The room was silent, save for the whirring and clicking of the many sewing and
threading machines.  A figured hunched over one in particular, obsessing over
her most recent creation.  It was almost done, and she was to ensure it came
out exactly as requested.  As always.

With a sigh, the last stitch was completed and expertly tied off.  The Grand
Seamstress, as she was known, was not one for celebratory remarks, though if
she were, she may well have made one at this point.  Instead, she lifted the
garment off of the machine and began to run her fingers over it, examining for
any possible imperfections that would ruin the overall outfit.  None.  It was
immaculate in every way.  She was certain this would please her client.

Divesting herself from her work, the Seamstress adjusted her blindfold to a
more comfortable position.  She had not dared do so earlier for fear of
breaking her concentration.  That done, she stood and quickly located one of
her guiding threads.  This thread in particular was the one that lead to the
living area of her hive, where she would seal the newly minted outfit in a
protective sheet, until such a time when her client would return to examine
it.

Her skill was not widely known, but those that knew admired her craftsmanship,
and largely respected her desire to keep her reputation low-key.  Being blind
and deaf while only being a redblood was not generally something someone would
want advertised.  As long as she made herself useful to her clients, she could
be relatively assured of her continued survival.

Her footsteps echoed hollowly through the empty hallway as she made her way to
her living quarters.  Her hive existed in perpetual darkness, but she had
learned to live with it.  Being blind will do that, after all.  In all
honesty, she was somewhat thankful for the loss of her sight, as it allowed
her to no longer be hindered by sight, and finally excel at her craft.

This outfit was of particular import, as it was requested by the Celestic
Surveyor herself, a well known blueblooded noble.  It shimmered and sparkled
like the stars themselves, just as described.  Although she could not see it,
per se, she had an intuitive grasp of its appearance, envisioning it vividly
in her mind's eye.

Her high-profile clients were the reason she had such an expansive hive for a mere redblood.  That, and a very...industrious fellow redblood who she sometimes thought worked himself a bit too hard sometimes.  Her offers that he rest were rebuffed frequently, with the reasoning that if he did not do it now, it would remain unfinished until he began work on it again.  This, to Workman Nottired, was simply an unacceptable state of affairs.  An unfinished project was an atrocity that must be remedied, and to take even a small break was to give in to incompleteness.  The Seamstress quickly learned not to press the issue, but she still occasionally offered, just in case.

Once she reached her respiteblock, she became aware of the presence of her Lusus, a powerful breed of spider, and the one who first taught her to navigate the hive using thread.  Without hesitation, the massive arachnid led her to a freshly spun casing for the new garment, where it could remain in its immaculate condition for the Suveyor's arrival.  It must be perfect.  Mistakes cannot and will not be tolerated.

It is always these periods that she hates.  The dead space between comissions.  The Seamstress was a creature that lived to allow her thread to blossom, to flourish into their ideal forms.  She directed the thread, but was in turn also guided by it.  To shape and in turn be shaped.  Such was her destiny, one that she accepted without complaint, never faltering or stumbling.

Perhaps, she mused, there was another creation to be forged, for indeed she felt a void, not unlike those she felt just prior to receiving a new request.  She knew that soon, that void would be filled, and she would again be put to work for her glorious craft.  All she had to do now, was wait.

---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---

Fleetmistress Razeclaw stood imperiously at the helm of her flagship.  The thrum of energy and humming machinery flowed throughout the inner confines of the bridge.  Royal drones carried out many of the ship maintaining activities requisite for a craft of this magnitude, and its job was important indeed.  Razeclaw was tasked with the consistent deployment and retrieval of imperial drones, for the collection of genetic material to be delivered to the Mother Grub.  To be honest, she quite enjoyed her job, even if the uniform was scratchy and ill-fitting.  Trolls as a rule do not much care for fashion, but the Fleetmistress felt she could make an exception in this case.

She had been meaning to get one what was more befitting of her importance for some time now, but her business (and pleasure, of course) had always come first.  Her idle searches previously had never met with much success, but she believed she may possibly be on to something this time.  A Seamstress that was rumored to create outfits that were not only spectacular to view, but also incredibly functional.  These rumors were largely conjecture and anecdotal, but if the outfits she had seen as evidence were really made by one troll, it was worth taking that bit of effort to determine the validity of those claims.  If this seamstress really did exist, the fleetmistress was sure she could convince her to make a new outfit, one that properly represented her stature and poise.  A fleetmistress can be very convincing.

