#steampunk inspired

Google Blue as a clockwork automaton. I even made a translucent abdomen with visible cogs(under cut)

by your humble servant.

Summoning @theboarsbride for this one.

PROLOGUE:

𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐧, 𝟏𝟖𝟕𝟎

𝐑𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐭, 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬

𝑻he strutting of the quill against the paper was the only audible sound in the studio. In the heavy ebony scribe, Gabriel Corcilius, the famed philanthropist and toymaker, wrote with such an anguish that it seemed that in his haste he had even stopped breathing. Ink stains splashed his thin fingers and his dark blond hair fell carelessly over his visage, forming unruly waves. Next to him, there were countless discarded papers, each more punished than the previous one as a product of the growing frustration of his writer. But why? Only he knew why. His hand, so strong and agile, became as vulnerable as a child's when he wrote that name. Clara. Clara. Asssweet and as brief as bliss, and as untouchable as glory. "Dear Clara...", He had written in the first one, but his boldness abandoned him as soon as it had arrived, and he had set him aside almost when he finished sketching her name. "Miss Clara" didn't seem like a good start either, and "Miss Kepler" had had such an icy and dispassionate tone that he had torn the sheet to pieces without losing a second. Now, his black eyes, always jovial and calm, had a feverish gleam while his hand wielded the pen, writing with such urgency that the paper was barely resisting the relentless rush of the sharp-pointed edge.

“Mr. Corcilius” Mr. Arnessen's face, wizened over the years and touched by a lustrous moustache streaked with gray hairs, looked out the threshold of his studio. His familiar voice took Gabriel out of the trance, who almost at the moment left the writing to look at him again. Even despite the years of mentoring and loyal friendship they had shared, Mr. Arnessen had not erased from his voice that measured and solemn tone, that reverence with which he received it for the first time, more than eleven years ago, when his name was still Gabriel Benassi and he did not know who he was or what had led him to the doors of that mansion, “Your carriage is already waiting for you at the entrance.”

Gabriel let our a long and slow sigh, as if he wished that the anguish that boiled in his chest and made his heartbeats quiver parted with his trembling breath. Finally, he stood up and walked with hesitant steps to the window. Outside, all Radembrandt was victim to a deep winter-like lethargy, and even the austere and angular buildings of the wealthy Santz Neriov neighbourhood seemed to be asleep under the thick blanket of snow; in the distance, the dark and sharp silhouette of the Tower of Hours stood alone in the mist, as if it were a gigantic sentinel looking at the gelid sea of fog. Outside, three burly porters hastened to carry his chests and wallets a and place them inside the carriage; the breath that came out of their lips became waves of steam in the cold winter breeze.

“I see you very quite: You must be very nervous” Mr. Arnessen suggested, making him face him again, “Anyone else would associate his anguish with the trip that awaits him, but I would say that, rather, it is related to Artur Kepler's niece. What was the lady's name...?”

The question was intentional and, like a fool, Gabriel answered it, and his pupils were filled with a painful longing: “Clara... Her name is Clara.”

Mr. Arnessen nodded.

“I have given you advice many times, Mr. Corcilius, but the one I offer you today will not be about finances” the man serenely said.

“Say it, then.”

“Miss Kepler is undoubtedly a charming woman, and I am sure she holds her in high esteem” he began, “But what you have seen in it has already been seen by other men, with juicier incomes and longer titles. If you delay in courting her, perhaps because of shyness, perhaps because of indecision... I'm very afraid that her uncle will make the necessary arrangements for her to marry another.”

Those words weighed like a sentence on Gabriel, who, after throwing an anxious look outside, where the porters had already placed the last package in the horse carriage, he rushed on the table to write a few last words in the letter and hand it to Mr. Arnessen as if he were wielding a sword.

If I could deliver this to Miss Kepler, please…”

Despite the calm of his advisor's face, Gabriel thought he saw the shadow of a satisfied smile under his moustache.

I went to the sadly last edition of an outdoor small steampunk and fantasy themed gathering and sadly my camera's battery died quickly so I mostly have bad phone quality pics woops

an updated version of my OTT steampunk look from 2012 !!

made : wig, mask, choker, brown skirt