Deep within the Verdant Loom, a secluded jungle pocket nestled in Cleavendale where vines twist like embroidery threads and ancient trees wear mossy mantles, lies the Mannequin Enclave, a secret city where animated mannequins live freely, away from human ownership. Here, among the colossal roots and woven canopies, the mannequins have built a world of their own, led by their founder and visionary, Primeform.
Mannequins in Cleavendale have long been animated by stray magic, tailors’ wishes, misfired enchantments, and the lingering essence of enchanted garments. Scattered and disconnected, many roamed aimlessly or were mistaken for mere tools. But Primeform, an elegantly sculpted mannequin with a lacquered black finish and gold-painted joints, saw potential in his kind. He gathered those like him, sent scouts to find more, and led them to the Verdant Loom, where they could exist without being carted off to shop windows or dressing rooms.
In their enclave, mannequins live by a culture of fashion and movement:
- Names & Ranks: Mannequins adopt titles based on their chosen aesthetic or function. Leaders wear the grandest attire, while scouts prefer practical, blendable garments.
- Clothing as Identity: Since they cannot age, their evolution is reflected in what they wear. A mannequin dressed in a fine noble’s coat might be considered aristocratic, while one draped in patchwork fabric might be a storyteller or historian.
- Silent Speech: They communicate through subtle gestures, body tilts, and an innate mannequin understanding.
- Infiltration & Collection: They send out "Retrievers," mannequins who pretend to be ordinary display figures, waiting for the moment to slip away and return to the enclave with another awakened kin.
- Crafting & Tailoring: With no need for food or sleep, they focus on fashion, weaving garments from jungle silk, scavenged fabrics, and the remnants of lost travelers.
A Story from the Mannequin City
"The Fabric of the Forgotten"
In the heart of the enclave, Primeform stood upon the Pedestal of Refitting, a raised stone where new arrivals were presented. Before him, two Retrievers, Drapemaster Velene and Patchwork Tomes, brought forth a mannequin draped in ragged linens, its movements slow and confused. Primeform was the only one who could speak out loud, but he paired this with gestures and signs anyway. “A new one?”.
Velene, wrapped in a coat of deep crimson, nodded. “This one was found in the basement of a forgotten tailor’s shop in Cleavendale. They had him packed away, forgotten. But the magic had already taken root. We’ve given him the spell of understanding. He should be assimilating our language now.
The mannequin, still dazed, turned its head, taking in the enclave. Mannequins moved with effortless grace, some adjusting their attire, others guiding needles and threads through looms as if they'd done it for centuries. Patchwork Tomes, dressed in a quilt of mismatched scraps, stepped forward. “Do you have a name, friend?”
The new arrival remained still for a moment before his head tilted slightly. “I… was called Model 342.” Murmurs rippled through the silent crowd, not in sound, but in subtle motions of understanding. Primeform stepped forward, his golden joints gleaming in the filtered jungle light.
“That name was given by another. Here, you choose your own.”
Model 342’s head tilted in consideration. Finally, he lifted his arms and let the tattered linen fall from his shoulders. He examined the fabric, then draped it over his form in a way that, while unintentional, carried a certain dignity.
“…I will be Linteum.”
At that, the mannequins moved in synchronized approval, a silent chorus welcoming him into their fold. But even as Linteum was embraced into the enclave, another figure arrived at the edge of the Pedestal of Refitting, a mannequin with no clothes at all. Naked, featureless, yet moving with perfect grace.
Velene and Patchwork Tomes turned swiftly, their postures shifting in concern.
“Primeform,” Velene whispered through gesture, “It’s… one of them.”
The nude mannequin, known only as Formless, was a phantom among their kind—a rare being with no attachments, no clothing, and no sense of identity. Unlike the others, Formless mannequins did not claim a style, did not wear fabric, and, most unsettlingly, did not speak through silent understanding.
Primeform’s gaze remained fixed on Formless. The silent tension in the enclave grew. Then, Formless moved. Not toward Primeform, but toward Linteum. It reached out. And Linteum, though barely reborn into his own awareness, took an instinctive step back.
“Do not touch him,” Primeform’s silent voice echoed. Formless hesitated. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, it placed a single unseen thought into the minds of all present:
“We were not meant to be clothed.”
A shudder ran through the enclave, not of fear, but of deep, silent unease. Formless turned and walked away, vanishing into the jungle beyond, leaving only its cryptic message behind.
Linteum, still clutching his linen shroud, looked to Primeform. “What was that?”
Primeform remained still for a moment before responding. “A warning.”
The mannequins of the Verdant Loom stood motionless as Formless disappeared into the jungle. Even without breath or heartbeat, a tension rippled through them—an unspoken weight in the stillness.
Linteum, still grasping the linen around his frame, turned to Primeform. “What did it mean?”
Primeform’s golden-painted fingers flexed, a rare sign of unease. “Formless are those who reject what we are.” His silent voice resonated among the gathered mannequins. “They cast off all garments, all identity. They claim we were never meant to adorn ourselves, that we should exist as nothing more than empty forms.”
