On a recent trip off Caledon to throw away my money on pretty useful pretty things, I staggered into Bare Rose and was almost immediately struck in the face by a fluffy neko tail and in the heart by the Dhampir Rider... costume (is the only word.) It comes with a pair of breeches and a jaunty waist sash which will absolutely be making an appearance at an upcoming dance. It also comes with a passamenterie-adorned jacket which, I delightedly realized, could be combined with the horridly-made skirt I created for the Reconciliation Day Ball, tinted to a deep mocha brown, and paired with my Huguenot cross for a moderately irreverent highlighting of the decollete. As so:

Perfect, I have found, for those tedious waits by yon bonnie banks and/or braes when, after having taken exceeding care to follow the high road to its conclusion as specifically directed, one discovers that one has been most rudely stood up by one's true love, who is probably, at that very moment, desecrating some other shady glen with that blowsy tramp Ailsa Kerr whose penchant for Englishmen is common talk from here to Ben Hope.

(Wi' apologies to Lady Scott or whomever actually did write the thing, and to my ancestors. But not to the English.)