((Short and thoughtless little thing to serve as a final sendoff to what could have been.))
--
A Proper Outfit
"How exactly is someone supposed to put on that many belts?" The young Midlander girl peered at the clothing stand, brushing away a coal-black streak of hair that contrasted heavily with the blazing crimson it stemmed from. She scrutinized the absurd outfit with an gray-blue eye filled with equal parts confusion and curiosity. The outfit in question seemed more akin to some kind of garishly coloured body trap intended to capture the wearer and hold them in submission, yet somehow also managed to be immodest and reduce the amount of fabric covering the skin to a hypothetical amount.
"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to. By the way, the answer is 'carefully'," a ruefully sardonic comment grumbled from behind her. "And you're not going to put me in that." The girl merely rolled her eyes.
"We already agreed to terms. You are the one who made that bet."
"I know."
"And you lost."
"I know."
"Six times!" The girl turned around and flailed her arms in the air as if to illustrate her frustration in some kind of avant-garde interpretive dance.
"Well....I let you win." The man merely shrugged, trying to play it off with a smirk less authentic than a piece of gil made with chocolate and wood. "S'what we call being magnanimous, around these parts."
The girl scoffed. "Firstly, you trying to burn this city down multiple times doesn't give you the authority to determine what is called what in 'these parts'. Secondly, the least you could do is be graceful and admit you lost fair and square. What's one of those stupid proverbs you keep spouting off? 'The badger knows the winner by the blood of the third north star's gasp' or some nonsense."
The man responded by glancing at her sharply with a raised eyebrow. "Excuse me, young lady, my proverbs are not stupid. And if you want to call them stupid, they're not even mine. They're your...well, not your grandfather's exactly but your...step...grandfather...twice removed?" He stopped briefly in his tirade to contemplate the implications before shaking his head to clear the mental cobwebs. "Anyway, what was I saying? Right. The stupid ones aren't mine. But the not stupid ones are. Also, those couldn't possibly be my proverbs anyway because they're not depressingly self-introspective and needlessly cynical enough." Another pause. "Have I mentioned how good your hair looks today?"
An exasperated groan wheezed from the girl's lips. "Mother is the only one with whom your obtuse compliments still work on, and speaking of which, how she gets flustered by them still is beyond me." She turned away to look at a different outfit, this one a remarkable silk sarouel and blouse set that shimmered in the light and embraced the featureless clothing stand that made the latter look remarkably handsome. The seams were trimmed with gold and silver embroidery, and if colours could become noise then the volume of the various gems embedded into the hem of the blouse would likely blast out any unfortunate glassware within a ten malm radius. Her eyes lit up and a hand trembled with the temptation to touch the immaculate material. "Something like this!" she gasped.
"I'm not wearing that. It doesn't say 'I hate myself and everyone around me for being less sarcastic' enough to be something I would wear," the man reproached, gazing at the outfit balefully. The Midlander girl's eyes rolled such that they threatened to come right out of their sockets.
"That's the point. You lost. Six times."
"Five times. That one with the goobbue and that pot of glue doesn't count."
"Seven times, now that I think about it carefully," the girl glared at the man. "You cheated as soon as you tried to tell the Yellowjackets that the kobolds figured out how to fly."
The man threw up his hands. "Can you blame a man for trying to play the game creatively?"
The girl pouted and jabbed a finger forcefully at the blouse. "You're wearing this."
The man glanced at the door. "Ah, but I'm also paying for it. Therefore, it stands to reason that--"
"You're wearing this! Seven times!" She nearly shouted with indignation, though the girl hushed quietly as soon as the Roegadyn in the tailcoat shot an irritated glance at her.
The man sulked his way over to the clothing stand. His gaze traced the outfit from the top down and the expression on his face morphed into one of abject horror as soon as it counted the number of zeros on the wooden placard at the clothing stand's base. "Did you even look at how expensive this is? Your mother would kill me! Or stab me! Or raise a sharp eyebrow at me and express quiet disapproval while covering her mouth to hide how amused she is because somehow she thinks nobody can see when she does that but everyone can but is too polite to say anything!"
The girl tilted her head, the black-streaked bangs of her hair falling around her slender face, before her mouth split into a crooked, mischievous smirk. "Redolent Rose owes me a favour. I think I can take care of it," she said demurely, batting her eyelashes at the man. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, peering at the young girl with a scrutinizing gaze from beneath faded orange bangs.
"I might be arrested for public indecency," he protested.
"Mother could get you out. Again. Probably."
"She probably wouldn't want to."
"But she probably will anyway."
"Why don't you wear it? You'd look good in it."
"It brings out your figure better," she said dryly.
The man smacked his palm against his forehead. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and attempted to smile weakly. "So....you say it was seven losses, was it?"
"It'll become eight if you keep trying to weasel out of paying your due," she responded fiercely. He winced at the thought, and stared at the girl with a mix of curiosity and fear.
"How did you ever become such a terror, anyway?" he asked to nobody in particular, though if pressed for an answer he might have said that he was asking the Twelve.
