#gerrel things

Behind him was a large bin, which contained multiple outfits apparently deemed 'failures.' The stitching was wrong, the cut was wrong, everything about them was wrong, wrong, wrong. It would not be good enough and it would not be right. He had not spent so long learning as an apprentice to produce something mediocre. His hands felt sore from how long he'd been swapping between different tools, his back was creaking from the hours spent hunched over, and his eyes were starting to burn from lack of sleep.

None of that deterred him. He would get this right or he would not get it at all. Sleep and hunger could fall by the wayside for all he cared at the moment. He grabbed a set of red fabrics and began measuring them out. At this point he understood his own measurements by heart, each number burned into his brain.

Meeting the tailor had been a mere stroke of luck, one that promised to turn his life around. Yet, his training could go no further if he could not pass this test. It was unsuitable for him to continue working without proper attire, and it could not be one his own master had made. To prove he had learned anything at all, he would need to make this entirely for himself.

So it was that when he set his tools down some hours later, he did so with immense satisfaction. 'This is the one,' he thought to himself. He stood up, hearing his bones pop all across his body, and stretched. Then, without further ado, he grabbed the assembled outfit and rushed over to the floor mirror positioned nearby.

He swiftly changed into the tailored material, exchanging his dark grey t-shirt for a jet black one, which would complement the dark red suit jacket he had made. It slipped up and over his shoulders, fitting his body perfectly. The trousers too made it onto him easily, the matching red hue clinging just so to his body as to accentuate his natural form. It did not feel tight, it did not stretch where it should not. He looked at himself in the mirror:

He saw a young troll, wearing a handmade red suit. His symbol, color switched for black, was sewn into the right side of the jacket. Despite his small stature, he felt a trill of professional pride run through him - though he could not help but pause and fruitlessly try to flatten his shaggy looking hair. He then spotted his bare feet, and chastised himself. He disappeared into a nearby closet and hopped back out, a pair of black socks pulled over his feet. He staggered about, tugging highly polished black oxford shoes onto his feet, before resuming his place in front of the mirror.

"Perfect!" he declared, smiling tiredly yet brightly at his reflection.

'Not perfect,' his master would later chide, with a small smile on his face. 'But one night. With practice.'