The room was filled with the quiet hum of magic and the scent of old paper, spilled into the air like the perfume of forgotten worlds. Dust motes, gilded by the light of magical spheres, danced in time with the unhurried movements of Lololowka, who, having taken a step back, tilted his head to the side, studying his creation. His own dark violet cloak lay in serene folds on the back of a chair, his blue checkered scarf neatly coiled beside it, granting all attention to the main character of this quiet performance.

Egrassel stood in the middle of the room, like a statue carved of moonlight, caught in a moment of eternal grace. The new suit, born from his friend's fantasy and needle, clung to his tall, slender frame with almost unheard-of audacity. The fabric, deep as the night sky between worlds and just as supple, followed every curve, every line of his elven physique—the narrow hips, the long, muscular legs, the flat stomach. The sleeves, tight around his forearms, accentuated their slender yet undeniable strength.

Egrassel took a deep breath, running a hand over his face. “Oh,I see. You aspire for the mobility of my limbs to cease entirely, so that I may become a living monument to your design genius? Or,” he feigned thought, raising an eyebrow. “do you have another, more personal reason for wishing me to be laced up so… expressively in here?”