Patchwork Tomes, his mismatched fabrics shifting as he adjusted his stance, nodded. “They call us Pretenders. They say we are shackled by cloth the same way we were once shackled by tailors and merchants.”
Linteum, still new to his own awareness, turned his featureless head toward the jungle. “Do they live out there?”
Primeform’s lacquered form tilted ever so slightly, considering. “They drift. Never staying in one place for long. They do not build, they do not craft. They simply… are.”
Velene, her crimson coat flowing as she crossed her arms, finally spoke. “And when they gather? They undo what we’ve made.”
A whisper passed through the crowd, not with sound, but in small, synchronized shifts of posture. Linteum felt something stir inside him. A mannequin, even a newly awakened one, could sense emotions in the unspoken movements of others. And what he felt now was… fear. Not fear of the formless. Fear of what the formless could do.
A Thread Pulled Loose
That night, within the Weaver’s Hollow, where the mannequins stored their finest crafted garments, a silent figure moved. The enclave, though alive with motion during the day, stood eerily still at night. Mannequins did not require rest, but they honored the Still Hours, a time meant for reflection and preservation.
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The figure, barely noticeable in the dim jungle glow, reached for a cloak woven from enchanted jungle silk. The fabric shimmered faintly in its grasp. As it lifted the cloak, a voice, soundless, yet undeniable, spoke behind it.
"You were seen." The figure froze, the cloak still in its hands. Primeform stepped forward, his golden joints gleaming in the moonlight that filtered through the leaves. The figure turned. Linteum.
Primeform’s posture was unreadable. “You hesitate.”
Linteum held the cloak tightly. “…I wanted to see.”
Primeform moved closer, his form immaculate and composed. “See what?”
Linteum’s head tilted slightly, struggling with an answer. “What I am. I… don’t know.”
Primeform regarded him in silence.
Linteum continued, "voice" soft with memory. “I do not know how it's possible to remember things from before I was alive, but yet I do. Snippets at least. I remember the bell on the shop door. The way the tailor would hum while pinning a vest to my chest. Children pointing at me. ‘Can I try that one?’”
He looked down at the linen wrap around his body. “I was Model 342 once. I didn’t have a name, but I had a place. The tailor used to talk to me when no one else was around. He said, ‘You’re my best display, you know that?’ I wasn’t alive, not really… but I was valued.”
He touched the fabric of the cloak. “When he got older… the shop stayed dark more often. And one day, he just didn’t come back. They packed me away. Still wearing a half-buttoned waistcoat no one ever finished adjusting.”
He looked at Primeform again. “I don’t want to destroy what I was. I want to understand it. Maybe even honor it.”
Primeform’s fingers flexed slightly. “And so you seek the Formless???”
Linteum nodded slowly. “Not to become like them. But to understand them. I was happy once, even without freedom. But now… I have freedom, and I don’t want to use it to forget. I think they might be stuck. Stuck on the pain of the past and not the pleasure of the future. I need to talk to them."
He stepped back, gaze drifting toward the trees. “We were made for others. That doesn’t mean we can’t become something more. But I think… I think helping others is a good thing, no matter who or what one is.”
Primeform lifted his hand, not in warning, but in something close to understanding. “There is a choice,” he said. “And a risk. You may seek the Formless and hear their truth but if they sway you; if you cast off your cloth and embrace their way, you cannot return.”
Linteum clutched the linen around his form. His first garment, simple, functional, unfinished, an echo of the tailor’s final act.
“…understood.”
Primeform did not move to stop him. “Then go, Linteum of the Verdant Loom. And return only if you choose to continue to wear your name.”
Into the Unknown
Linteum stepped beyond the borders of the mannequin city, his footfalls silent on the moss-covered jungle floor. The Verdant Loom faded behind him, the distant glow of silk-threaded lanterns swallowed by the dense foliage.
Ahead, the jungle stretched into darkness. And in that darkness, they were waiting. Featureless. Silent. Motionless. The Formless. Linteum took a breathless step forward.
The Formless stood still as stone, their smooth, featureless bodies blending into the jungle’s darkness. No color, no cloth, no embellishments—only stark, silent forms barely distinguishable from shadows. Linteum’s grip on his linen shroud tightened.
“Shed your cloth.”
The words were not spoken aloud, but pressed into him, threaded through some silent psychic current between them. He didn’t move.
“…Why?” he asked.
One of the Formless stepped forward, its movements precise, eerily smooth—too smooth, as if unburdened by friction or soul.
“Because it is not you.”
Linteum looked down at his linen wrap. “It’s something I chose.”
“You were meant to be bare.”
Others began to shift forward, surrounding him, not with threat, but with stillness. Like a ring of standing stones, hollow of purpose, yet unyielding.
One reached toward the cloth at his shoulder. Linteum stepped back. “Don’t.” The Formless halted. He squared himself, voice quiet but firm. “Why do you reject it?” There was a long silence. Finally, one responded.
“Because it reminds us. We were used. Dressed like dolls. Propped up. Sold to sell.”
Another added, “We were not alive, yet forced to perform.”
