1??????????Soul Bound
1.2????????Taking Control
1.2.3??????An Enchanting Original
1.2.3.9????Reputations...
Bartola locked Bungo’s arm in hers, ignored his protests, and for the next fifteen minutes, as she guided them up the grand staircase that wound around the Atrium, stopping every few moments to point at particular mannequins in the alcoves lining the walls, she lectured him without mercy or even seeming to pause for breath.
Bartola: “Along with how we speak and how we act, clothes are a tool we can use to project an image. Our choice of clothes and the styling with which we wear them sends a message. ‘I am a patriot’, ‘I am well travelled’, ‘I am rich’, ‘I am humble’, ‘I am happy to blend in’, ‘I wish to stand out’, ‘I am trustworthy’, ‘I am rakish’, ‘I am fiery’, ‘I am sweet’, ‘I am tough’, ‘I am a fragile treasure’ and, above all the eternal message, ‘I am attractive’, which actually means ‘I have the good taste to wear clothes appropriate to the occasion, which flatter me by matching my size and shape of body’.”
Kafana thought about the inverse triangle ‘body shape’ of her avatar. She’d always wanted nice legs, and had thought the taller height would help her move faster. Judging by Alderney’s speed, she’d been mistaken about that having an effect, but it sounded like it would affect her clothing choices. She shrugged. If her looks turned out not to be fashionable in this place and time, then she wasn’t going to worry about it. At least the narrow waist would let her try some styles she’d never pick in arlife.
Bartola: “Signora says that fashion is the language in which clothes convey their messages. The taste in how attention should be balanced between different body parts, the gaze zones, has varied over time, as has the comparative influence of different regions of Covob and how much wealth or piety it is prudent to display. Through history we see the effect of the war between these drivers of fashion in the ebb and flow of garment boundaries, the patterns and fabrics in vogue. Even the names and identities of the garments themselves change as altering function leads to splitting, merging, layering or omission.”
Kafana tried imagining the mannequins from successive decades as being frames in a slowed down animation film, and watched as aketons from the start of the plate armour period evolved into non-functional tunics, whose hems then gradually rose until the join between the tunic and the individual linen hose covering each leg was uncovered, leaving only a single layer of thin cloth preventing the crotch from being exposed. Then a new garment was added, a triangular linen braye which matched the surrounding hose. Gradually this gained a stronger separate identity, first acquiring contrasting colour and patterns to catch the eye, then changing material to match the padded tunic. The amount of bombast (the tough animal hair used as padding) was increased to further inflate the apparent size of the underlying male genitals and the codpiece was born. Over the next few decades it acquired jewels and an exaggerated erect priapism that even the zoo’s satyrs couldn’t match. Then suddenly, from one mannequin to the next, it disappeared, replaced by knee-length breeches evolved from peasant breeks, via sailors then wealthy sea captains.
Kafana blushed as she remembered an audience would be watching through her eyes, and where her attention had been focused. She’d had a couple of sexual relationships during her music career, though they’d fizzled out; no-one had wanted to settle down in Bosnia. But for far too long, through lack of energy or opportunity, she’d been suffering a drought in that department. Damn it. She forced herself to pay attention to sleeves and necklines instead.
A few minutes later, just as Bartola was leading them into the fitting rooms on the second floor to have their measurements taken, an energetic young girl with a storm of wild hair that Kafana recognised as ‘rabbit-chan’ from the orphanage interrupted the monologue by passing on a whispered message.
Bartola: “I’ve just received word that Signora is now free, and awaiting us above in the Salon, so we’ll have to delay taking your measurements. But don’t worry Bungo, I’ll have plenty of time for you later” and then she surprised them by giving Bungo a coy wink and blushing a little.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Alderney: {Yay, I’ve acquired a new skill: Eyes of the Fashionista. It is going to be so useful. Thanks, Bungo, for being such a good decoy. It let me study all the dresses at my own pace. I want to flip out and go watch the live streams from the Burgundish event. I bet they’ve got awesome fashions; Bartola keeps mentioning Mezelay as the origin of various trends. Kafana, you wanna come? Your vessel likes sewing, so I bet she’d enjoy it here.}
Bungo: {Alderney, you’re a monster. She’s been squeezing my arm and pulling me close every chance she gets. How would you feel? It isn’t funny; I’m really uncomfortable about putting up with this.}
Kafana: {Bungo, I’ll lend a hand. Alderney, I have a feeling Signora’s insistence that I return her dress in person means this is going to be at least as much about politics as it is about fashion. We shouldn’t flip out on her.}
Kafana: “Bartola, thank you for the tour. Most educational. But I’m going to have to insist upon having Bungo’s arm back. No matter how interested he might be in history, he did escort me in. Appearances, you understand?”
She kept her tone light, but Bartola dropped Bungo’s arm like a scalded cat and took a wide step sideways. She led them up the remaining flight of steps in complete silence, practically tripping up in her haste to show deference.
System: [Skill “Iron Fist” cannot rise above 14 until you learn an appropriate profession.]
<hr>
If the ground floor had the feel of a temple dedicated to fashion, and the first floor with its rich dark wood panelling and precisely lit exhibits had the feel of a museum, then Salon Signora on the third floor reminded Kafana of a Parisian cafe. A raised crystal catwalk spanned the atrium, and chairs or benches in differing styles were scattered around in groupings, split into four quarters, that left plenty of room to circulate between conversations.
The first quarter was by a wall equipped with a long sturdy bar of the sort used for ballet practice. Blunted sabres and thin foils were mounted above the bar, and a red carpet parallel to the wall was marked as though it were a fencing salle. Sturdy red leather benches looked suitable for spectators to sit or stand upon.
The second quarter, with the best view of the catwalk and atrium, had a large map on the wall with circular trade routes marked in gold. Leather bound folios of fabric swatches and hand-drawn images were chained to a wide diamond shaped central table of violet tinged stone.
The third quarter had a wall lined with curious devices and books on a wide variety of subjects, from travellers’ tales and anatomy, to magic theory and erotic poetry. In pride of place was a magical illusion of a naked body hovering in mid-air, that seemed to be walking though it didn’t progress forwards. A glowing control wand was perched in an ornate stand, near one of the high-backed padded reading chairs covered in a navy blue damask.
The last quarter, furthest from the catwalk, contained high wooden tables bearing cups, beverages, and tiny bowls of nibbles. Shoulder-high trees in large pots between the pairs and trios of chairs gave the illusion of privacy, while still permitting snippets of conversation to be overheard. In the very centre, directly opposite the catwalk, on its own raised dais, was what could only be described as a throne. Above it hung a life-sized oil painting, showing a short spindly beak-nosed middle-aged man with many large-gemmed rings on his fingers, gazing proprietarily at a heart-stoppingly beautiful bride in Burgundish clothing who couldn’t have been more than 16 years old.
They had time to take all this in because the throne was empty. Signora was nowhere to be seen.
Bartola, who now stood poised at the very center of the catwalk, cleared her throat and made an announcement in a clear carrying voice.
Bartola: “Wife of Viscount Pantalone, noted patron of the arts, valued scion of the Burgundian House of Anjou, foremost arbiter of fashion in Torello, owner of this establishment and the most gifted designer Covob has been graced with in generations, Lady Bella Pantalone: the Signora.”
A thick column of water welled up from the pool below, reaching up to a level above them, and then with a sound that mixed waterfalls with the distant echo of choral singing, the column lowered slowly downwards, carrying on top of it the silver-plated shell of a giant clam, 3 meters high and 7 meters in diameter. As it drew level with their floor, the polished shell opened revealing Signora.