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Monday, September 19, 2016

Wash Line Monday! #MondayBlogs

Our Monday meme shines a light on apparel. From Viking to Regency to Steampunk and every era we write in, we dress our characters to reflect the story we want to tell.

In comments, and in 300 words or less, give us a snippet from your novel that describes what your heroes, heroines, or bit players are wearing. Don't forget your buy link and website/blog link. Have fun!

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Dressing our Characters on Exquisite Quills Wash Line Monday!   


Lorna Peel said...

Closing the bedroom door, she saw Heaton crossing the stable yard. It was the first time she had seen him dressed in anything but a suit and she stopped and stared. He was wearing a brown wax jacket with a bottle green jumper underneath, khaki combat-style trousers similar to her own and brown walking boots. She sighed and shook her head. It looked as though he was one of those men who looked fabulous in everything they wore. She reached for her mobile phone, pulled on a waterproof jacket, and grabbed her car keys before going downstairs to join him.

New Blood by Lorna Peel

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Toni V.S. said...

From THREE MOON STATION, by Icy Snow Blackstone, published by Class Act Books:

Katy turned her attention to the other man. He was a little taller but just as wide-shouldered and slim as his friend. Not thin, because there was something about the way each man moved that suggested tight, well-conditioned muscles, each
one’s slenderness the result of having no excess fat on his body.


Katy felt her face get hot. Why did I think that?

She couldn’t see his face. The brim of his hat was resting low on his forehead, only part of his nose and his mouth visible.

There was a little crease, not quite a dimple, in one cheek that became deeper when he smiled as he was doing now, breaking into outright laughter at something the blond man said. He was dressed like the others, in shirt, jeans, and boots covered by gaiters to protect them while riding in the brush. A long black trail coat covered everything. His right hand rested negligently against his belt buckle. From a
leather thong wrapped around his wrist hung a foot-long braided quirt with a small shock bar embedded in the end of the shaft.

As he shifted his weight slightly, the coat parted,revealing a short-barreled Winchester DT3 laser pistol strapped to his right leg.

Someone coming down the street called out and he
turned and looked toward the speaker. His hair hung down his back in a loose braid which swung against the black duster as he spun around. It was a fiery copper, even
brighter than Katy’s own.

She saw something else. Two tiny turquoises set into the lobe of his left ear. She glanced toward the blond man again. He, too, wore an ear ornament but it was simpler, a small gold ring.

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Toni V.S. said...

EXCERPT from The Rose and the Dragon from Class Act Books:

Miranda shrank back, one hand to her mouth. The other drew her bathrobe tighter around her as she stared at the intruder.

He was beautiful, that was the only word to use. Like a statue. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen. At least as tall as Dominic Andrus, with dark hair clipped back in a mass of curls hanging between his shoulder blades, and, Miranda’s heart gave a frightened thump-thump-thump, he was wearing dark glasses. In the middle of the night, inside an apartment building, he’s wearing sunglasses.

He was dressed in what appeared to be a black jumpsuit and he looked perfect, the only flaw marring that handsome face was a little scar following the curve of his left cheek. Three small gold rings dangled from his left ear. Abruptly, she saw something else. He was armed, with a holster and gun similar to Niki’s.

He reached up and took off the glasses. Miranda exhaled sharply, preparing to scream. But the eyes behind the lenses weren’t white, as she feared. They were the same cat’s-green as Dominic’s.

“I didn’t think anyone was stupid enough to fall for that old trick.” He softened his words with a perfect Andrus smile.

Miranda didn’t answer, just stared at him.

“I’m Kitten,” he began and, as before, Miranda started to laugh, even as she heard the slight lilt of hysteria in the sound.

If anyone looked less like a kitten, it was this man. A panther maybe, stalking his prey…but a kitten? Nope. Kittens were cute and soft and cuddly and harmless.

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Tony-Paul de Vissage said...

From SHADOW LIEGE, Book 9 of the Second Species series, published by Class Act Books:

Mircea's smile seemed to hold a cruel pleasure at Ciprian’s imagined discomfort, as if he envisioned and enjoyed the thought. Placing his feet on a hassock, he crossed his ridingbooted ankles and leaned back.

Both he and Ciprian were dressed in the fashion of the times, news of what Europeans were wearing being brought back by those venturing into the Outside. Though Mircea’s
tastes weren’t as extravagant as his friend’s, he was dressed no less elaborately, with braid at cuffs and a thick lace collar folded back over his shoulders. No neck-ruff for Mircea Ravagiu.

On the other hand, Ciprian was attired in justaucorps, braided and beribboned. His shoes, not simply gold-buckled as Mircea’s riding boots, were tied with shoe roses in huge bows. While Mircea’s heels were relatively low, Ciprian’s were built up so he towered over his friend, though they were actually the same height. Both wore rhinegraves, but not full enough to be called petticoat breeches.

That, Mircea felt, was going too far. He liked his clothing utilitarian…easy to get on as well as off, as when he liberated his wings or freed his rod for pronging a female.

That’s why he preferred a cassock coat. He also thought it a good jest to wear a shortened version of the garment worn by a deomi priest since he was nothing like that sanctified individual.

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DeAnna Cameron said...

Excerpt from THE GIRL ON THE MIDWAY STAGE: A Novel of Love, Ambition, and Scandal at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair (The Dancer Chronicles, Book 1)

These performers were known by so many names: belly dancers, muscle dancers, posture dancers, dancing girls. Dora had seen them in newspaper etchings alongside stories about the shows, but the images hardly captured the exotic women in front of her.

The one who spoke couldn’t have been older than Dora’s own twenty years. She was outfitted in a short crimson vest that stretched taut across her bosom and left her abdomen uncovered, except by a blouse that fit as snug as a stocking and exposed her collarbone and too much of her upper limbs. She clearly wore no corset, which alone could cause a scandal. Her skirt lacked proper length, revealing far more of her bow-tipped slippers than the rules of modesty should allow.
The other adornments—a belt of tassel-tipped ribbons dangling to her knees, a profusion of beads and stringed coins roped about her chest, coils of metal bracelets wrapped around her wrists, even the loose dark hair hanging down her back—hardly concealed any more of her form.

The other dancers wore similar costumes of varying colors—cobalt, marigold, persimmon, and plum. And like Mr. Farouk, this little dancer spoke English with an accent that gave her speech a rhythm nearly as exotic as their desert music.

Mrs. Richmond jutted her chin. “If it is convenient.”

The dancer shrugged.

Dora gaped. These dancers surely had no idea who the Lady Managers were.

“We won’t keep you long, Miss...” Mrs. Richmond said. A swollen blood vessel cut an angry path along her temple.

“My name is Amina Mahomet,” the dancer replied.

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