Ok, we're not lions, but I thought it would be cute to make the anthro figures furry. :P

But, here's the final design for our outfits! Yum, yum! I have pretty much all the materials, even the leather to make the shoes (yes, I'm gonna make period-appropriate slippers for the costumes). The tunic and dress are going to be made of duppioni silk and velvet, Kani's under-tunic and the sleeves of my gown are gold silk tissue, and his pants, my underskirt and the linings of my sleeves will be a lovely brocade in rayon that's so nice and thin... Rawr!

The trim is this really cool organza stuff in gold with embroidery and sequins on it that I got out of the Christmas bin when it was on sale. Working at a fabric-store was such fun. Hee... Gonna do simple bead-work on everything, too- just a single line of faux pearls, if I can find the right kind of beads.

Dang, we're gonna look fuggin' AWESOME!

Hmmm, the thought of walking about the Renaissance Faires for a honeymoon sounds really sweet...

A certain dragon is a sentimental old sort ( ): he sent me a lovely poem, wistful, yet poignant with ancient dust. Hard to do with a modern poem. :)

Here it is, for anyone interested:

"AN ARUNDEL TOMB"

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly, they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

(I think the name of the author at the bottom was Philip Larkin- I'll go check in a moment)