Peter paced back and forth in front of the fire, carefully stepping around DBs nest so as not to disturb the snoring rat. He wondered how such a small animal could make so much noise, especially since he’d been so quiet to begin with.

When Fjor dismissed Peter the perfect version of Bani’s Place of Power had melted back into the worn down single room that he was more familiar with, which had highlighted just how far the place had fallen into disrepair. Everywhere he looked, something was missing, broken or devolved into a lesser form of itself. It was truly depressing.

Peter dropped himself into the seat at the writing desk with a whump. Laying his left hand on the blotter, the right dangling uselessly at his side, he willed the interface to life and began reading. With so much information to sort through, he tried to open his inventory and pull out some parchment as a scratch pad, only to mash his skeletal hand against his left forearm ineffectually.

“Damn it,” he shouted, then remembered his sleeping companion. “Damn it,” he whispered to himself. “I need to get this fixed.” He slipped the design sheet out of his vest and read through the information until he got to the prerequisites. They were extensive, all geared towards a Traveller or NPC with intimate knowledge of fine mechanisms and gadgetry. “There’s no one in Averton who could use this.” He refolded the paper and tapped one corner against the desk. “Maybe Pham, but I’ll be damned if I ask that backstabber for help.”

Peter used his nose to scroll through his Mark and open his inventory. When the pocket dimension popped open, he dropped the design in and pulled out his scythe. Knowing that he wouldn’t have much time to mess about this way if he was dropped into combat, he stuffed the handle of the weapon down his back for now, as uncomfortable as it was.

Good thing the tailor guy has finished my holster, he realised. I hope I’ll still be able to pull this out of it with my left.

In the meantime, he grabbed out a sheet of parchment and a quill and laid them on the table, then closed the inventory. He checked over his shoulder to see if he had disturbed DB, and saw that he was being watched by two beady little eyes. “Come on buddy, you can be part of this too,” he invited.

DB scampered over and climbed up the desk. He pawed at the quill, expecting it to do something interesting, but then squeaked loudly and dashed over to sniff excitedly at Peter’s new right arm. He cautiously laid a paw on the bone and looked up at Peter questioningly.

“It’s ok buddy, it doesn’t hurt.” Anymore, he added internally. “Now, let’s get down to business.” He concentrated on the quill, triggering the skill and causing it to stand up on its nib. “What do we upgrade first? The house itself? The library? The kitchen?” As Peter listed off the options from the menu in front of him the quill danced across the page, replicating the options and their costs in ink.

“Squeak!” DB responded loudly to the last.

Peter gave his companion a scratch. “Thinking with your stomach. Why am I not surprised?” He looked over the information in front of him, listing the soul cost for each upgrade and the upkeep thereafter. “We gots some work to do if you want unlimited cookies.” He held out the undamaged portion of his right arm for DB to clamber up into his usual perch in the hood.

DB sniffed and poked at the handle of the scythe intruding on his roost, but soon settled in with his chin resting on Peter’s shoulder.

“Comfy? Yes?” Peter checked that DB wasn’t going to fall, pulled his sleeve down and tied the bracer as tight as he could over his right arm as he could with a combination of left hand and teeth. “I really need a glove or people are going to stare, aren’t they?”

The combination of teeth grinding and sniffling suggested that DB didn’t care how it looked, he was just happy to have Peter as a taxi service and butler rolled into one.

“Thanks buddy, but not everyone is as accepting, or self-centred, as you are. How about we pop down to the clothing store and see what they’ve got?” Peter gave his friend a soft rub behind the ears.

And so it came to be that Peter found himself browsing the cloth filled corridors of the seamstress’s shop once more. He marvelled at how the prices on the lower ranked items, once hilariously out of reach, now seemed trivial to him.

“Look DB, new trousers. Ten coppers. I could buy a whole wardrobe full of these and still have plenty left over.” He held up a pair of brown breeches against the light, impressed that it didn’t shine through.

“Might I recommend you do so then?” A familiar voice suggested from the far side of the item of clothing.

