A construct hand-stitched and brought to life by a scientist. He's tall and lanky with skin in the tones of pale, bruised purple and deathly gray. His clothes are usually in soft, cool tones and have an antiquated feel. Shy and sweet, Isidore does his best to look after his workaholic creator.

Isidore is extremely self-conscious about being a construct. To him, it's quite clear: he's just a thing made out of flesh, some thrown-together scrap that happens to move. His creator's admiration flusters him to no end. Isidore cannot understand how he can look at him and can call him perfect. In public, people can hardly look at him (and Isidore is painfully aware of the looks they give him when they do). He prefers to avoid the public altogether.

But errands must be run; if Isidore didn't do the shopping, his creator would probably starve. Of course, on their meager earnings, it's difficult to buy everything they need. When you're doing "dirty" work, work most would prefer not to think about, jobs are infrequent (though his master's tinkering never stops). It's common to see Isidore outside gardening and gathering eggs so he can supplement their meals. He also does the cooking and has been known to mend a shirt or two. Isidore is the glue that holds their little household together -- or rather, the stitches.

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Isidore opened the door of the cast iron stove and frowned, prodding and turning the fuel inside. “Now, now,” he said, voice soft, as he tossed more sticks on the hesitant flames. “The soup will never be done at this rate.” He stood back and smiled as the fire began to lick around the wood. Another frown wrinkled his colorless lips, gentler this time. “Master had better stay in bed.”

As the pot came to a boil, Isidore began to hum. With nimble hands, he seasoned and stirred the meager heap of potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. He held one hand over the pot. “So warm.” He sighed, studying the stitches that crisscrossed his flesh to adjoin patches of pale gray and bruise-like purple. “Wonder what it’s like to be that warm.”

His face tinged with as much of a blush it could muster, and he yanked his hand away, working twice as fast. He crouched by the stove as he waited for the vegetables to soften and let the warmth seep into his half-dead skin. Then, Isidore stood, stirred, and tasted. Nodding, he opened the stove door again to separate the logs and shovel a thin layer of ashes over the flames.

Bowl of soup in hand, Isidore made his way to Herbert’s room. Peeking through the cracked door, he called, “Master?”

Credits
Coding and Story:
Human Art:
Backgrounds: Webtreats, Subtle Patterns