So it turns out that there are shops in Trench that sell full-head masks that are not, it turns out, specifically intended for kinky sex, but rather intended to satisfy the most hardline Practical Citizen in their demands for clothing and accessories that not only will keep any of their blood from being spilled, but even prevent the uncontrolled loss of skin cells, lest some Beast or other (possibly an ex-lover...?) track them down.
It is, however, not apparently The Season for such masks; when he finds a shop that has them, he's informed (with the greatest regrets) that they only have a handful in stock at the moment; would he like to place an order for something bespoke? Perhaps looking at the small selection available will help clarify his desires?
He looks; most of them are... exactly as appallingly unbearable as expected, dehumanizing in a profoundly unpleasant way; there's one, though, that looks enough like a fencer's mask that his fingers itch for it. It's when he picks it up (and sees that it's full-face, but not full-head-covering), that he sees —
He's not sure, actually, if it's meant to be a Plague Doctor mask (and he has seen people wearing those, around Trench, whether bearing ravens like a falconer might or otherwise), but it's similar enough to make him think of them; it also reminds him of an owl, or a —
SHRIKE, says the label on the tag, and he's already made his purchase before he realizes he's dropped the fencer's mask back on the pile.
The end result doesn't look a thing like Augustine himself — but at least he can keep walking around town without anyone's attention picking him out of the crowd as anything remarkable, especially when there are so many more-Beast-like people picking their way through the crowds with profound care, trying not to get killed. (It's something to do with being May, and Bausphomette's beliefs, is the best he can gather.)
The fact he doesn't look like himself — and isn't at all sure he wants to explain the mask — means he's keeping quieter than usual on his walk, even if he's automatically following his usual path, nodding to the shopkeepers and acquaintances he usually sees — and feeling his heart, or gut, or emotional-state-in-general give a little lurch each time someone he knows shows no sign of knowing him, their gazes skipping right past him.
He rolls a cigarette, goes to light it, and — realizes the mask doesn't actually have a gap over his mouth, that might allow him to drink (through a straw or otherwise) or smoke, just the little beak.
"Fuck," he mutters sharply, staring down at the now-useless cigarette, and wants to kick something.
pay no attention to the man behind the mask
It is, however, not apparently The Season for such masks; when he finds a shop that has them, he's informed (with the greatest regrets) that they only have a handful in stock at the moment; would he like to place an order for something bespoke? Perhaps looking at the small selection available will help clarify his desires?
He looks; most of them are... exactly as appallingly unbearable as expected, dehumanizing in a profoundly unpleasant way; there's one, though, that looks enough like a fencer's mask that his fingers itch for it. It's when he picks it up (and sees that it's full-face, but not full-head-covering), that he sees —
He's not sure, actually, if it's meant to be a Plague Doctor mask (and he has seen people wearing those, around Trench, whether bearing ravens like a falconer might or otherwise), but it's similar enough to make him think of them; it also reminds him of an owl, or a —
SHRIKE, says the label on the tag, and he's already made his purchase before he realizes he's dropped the fencer's mask back on the pile.
The end result doesn't look a thing like Augustine himself — but at least he can keep walking around town without anyone's attention picking him out of the crowd as anything remarkable, especially when there are so many more-Beast-like people picking their way through the crowds with profound care, trying not to get killed. (It's something to do with being May, and Bausphomette's beliefs, is the best he can gather.)
The fact he doesn't look like himself — and isn't at all sure he wants to explain the mask — means he's keeping quieter than usual on his walk, even if he's automatically following his usual path, nodding to the shopkeepers and acquaintances he usually sees — and feeling his heart, or gut, or emotional-state-in-general give a little lurch each time someone he knows shows no sign of knowing him, their gazes skipping right past him.
He rolls a cigarette, goes to light it, and — realizes the mask doesn't actually have a gap over his mouth, that might allow him to drink (through a straw or otherwise) or smoke, just the little beak.
"Fuck," he mutters sharply, staring down at the now-useless cigarette, and wants to kick something.