She glanced down at a series of charts and maps she had splayed out over her table.  It illustrated her plan to be dropped off at the general area of where she believed the Seamstress, if she existed, lived.  She would leave the ship on its set path, and schedule it to return before it could fuck up too badly without her careful guidance.  Capable though those machines were, geniuses they were not.  Leaving them in charge of the ship was not particularly risky for short periods, however, and she could still give remote commands.  Every once in a while she thought about what she was planning and thought this seemed like maybe a lot of work to go through just for a new outfit.  But then she would think that maybe her and this Seamstress could have some..."fun" along the way, and suddenly the venture seemed viable all over again.

She stalked down one of the labyrinthine corridors of the ship, until she reached the hangar that contained one of many detachable dropships, mostly used to transport drones to and from the main ship.

---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---

Pilferer Halfluck was having a good day.  Though she was always in a relatively good mood after a successful heist, this one in particular had netted quite the haul.  The fact the plan conveniently did not fully detail escape routes for her accomplices probably factored into this.  She could never have managed such an ambitious burglary alone, but Halfluck was not really one for sharing.  Once she had her hands on the loot, her accomplices now served a more useful purpose as decoys and scapegoats.  And they succeeded with flying colours, she thought with a broad grin on her face.  The Subjugglators would be feeling this one for quite a while.

It took a particularly brave or foolhardy thief to try to shakedown the home of a subjugglator, but the difficulty nosedived when you had a capable team on your side.  One you weren't afraid to sacrifice at your earliest convenience, anyways.  As she walked through the halls of her hive, she regarded her spoils with fondness, as they lined just about every open space.  The one thing they all had in common was their sheen, for they had an unnatural gleam to them.  Halfluck had a bit of an obsession with shiny things.  or, schchiny things, as she pronounced it.

---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---	---

Razeclaw was tired.  She was tired of climbing, tired of this stupid cliff, but she was especially tired of having to work in her scratchy uniform.  This had better be goddamn worth the effort.  With a gasp of effort, she hauled herself up onto the moderately sized terrace in front of a cast iron door.  She took a second to compose herself, then with strength born of extreme frustration, leveled a powerful kick at the door, ignoring the pain this caused.

She crossed her arms and waited impatiently, her foot tapping a pattern into the ground.  After several seconds had passed, a small panel slid open, revealing a barely visible mouth.  In a monotone voice, it said "Can I help you."

"Yeah.  Are you the Grand Seamstress?"  Razeclaw was in no mood to dance around the subject.  If she wasn't it, she had so many better things to be doing.

"I have been called that, on occasion.  It was not a name of my own devising." The voice returned.

"Well, is it the name you respond to?" Razeclaw huffed impatiently.  She had a feeling that every wasted second was a chance for her idiot drone crew to ruin her entire ship.

"It has been for quite a while."

"Then you are the one I've been looking for, the one who makes the clothes?"  Razeclaw said, relief evident in her voice, as well as a hint of raw anticipation.  "The clothes with the highest quality that most trolls have ever seen?"

"I have been known to craft high quality garments for those who request it, yes.  All I ask in return is that you do not spread my whereabouts and identity.  I prefer my privacy."

"Is that it?" Razeclaw said, stroking her chin thoughtfully.  "That seems way too easy a price to pay"

"I work for the satisfaction of creating.  Admittedly I do have several benefactors that help me to sustain my craft.  But you may pay if that would make you feel more at home."  The voice returned easily.

The door opened, and Razeclaw could make out a shadowy figure standing in the near pitch blackness of the interior of her hive.  Were it not for the meager light present outside the door, she might not be able to see her at all.  "Well," Razeclaw began, "I will have you know that I am *the* Fleetmistress Razeclaw.  So I might pay you, but not in caegars."  this last statement was punctuated with an almost predatory grin, but honestly she wondered if the Seamstress could even see it in the darkness.  "But we can discuss that later!  I would like to request the creation of a new uniform, one more befitting of my stature."

A pair of hands exited the shadows, and began tracing their way over Razeclaw's uniform.  The Fleetmistress was briefly startled, but caught herself before making any movements.  Was that how she worked in the dark?  seeing through touch?  That wasn't possible, was it?  Once the hands had completed their inspection, the voice came again, this time tinged with a hint of professional distaste.  "You have been working in....that."