[identity profile] ancient-adam.livejournal.com

“And you’re sure that it’s the right size?”

Garak shot him an irritated look. “Of course it is. I’m not exactly an amateur at this sort of thing. And come to think of it, neither are you,” he said pointedly. Before Methos could get in a snarky reply, the Cardassian produced a small heavy box. “It’s done. It wasn’t easy, or cheap. Matters of fashion or more covert pursuits are more to my liking these days.”

A small drawstring bag full of coins thunked on the table between them, “That should more than cover your time, expense and noted sacrifice.”
He opened the box and admired the wrought silver framing the ruby.  "Lovely."

Owl to Brienne )



[identity profile] chinasorrows.livejournal.com
((OOC: NSFW - China's mun puts forward a warning: There will be Smut! Crowd roars. I, personally, didn't see that coming. But come on, Kuronue is in it. Speaks for itself.))

It was eight in the morning and the air was crisp and cool. China was sitting at one of the room-length tables reading the Daily Prophet. Beside her was a plate with three remaining pieces of toast, marmalade glistened on its surface. As she read an engaging article about what not to wear to a Dragon tournament, a house elf came up to her and refilled her china cup with the tea she had specified; Rose with French Vanilla. It was a fragrant tea, the colour of deepest pink. China thanked the elf, showing a warming smile and went back to reading the paper. She took a piece of toast and took a bite. She wasn't wearing anything particularly fashionable, a nice blue blouse and three quarter pants. No stiletto's this morning, she wore comfortable black ballet-inspired shoes. Her pitch black hair was up, pluming over the silver, amethyst encrusted hairpin that held it up; it was in the shape of a dragonfly.

The Great Hall wasn't especially busy this morning, making it too quiet even for China. Now would be the perfect time for her peace to be shattered.
[identity profile] gourmetwolfe.livejournal.com
A large man, weighing a full seventh of a ton, bustled through the door, carrying a branch of a Phalaenopsis hybrid in a bud vase. He frowned as he realized that he was not in the room that he expected to be in. He turned, the door no longer behind him. He frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. His assistant, the man he was looking for, would classify the expression as a frenzy of expression. He turned again, facing in the room. "Confound it," he snarled. "Archie. Archie! Enough of this flumery. Confound it." He glared around the room impartially. His desk, his chair, the book he was reading. None of them were in this room, the room that should have been his office. "Fritz!" he bellowed.

"Confound it," he pronounced again, looking around the room. He found a chair that looked as though it would support his mass near a table. He crossed to it, his steps heavier now as he crossed the room. He set the vase on the table and pulled down his gray suit jacket. He ran his hands down the matching vest and adjusted his yellow and red abstractly patterned tie, resetting the yellow collar of his shirt before he sat himself, obviously uncomfortably, in the chair.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, looking around. He glanced at the table he'd set the orchid branch on and noticed the stack of papers. He drew them over, read over them quickly and tossed them back onto the table. "Buffoonery. I will not be subject to this nonsense. Archie!" He waited a beat or two and then called, "Fritz!" With a disgruntled sigh, he looked around the room again. There was nothing else to occupy him and idleness did not sit well with him, despite his chronic laziness. He picked up the papers again.

Tommy rot. )

"I have read the [livejournal.com profile] hogwarts_hocus faq, and understand it is a crazy, cracktastic sorting community and RPG. _____NW_______
I have read the [livejournal.com profile] hogwarts_hocus rules and agree to abide by each and every one of them. ____NW_______.
I agree to be a good sport and not get my knickers in a bunch. _____NW______.
One day, marmalade will rule the world. ______NW_______"
[identity profile] he-was-born.livejournal.com
An attractive young man, quite unusually dressed, stumbled directly thought the wall of the Sorting room. His outfit was a perfect replica of a fashion popular in the late 19th century, in an unexciting color of grey, which in itself was not unusual. What was strange was that it was a very proper woman's dress, close-fitting jacket, a white, lace-trimmed blouse, and a voluminous skirt, with a straw boater hat atop his hair, which was coiffed and curled in a conservative fashion of that time. Yet, he was clearly not trying to crossdress- he simply looked like a man in a dress. He looked around in confusion- hadn't he just been in his locomotive with Lord Jagged? An almost child-like delight replaced the confusion on his features as he looked over his surroundings- surely, this room was from the 19th Century, or thereabouts.

Read more... )
[identity profile] tricky-tailor.livejournal.com
((set after his unpopping post))

Now that he had returned Hogwarts, Garak figured the best way to get acquainted with the students was to reopen his cover, er.. business. It didn’t have the wealth of fabrics and supplies as his store back on Deep Space Nine, but he was never one to complain. As a former member of the Obsidian Order, Garak was resourceful enough to make do with what he found in his room and was able to charm out of the always helpful house elves.


A sign was posted in strategic places all around the school. “Tailoring Services, all custom made of the highest quality. Please inquire with Garak in Slytherin House.”

[identity profile] tricky-tailor.livejournal.com

With a resounding bang, a man was deposited in the middle of the corridor, covered in butter and salt. His appearance was definitely not human, his skin brownish with an almost reptilian look to it. He cast a quick glance around, assessing his situation before regarding his ruined clothes with a measure of distaste.

“Well, this is certainly.. odd.” Elam Garak got to his feet and began wiping the butter from his face and hands. “Quark, if this is your idea of a joke in one of the holosuites, I am not amused,” he declared.

The lack of immediate response prompted the Cardassian to pause and look around again, even scenting the air to try and learn more about his location. The air was cool, almost too cool for him to be comfortable.

“Hm. Not a holosuite then. So just where am I?”


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