About four years ago, Aurelia bombed the fashion scene with her evocative vision, a signature of theatrical styling and almost obsessive attention to tailoring and fit. Her fascination with history and mythology infused beauty and romance into her work, and she was undoubtedly talented. A venerated Milanese brand snapped her up as a tailoring assistant. What they gained was a narrative designer, a story-spinner, an imaginative and romantic genius blessed to transform shows into dramatic performances. Sheer spectacles challenging the status quo are her stock in trade. Fashion watchers snapped their heads sideways when young celebrities started appearing in Milan and Paris in rigorously cut coats and elaborate, fanciful gowns. Then came a certain starlet in a showstopper masterpiece on a red carpet, uttering Aurelia's name, which shot her to prominence on the forefront of emerging couturiers.
Her ascendancy wasn't without faults. She locked herself away in her studio to work like a fiend, re-emerging for wild binges and endless parties on the arms of models and tastemakers, firmly ensconced in a constellation of stars as known for their heroin addictions as their boundless creative talent. Having a rock star boyfriend certainly helped. She was firmly established among a set of rebellious "pretty people", and had the devil's own luck to avoid any scrapes. No one denies Aurelia's consummate skill in her chosen craft, but her reputation as an enfant terrible isn't unfounded. She lives to distort the rules and bend them for an epic spectacle, disregarding fashion conventions. Such is why she brings her visionary style to Fallcoast, a city utterly dwarfed by fashion capitals of London, Paris, Milan.
A few months into 2015, she locked herself up again to crystallize what is widely rumoured to be her most ambitious collection yet. The doors closed on all her high society friends and her usually bubbling social media channels went silent. The girl who worshipped a camera vanished from the lens. She stopped appearing in regular events, even skipping Fashion Week, considered a serious misstep for any rising star. She might have been forgotten but for one act. Radio silence ended with a photograph of an exquisite coat flying from a thin sword stabbed into a rock. Excitement started to build again. What's she up to?
Dark hair pulled back from her memorable face forms a romantic knot at her nape, the loose tendrils pulled out to curl in abandon over her pierced ears and smooth brow. Tints of red and copper submerge in the messily gathered locks. Dramatic copper shadow smokes out under her arched brows and around tilted, expressive hazel eyes that by tricks of the light gleam greenish-gold or warm honey. Her angular features together are arresting, memorable for their youthful balance. The young woman is somewhere in her early twenties, by a generous estimate, and blessed by a clear, English rose complexion. Though tall, her willowy figure lacks for strong muscular definition, almost ethereal when held up against the average soul. But the fires within hollow out their pristine vessel, and energetically illuminate every movement and restless bounce.
Time in Arcadia has done no favours to a tall woman modeled in a slightly larger than life scale. She crests a span over six feet tall, exquisite in her physical symmetry and somehow disproportionate by a shade in the length of her toned legs, the smooth articulation of her slightest gesture. Through movements whispers a sort of airy grace, absent of effort and unobstructed by restraint.
Something emerged from a dream of Outremer, her likeness might be preserved in some jeweled Byzantine chronicle or the painstakingly illuminated Book of Hours saved for a noblewoman. Parallels derive from the gemstone hues of her. A robe of lapis lazuli blue silk overlaid with silver net hangs from her shoulders, pinned in place by ornate pins worked into radiating sprays suggestive of stars. Flecked surfaces and grooved wires throw a thousand points of light in dizzying coronas around her. She goes unshod, bare ankles encircled by iridescent glass chains from which tiny sparks sway and glitter. Her hair, such as she has any, is caught beneath a solid veil pinned in place around the sculpted contour of her face. Woven from the finest of silver mesh, the veil glitters in the sun and clear glass beads caught on cobweb threads flash in the light. Thin and upturned, a crescent moon marks her brow and a string of stars circle her head in a wide halo. A full silver volto mask covers her face in a placid, serene oval with wide-set eyeholes inset by sapphires.
Shimmering metal foil overlaps in a complicated cloak wrapping around her shoulders and plunging down her arms, adding adornment to a defensive quality awash in a drowned light of the highest latitude. A cloak beneath it hangs loose, rippling to the ground in blue-black waves, and echoes the crushed hue of the night.