The girl said nothing and merely smirked.
--
A Proper Outfit
"How exactly is someone supposed to put on that many belts?" The young Midlander girl peered at the clothing stand, brushing away a coal-black streak of hair that contrasted heavily with the blazing crimson it stemmed from. She scrutinized the absurd outfit with an gray-blue eye filled with equal parts confusion and curiosity. The outfit in question seemed more akin to some kind of garishly coloured body trap intended to capture the wearer and hold them in submission, yet somehow also managed to be immodest and reduce the amount of fabric covering the skin to a hypothetical amount.
"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to. By the way, the answer is 'carefully'," a ruefully sardonic comment grumbled from behind her. "And you're not going to put me in that." The girl merely rolled her eyes.
"We already agreed to terms. You are the one who made that bet."
"I know."
"And you lost."
"I know."
"Six times!" The girl turned around and flailed her arms in the air as if to illustrate her frustration in some kind of avant-garde interpretive dance.
"Well....I let you win." The man merely shrugged, trying to play it off with a smirk less authentic than a piece of gil made with chocolate and wood. "S'what we call being magnanimous, around these parts."
The girl scoffed. "Firstly, you trying to burn this city down multiple times doesn't give you the authority to determine what is called what in 'these parts'. Secondly, the least you could do is be graceful and admit you lost fair and square. What's one of those stupid proverbs you keep spouting off? 'The badger knows the winner by the blood of the third north star's gasp' or some nonsense."
The man responded by glancing at her sharply with a raised eyebrow. "Excuse me, young lady, my proverbs are not stupid. And if you want to call them stupid, they're not even mine. They're your...well, not your grandfather's exactly but your...step...grandfather...twice removed?" He stopped briefly in his tirade to contemplate the implications before shaking his head to clear the mental cobwebs. "Anyway, what was I saying? Right. The stupid ones aren't mine. But the not stupid ones are. Also, those couldn't possibly be my proverbs anyway because they're not depressingly self-introspective and needlessly cynical enough." Another pause. "Have I mentioned how good your hair looks today?"
An exasperated groan wheezed from the girl's lips. "Mother is the only one with whom your obtuse compliments still work on, and speaking of which, how she gets flustered by them still is beyond me." She turned away to look at a different outfit, this one a remarkable silk sarouel and blouse set that shimmered in the light and embraced the featureless clothing stand that made the latter look remarkably handsome. The seams were trimmed with gold and silver embroidery, and if colours could become noise then the volume of the various gems embedded into the hem of the blouse would likely blast out any unfortunate glassware within a ten malm radius. Her eyes lit up and a hand trembled with the temptation to touch the immaculate material. "Something like this!" she gasped.
"I'm not wearing that. It doesn't say 'I hate myself and everyone around me for being less sarcastic' enough to be something I would wear," the man reproached, gazing at the outfit balefully. The Midlander girl's eyes rolled such that they threatened to come right out of their sockets.
"That's the point. You lost. Six times."
"Five times. That one with the goobbue and that pot of glue doesn't count."
"Seven times, now that I think about it carefully," the girl glared at the man. "You cheated as soon as you tried to tell the Yellowjackets that the kobolds figured out how to fly."
The man threw up his hands. "Can you blame a man for trying to play the game creatively?"
The girl pouted and jabbed a finger forcefully at the blouse. "You're wearing this."
The man glanced at the door. "Ah, but I'm also paying for it. Therefore, it stands to reason that--"
"You're wearing this! Seven times!" She nearly shouted with indignation, though the girl hushed quietly as soon as the Roegadyn in the tailcoat shot an irritated glance at her.
The man sulked his way over to the clothing stand. His gaze traced the outfit from the top down and the expression on his face morphed into one of abject horror as soon as it counted the number of zeros on the wooden placard at the clothing stand's base. "Did you even look at how expensive this is? Your mother would kill me! Or stab me! Or raise a sharp eyebrow at me and express quiet disapproval while covering her mouth to hide how amused she is because somehow she thinks nobody can see when she does that but everyone can but is too polite to say anything!"
The girl tilted her head, the black-streaked bangs of her hair falling around her slender face, before her mouth split into a crooked, mischievous smirk. "Redolent Rose owes me a favour. I think I can take care of it," she said demurely, batting her eyelashes at the man. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, peering at the young girl with a scrutinizing gaze from beneath faded orange bangs.
"I might be arrested for public indecency," he protested.
"Mother could get you out. Again. Probably."
"She probably wouldn't want to."
"But she probably will anyway."
"Why don't you wear it? You'd look good in it."
"It brings out your figure better," she said dryly.
The man smacked his palm against his forehead. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and attempted to smile weakly. "So....you say it was seven losses, was it?"
"It'll become eight if you keep trying to weasel out of paying your due," she responded fiercely. He winced at the thought, and stared at the girl with a mix of curiosity and fear.
"How did you ever become such a terror, anyway?" he asked to nobody in particular, though if pressed for an answer he might have said that he was asking the Twelve.
The girl said nothing and merely smirked.