Peter fumbled the pants, nearly dropping them to the ground. In doing so he revealed the unique visage of the seamstress herself, as unimpressed by Peter’s fashion choices today as she had been the first time he had visited. He looked down at the torn, scuffed and threadbare armour and clothing. Embarrassment heated his cheeks. “Uh. You know, you’re right,” he admitted. “I was here to pick up the holster your husband made for me, but I’ve been through the wringer since we last met.”

“You’re telling me,” the seamstress flicked a finger at Peter’s ribs, where a flap of leather hung loosely.

He couldn’t even remember what had caused that injury. One amongst a plethora of punctures, tons of tears, a bounty of bruises. He tried to lift the flap up into place and tuck it away so that it wouldn’t flop around, but it just slipped back out to hang in the breeze. “Yeah, I know. So what do you recommend?”

“Well, now,” she twirled around, picking up various items and holding them against his body and whipping them away like a cloth filled tornado. “No, no, not this one either,” she paused for a moment, “are you going to keep getting hit, or are you going to learn to dodge occasionally?”

Smiling uneasily in the eye of the storm, Peter let out a small chuckle. “I’m always going to get hit, ma’am, but I do try to dodge every now and again. ‘Try’ being the operative word here.”

“Well,” the seamstress said, holding a leathery garment of unknown extraction against his chest, “I’m trying to figure out if you should be looking at heavy, hardened leather, softer leather or over at the metal basher’s shop for a tin can. You don’t strike me as the metal type,” she swapped the leather for a similar piece made of heavily stitched canvas with a strange shimmer to the threads, “and you definitely don’t seem the spell slinging type.” Another whirlwind of material and tanned animal skin surrounded him. “Have you tried stealth? The whacky stick on your back doesn’t really scream ‘roguelike’, but it takes all sorts to make liquorice.”

“What?” Peter did a double-take in disbelief. “Did you just make a joke?”

The seamstress stopped dead and tapped her index finger against her perfect porcelain face with a click. “A joke? Me? I never joke about clothing. Now, take these,” she pushed a pile of neatly folded garments into Peter’s hands, “and pop in there and try them on.”

Still reeling slightly, Peter took the items and stepped into the indicated change room to give them a try. When the curtain closed he placed the pile on a shelf provided for the purpose and leafed through it to see what the seamstress had suggested. There were a lot more straps and buckles than he would ordinarily expect, but they all looked rather comfortable and even had room in the back for his wings to slip through.

He gave the useless appendages a feeble flap. When are you two ever going to be worth a damn?

The armour felt a bit strange and tugged in unusual ways, but the more Peter shrugged and twisted the better it fit until finally the leather slid into place with a jerk and moulded itself to his body. After that, it was like a second skin. Mightily impressed, Peter plucked at the material causing it to peel away slowly and snap back when released. “What's this made of?” he called through the curtain.

“Fish skin,” the seamstress poked her perfect face into the cubicle. “Some Traveller finally took out Ol' Gnasher and Dave took the belly skin over to Pervis for tanning while his chef was preparing the feast.”

“Hey, a little privacy please!” Peter instinctively covered himself even though he was fully clothed. “Wait? Pervis?”

Half the mouth turned up in a smile. “You'd know him if you smelled him. He's the local leather expert.”

Bile rose up in Peter's throat at the memory. “I have. You couldn't pay me enough to go within a mile of his shack. Why do they even let him live inside the city walls?”

The curtain twitched closed as the seamstress wandered off, but she spoke loudly enough to be heard anyway. “He's the best tanner on the peninsula, that's why. People will put up with a lot from geniuses, as long as they're getting something out of it.”

So true, Peter thought as he pulled the armour off over his head. As long as they're getting something out of it. “So you're telling me this was made from the skin of the bastard I took out?” DB stirred in the pile of clothes where he had deposited them while he tried on the new ones. He stretched one paw, then the other as he yawned hugely. Peter gave him a stroke down his back. “Not you buddy, go back to sleep. We'll go foraging later.”

