is a purple in hue.

Without missing a beat, the young Turk removes his tattered pants and places them on the table, leaving himself in his briefs, clothes in his weird hands, holding them carefully so that the elf can take them.

"I don't really have any munny right now, but I'm sure I can get some to you once I get back to the office." He says with a worry-hiding smile.
Morgan Albaste Well! THAT was easy! Sammy saves them both a lot of time in removing the tattered articles with little fanfare or shy hesitation. Morgan, who has seen many things in her 250 (hume) years alive, isn't going to fluster over a young man's mostly bare self. Gently taking the suit over one forearm as it is handed to her, Morgan averts her eyes politely but continues to address the Turk. "No offense, but Midgar... mayhaps it wouldn't be my kind of place. Cities and I do not mesh well, you see." She says as she examines the attire. However, now that she is privy to Sammy's /hands/, her eyes rove over the strangely-hued appendages.

He is correct in assuming that, as an Elf, Morgan has seen many things! Still, this comes as a surprise when looking at Sammy as a whole and... suddenly, onto hands that don't quite match! Morgan looks at the boy's face next, her startlement evident. "Heavens, but do those hurt?" She asks him softly, indicating his hands. He may be relieved that she doesn't freak right out, however... but can one blame the Elf for being surprised? She clears her throat once... and immediately melts at the boy's lattr statement.

"I... oh... it is quite alright. I had a big job last week, and the pay-out was decent.." Morgan says softly, reading Sammy's smile.. sensing the worry nonetheless. "One needs all the good karma they can get when setting out into this wild world. I will help you, free of charge... believe it or not, this will be an easy enough job. I can save the suit." Morgan pledges with another smile. "If I work steadily this afternoon, I will have it ready for you by the early evening hours. But, pardon me.. I shall get something for you to wear."

Gliding over to another table nearby -- this one a bit larger, 'plainer' -- Morgan sets down the tattered clothes. From beneath she pulls out a sort of tote, chock full of all manner of tools and sundries for her craft. Without further adieu the Elf ascends a stairwell, disappearing for about five minutes to the second level. Moments after, she descends with a simple, masculine tunic.. just /rife/ with Cornelian culture.. and appropriate slacks. Befitting of the town itself and perhaps better-fitting for Sammy... but were he to even be caught dead wearing this in Midgar.... aheh...

"Here you are. I picked these up awhile back for practice.. they're a loaner. I hope they're comfortable." Morgan says as she holds the clothing out to the Turk. "Feel free to change while I look the suit over.. would you like a drink, Sammy? Something to eat?"
Sammy Colt "N-no, it's probably just... materia after-effect." Made up excuse, but it'll fly, or so Sammy hopes. The promise of karma kind of makes Sammy smile crookedly. After all this good things he had done, he had yet to see the tip side of the Karma scale. Then again, if you didn't have such a skewed view of the world, like Sammy, you would think most of his good acts bordered on evil.

The elven woman takes off, deciding to go look for something for Sammy to wear. At first, Sammy stays calm and remains seated at the table, one of his fingers constantly rubbing against the back of his hand as he examined it. Soon, he was shaking his hands around, as if trying to wake them up from their sleep.

"Come on... It's never been /this/ bad!" He quietly hisses to himself at his hand before looks at the last known location of the elf woman. Maybe, just maybe, if he healed himself, they would at least shrink back to normal size. With a breath taken in, Sammy closes his eyes and focuses his energy. A wash of white light runs over his form for a moment. Some of the bruising lessens and the scratches seem to be painted over with flesh tones before the light fades.

His eyes open and... the hands are still there. Purple. Only now the claws are somewhat extended. Into the table.

The Turk's eyes go a little wide and he pulls his hands back, leaving a small rake across the wooden surface.

Mugging a little towards the damage, Sammy decides to prop himself infront of the table when the sounds of Morgan's return reach his ears.

Ensuring to constantly be between Morgan, the new found scratch, and his hands, now hidden behind his back, Sammy politely remains standing and paying attention to the elf.

Of course, the second his eyes befall the clothing she had retrieved for him, there's a look of 'I wouldn't be caught dead in that'. that stamps itself across his face.

"Uhm. I'll just... wait... like this? I mean, it's not too cold. Or hot. I can just, stand here... and watch." He offers with a smile before shaking his head at her hospitality.

"N-no, thanks. I'm not very hung-" Sammy's stomach, knowing now that the Turk is trying to deny it the sustenance it craves, lets out a rather loud gurgling noise - it almost sounds like the stomach is roaring.
Morgan Albaste "Materia.." Morgan echoes, her keen mind working and pulling forth the knowledge that she /does/ have of this matter of 'materia' which.... isn't extensive. Her cool blue-gray eyes affix to the boy's crooked smile, briefly. 'My, but he is young..' The woman thinks to herself, brow knitting briefly as she considers Sammy's predicament. And to put it bluntly, to an Elf... her definition of young DEFINITELY means.. /YOUNG/. 'Too young to be appearing upon my doorstep in tattered clothing that is meant for a body bigger than his own.. and hands like that.... what does Midgar /do/ to men this young?'

Her mental monologue, finished in seconds, does not hinder Morgan's spoken response to Sammy. She only just handed over the clothes and blessedly, doesn't make a fuss over the fact that the boy has abruptly risen to his feet.. hands behind his back. She looks at him for a few seconds more, noting a degree of discomfort, before bowing her head of glossy black hair once in concession. "Yes, I know these are dated... I can read your thoughts plain as day upon your face." Morgan says gently to Sammy, her tone and eyes bearing mirth.

"At least allow me to fetch you a blanket. If I were to have another customer walk in and see a nearly naked young man in my parlour---" Pause; keen hearing picks up on Sammy's snarling belly. Morgan permits herself an honest, full smile. "Not very hungry? Your stomach begs to differ. I've some of my breakfast left ... I shall leave it on the table for you and you may do with it as you will." She says in a tone that brooks no argument! Before Sammy can even insist that Morgan 'not worry', her svelte self is off to her kitchen and in a moment's time, she's gliding back to the table with a plate of freshly warmed bread, churned butter, and a bowl of lightly baked apples that have been diced and tossed with cinnamon.

Also on the tray, a tall glass of milk! Morgan moves to set the fare down and if she even manages a glimpse at the table -- and the furrows in the wood that Sammy strives to hide -- the woman does not let on. She does not push the matter of food on the boy any further, and before she moves to her sewing station she fetches the blanket from the back of a couch and sets it down on the chair opposite Sammy's spot at the dining table.

"There we are. Now," Morgan says with a slow breath as she settles at her work station, tossing her mass of hair over the back of her seat and delicately spreading out the tattered suit. "Entertain my curiousity while I work, Sammy. Have you family in Midgar? What is it, exactly, that you do that warrants attire such as this? I get few foreigners here, so you'll have to.. forgive my curiousity." She says with a soft look over a smooth shoulder, eyes glittering with innocuous curiosity and, at the same time... something deep and ancient.

This scene contained 10 poses. The players who were present were: Morgan Albaste, Sammy Colt