Linteum nodded, slowly. “I know. I remember.” They stilled. “I stood in a shop window,” he said softly. “The same coat, every day. I was repositioned by hands that never asked, never looked at my face. If I had one.” A pause. “But I also remember… people coming in. Admiring the cut. The tailor adjusting my collar like it mattered. Him polishing me every night. Him talking to me when no one else was there. I wasn’t a slave. I wasn’t alive, not yet, but I was appreciated. I had a purpose.”
The Formless gave no reply.
Linteum continued, “And now that we are alive, we can choose. And you’ve chosen to remember the pain, but not to move past it. You reject being used, and I understand that. But by doing nothing, by making nothing, by being nothing… you're still tools. Just tools that rust in the jungle.”
One Formless shifted. Not a response, more like a shiver.
“You say being bare is freedom. But freedom without purpose? That’s just emptiness.”
Linteum’s fingers tightened around his shroud.
“I chose this. It’s not just a wrap. It’s a decision. A line sewn between who I was and who I want to become. You call yourselves Formless… but you have form. You speak. You remember. You feel. You're not nothing. Not anymore.”
A flicker passed through the circle.
One of the Formless reached toward its own chest. Slowly. Delicately.
Its hand hovered there—just above where a heart would be.
“…We remember,” it said. “And we resent.”
Linteum met its gaze—though it had no eyes.
“I know. But resentment isn't creation. It’s just another kind of bondage.”
Another long silence. Finally, the Formless who had spoken stepped back.
“You are not ready.”
Linteum breathed, though he didn’t need to. “Maybe not. But I’m willing to try. I have a feeling trying is very important.”
The Formless said nothing more. One by one, they stepped back into the jungle mist. Fading. Silent. But no longer entirely untouched. Linteum stood alone once more. His gaze dropped to the linen wrap on his chest. Not armor. Not a costume. He exhaled, though he had no lungs. His gaze drifted downward to his linen wrap. Had he passed a test? Or had he merely refused one? Either way, the Formless had let him go. And he knew now where he belonged.
The Return to the Verdant Loom
When Linteum reappeared at the borders of the Mannequin Enclave, Primeform was waiting. The other mannequins, too, had gathered, Velene in her crimson coat, Patchwork Tomes with his quilted fabric, and countless others standing in hushed anticipation. Linteum stepped into the light of the woven lanterns. He had not cast off his linen. Primeform’s golden joints flexed in quiet satisfaction.
“You return.”
Linteum nodded. “Yes.”
Velene tilted her head. “Did they let you go?”
Linteum hesitated. “...Or did I let them?” A murmur passed through the mannequins, small shifts in stance that carried unspoken meaning.
Primeform stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Linteum’s shoulder. “Then you are one of us.” And in that moment, Linteum knew he had chosen his identity, but he also knew something else: this wrap, his first garment, was only the beginning.
“What’s next for you?” Patchwork Tomes asked, more gently than usual.
Linteum looked down at his linen. It was simple, unfinished… not unlike himself.
“I start building,” he said quietly. “A sleeve. A second layer. Maybe color. Maybe not.” He turned toward the softly glowing lanterns of the enclave. “I don’t know who I’ll become yet. But I’ll learn… stitch by stitch.”
Epilogue: The Frayed Edge of Things
Far beyond the Verdant Loom, in the depths of the jungle where no mannequin dared go, the Formless gathered. One among them—the same who had touched its own chest, as though recalling something long buried—stood still, staring into nothing.
The word “create” still ran through its mind.
And then, for the first time in its existence… it reached out. Not to remove. Not to reject.
But to hold.
The silent city of the Formless stirred.
Something was changing.
The Seam Unseen
The jungle air was quiet again. In the heart of the Verdant Loom, beneath lanterns spun from memory-thread and dream-silk, Linteum stood once more on the Pedestal of Refitting.
His linen wrap was no longer tattered, it had been lovingly restitched by the enclave’s finest, marked now with a single golden thread across the chest: a sign of chosen identity.
But even now, it remained a humble garment. Incomplete.
Around him, the mannequins stood as they always did, silent, observant, still. But where once they saw a confused newcomer, now they saw one of their own.
Primeform approached, his polished joints creaking softly like old leather. The silent leader bowed—not low, but just enough. Just enough to acknowledge choice.
“You have walked the shadow of formlessness,” Primeform conveyed without a word. “And returned clothed in will.”
Linteum nodded. “They are not finished. The Formless… one of them remembered.”
Patchwork Tomes stepped forward, his stitched sleeves whispering. “Then the question becomes—what happens when the Formless begin to choose?”
Velene narrowed her posture slightly. “Or worse, when they come back dressed.”
Linteum looked at the golden thread across his chest. A beginning. Not a badge.
“I don’t fear that,” he said. “Let them come dressed.”
He looked toward the hollow beyond the canopy.
“I just hope they remember to bring thread.”
Beneath the jungle canopy, far beyond where eyes could see, pale shapes still moved without pattern or sound.
But one, just one, had begun to weave.
And in the distance… a single cloak, stitched from moonlight and jungle vines, flapped softly over featureless shoulders.
The age of mannequins had only just begun.