matters sartorial

Stupidest hats in Bloodborne: a definitive inventory

#1: Gold Ardeo. Beyond being merely stupid, this hat is an insult to the concept of the Executioners, who are in all other ways immensely badass and super aesthetic (if, you know, awful, like most or all Bloodborne characters). Their robes are super pretty in their details while also giving that church military vibe, and then when it comes to headgear suddenly it’s traffic cone/die-cast Klansman territory. If that weren’t enough, there literally is no way to see in this hat, which is a theme we find frequently in Bloodborne, but not in connection with the Executioners, who as physical military types really ought to want to see what they’re doing. But honestly, my grudge against this headwear is personal. I really kind of want to cosplay blood&guts Alfred, much more of an experience than just doing the original version, but to do that I would have to make and wear this hat. And that is something that I just cannot contemplate, no matter what other sartorial atrocities I might have to my name.

#2: Master’s Iron Helm. Look, it’s no surprise the League isn’t operating on a super high budget. They’re a bunch of randos who seem to mostly live in the not-so-Forbidden-as-they-claim-but-still-technically-Forbidden Woods, and their obsession with improving humanity seems to run directly orthogonal to everyone else’s obsession with improving humanity, rendering them understandably unpopular. Besides, there’s not a lot of funding left to go around in Yharnam after the secret laboratories and the corpse collectors are accounted for. But. This is a bucket. It is a straight-up bucket, and one in poor enough condition that a Cathedral Ward janitor’s office would have just thrown it out and billed Amelia for a new one. Valtr, my buddy, please: in a world where your enemies bypass armor and rip your head straight off, consider the PR and spend your last few shining coins on a snazzy cap.

#3: Mensis Cage. I’ll tell you, here at the School of Mensis, we hate to come in third. But sometimes you have to come in third in silly hats…to come in first in human evolution. Look, as stupid as the cage looks - which assuredly is extremely stupid - at least you can see out of it, which among this selection is a luxury indeed. And it does tie in pretty well with the whole lunatics strap themselves to chairs to await their horrific death in a ritual the real meaning of which no one understands #aesthetic. And who knows? Once we’ve all ascended, maybe the inferior masses of humanity that remain behind will take on the cage as their newest fashion trend, in hopes of joining us in such rarefied heights of glory. But still…think of all that funding I mentioned earlier. Sure, it’s well spent on decorating Yahar’gul with statues of Amygdala and paying the salaries of a small army of kidnappers, but surely among all that just a little could have been spared on giving the antenna to the gods a bit more streamlined a design. Because quite honestly, it gets a little hard to focus on abandoning your mortal self in search of a higher communion when you’re mostly just trying not to bash your head on a doorway.

Honorable mention: Blindfold Cap. In contrast to every other item on this list, the blindfold cap is honestly pretty cool looking. In conjunction with the heavily embroidered Choir set, it speaks to effort spent more on style than on true pursuit of higher learning - excuse me, I mean to a well-developed sense of aesthetics to complement a concerted academic focus. But people, it is a blindfold. We’re not stupid. We know you haven’t managed to develop eyes. And even if you had, those are eyes on the inside we’re talking about. They’re not going to do any good for profane matters like tripping over your fancy-dress hems. But if you want to keep going on about Master Willem and his contribution to the human project, by all means, be our guests. Just remember that he’s not the one who has to see where he’s going.

[in response to, “You always interpret the masculine – the classic masculine dressing with the feminine and the drama.”]

“For me, it’s about redefining ‘sexy’ and redefining what a woman can wear and showing people things that maybe they didn’t know would work and being that model for them. I think that’s important, that young girls see that and say, 'you know, I can come and be unique and be who I am and not feel any pressure from anybody else.’”

— Janelle Monáe (x) (x)

lollard  asked:

WAIT I GOT ONE, collingwood supporters reminds me, captive prince miss fisher au!!!!!

“What’s the issue, Constable?”

“He–I told him it was a crime scene, Inspector.”

Damen, using his handkerchief on the doorknob, pushed the bathroom door fully open. The blond young man standing at the sink, fiddling with his cuffs, did not seem overly concerned that he was sharing his primping space with the body of the late Richard Lyle. He did not seem overly concerned with anything. Damen’s breath still stopped in his throat, for an inconvenient moment, when the head lifted and the brilliant gaze met his in the mirror. Christ. He was like something from a Christmas card; or the pages of a magazine, more like, given the pale trousers and the rich blue waistcoat, every fold perfect, every garment probably costing more than Damen’s monthly wage.

“Sir,” said Damen. “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

“Ah,” said this person. “You would be the Inspector Akielos with whose presence I have been threatened.”

“That’s right,” Damen said pleasantly. “Might I have your name, then?”

“Laurent, Lord de Vere.”

Damen took pity on Pallas and dismissed him with a wave. He would have been within his rights to resort to force in the form of a firm grip on the arm, at this point. Instead he leaned against the door, watching Laurent, Lord de Vere, turn on the tap and run one of his shirtsleeves under the stream. The water in the basin ran dark red.

“Washing the blood off?” Damen enquired.

Somewhat to his surprise, that won him neither defensiveness nor a snapping admonition. Rather, a flash of an amused look. “Clumsy oaf of a butler spilled some wine on it. I wasn’t about to leave it to stain.” The accent wasn’t French, but it was so upper-class as to be almost indistinguishable from British.

“Have you been in Melbourne long, Lord de Vere?”

“Stepped off the boat two days ago, Inspector,” was the calm reply. “I spent most of the war in Paris, but my family’s here. Or what’s left of it. Dickie’s a friend of my uncle’s; I just dropped by to tell him I’d arrived in the country. Terrible business.”

Damen had been a policeman for long enough to be wary of information freely offered. He watched the polished toe of Laurent’s shoe, in his peripheral vision, but it strayed nowhere near the corpse.

“And what were you doing, in Paris, during the war?”

“This and that,” said Laurent vaguely.

Probably availing himself of black market brandy and complaining to the authorities when the clubs were closed, Damen thought uncharitably. He saw no need to share his own war experiences with this entitled dandy of an aristocrat, even if he could already tell he would be having dreams about those full lips and the pale, nimble fingers now twisting the tap back to neutral.

“No matter your sartorial emergency, Lord de Vere, this is still the scene of a potential homicide.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a homicide,” said Laurent, careless. “But this isn’t the scene of it; the body was quite obviously moved here after death. And after someone removed both of his rings. If that helps hurry things along at all, Inspector.”

He shook his cuff briskly over the sink and turned around, that insolent blue gaze meeting Damen’s fully and head-on for the first time. Go on, that gaze challenged. Ask me how I know.

Damen bit the inside of his cheek. He was not charmed. He was not intrigued. He was–

Oh, to hell with it.

“Fine,” he said. “Show me what you found.”

I bet the air in the Egerton-Thomas household was blue that day. “Twelve….thirteen….FOURTEEN, Doreen! Fourteen breaks in that crease! In front of Her Majesty, Doreen! GET MY PEN, DOREEN!”