The curtain pulled to the side again. “That was you? No wonder they gave you the Defender's badge.” The seamstress nodded to the crumpled armour in Peter's hands. “Mind you fold that. I don't want to be cleaning up after you.”

Doing his best to suppress his disgust at the memory of how O'l Gnasher had tasted and judge the armour on its own merits, Peter carefully folded the piece and placed it on the pile. He slid the matching pants out from under DB's nest and gave them a try as well. They were similarly form fitting after a moment's adjustment, their mottled grey folds smoothing out to cling in a way that left Peter feeling naked rather than armoured. I suppose I could wear them under normal clothes. I still love my hooded cape, even if it's getting a little... ratty. Peter laughed out loud at his own pun. “Hey, um, Mrs seamstress? I'm sorry, I forgot your name, but do you have any more capes or cloaks like this one?”

A dark shape arced over the top of the cubicle and engulfed Peter's head, cutting off the light and giving him a minor heart attack. He dragged it off and threw it to the ground before realising it was exactly what he had asked for and picked it up again respectfully. Getting an idea he fastened the cloak around his shoulders but left his shirt off and pouted at himself in the mirror. He leaned back, causing the cloak to hang away from his back as well as highlighting his abdominal muscles, and spread his wings. “I am the anime,” he whispered in a sultry voice. Then he realised that the seamstress had pulled back the curtain to say something, and she had company.

The tailor stared at Peter's antics with the impassivity that only a metallic face can achieve. “Needs work,” he deadpanned.

“Crap!” Peter pulled the cloak around himself. “I'm sorry. I was trying to be funny. Ugghh.”

“I’ll see you at the counter, I just dropped by to say that your holster will be waiting.” The metal man waved a light brown piece of leatherwork in the direction of the checkout. “And good luck with with your Annie-May costume. I’m sure you’ll be fabulous.” He leaned towards his wife and she pecked a kiss on his cheek with a soft ‘clink’, then strode away.

Mortified, Peter whipped the curtain shut and pulled on his clothes hurriedly. “Uh, I’ll take them all. Sorry, um, and thank you for your help.”

“Pay my husband no heed, Peter. His wit often leaves something to be desired,” the seamstress said through the curtain, letting him have his privacy this time. “Like, humour for a start. Besides, a naked Traveller is by far the least outlandish thing to grace this store. One of your kind had once made a sizable error when casting a ritual spell that left her with a fish tail and had to be pushed around in a glass tank of water on wheels. It took days to get the floors dry after that.”

Peter exited the cubicle in his old clothes, not feeling right wearing the new ones before he had paid for them. He followed the seamstress cyclone to the main counter. Why does she even do that? What’s wrong with walking normally?

After exchanging money and awkward small talk over the register, Peter left with his arms full of leather and buckles. He was struggling to contain the slippery mess when the ring, all but forgotten on his finger, began to warm up. Slinging an arm, or maybe a leg, over one shoulder he tucked a lump under his half-arm and brought his left hand up to his chin in a vain attempt to interact with it.

While he was distracted someone slammed into him from behind. “Got ya!” Dani yelled as the armload slithered to the ground with a jingling whump. “You were so busy with WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR ARM?”

“What do you want?” Peter grumped, trying to gather his belongings back up into his arm.

Dani pouted. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in days and that’s how you greet me? Are you avoiding me because you did something stupid and got your arm eaten off?”

Pausing for a moment, Peter sighed. I guess that’s fair. She had nothing to do with Pham’s backstabbing group. “I, uh, I’m sorry Dani. I guess I was sorta avoiding everyone.” The pile slid to the ground again. “Bugger. Um, not ‘cos of my arm though, that’s new.”

Kneeling down beside him, Dani helped Peter pick up the recalcitrant armour and position it so it wouldn't drop again. “Sorry mate, looks like it’s serious. Do you want to talk about it? I know a place that serves some good, hot tea.”

“You know,” Peter smiled as the pile began to slip again, “that would be wonderful.”