[center][h3]Clothes, Cake and Lemonade[/h3][/center] [hr] [b][center]Noon, Last Seed 15 Holly's Hammam, Evermore[/center][/b] It turned out that Sadri’s skin color was actually a touch lighter than he’d thought. Perhaps for the first time since he’d enrolled with Gustav’s Company, Sadri had taken a proper bath. Not a quick scrub-down of the pits, hair and the nether regions with soap and cold water, or unwanted exposure to rain or seawater, but a proper, well deserved bath in a hot, steamy sauna owned by a jolly old Nord lady. While he’d added some extra Septims on top of the usual fee to get himself his own private room with flowing hot water, the extra purse he’d gotten from Gustav for the sake of outfitting had made it guilt-free. And it was there, whilst rubbing his skin with a mitten of coarse wool, that he found out that beneath the ever-present coating of grime, dirt and dried sweat, he was paler than what he’d seen the last time he’d seen his reflection. Of course, this wasn’t the only surprise that he’d faced in the bath; he’d also realized just how accustomed he had become to his prosthetic arm. After a quick unstrapping and removal of the attachment sleeve, he’d come face to face with the stump he had in place of a lower right arm. He thought of all the time he’d spent on this mortal coil, and felt disappointed. Like a grindstone, life had whittled away bits and pieces of him; pieces not just like flesh and bone, but also hope, enthusiasm, elation. He didn’t feel any sharper. If anything, he was just coming closer to the end. He remembered a couplet from a poem he’d read years ago: [i]This whirling wheel is a mill yielding agony; Beneath it, we’re the grain ground as it goes.[/i] “And so it goes on,” Sadri thought to himself, before rubbing his stumped arm with the mitten. “And so it goes on.” [hr] Sadri left the bath feeling as warm and light as steam. Physically, he’d scraped almost a pound of grime off his skin, cleared his hair thoroughly and taken a comb and proper razor to the mess his beard had become. The uneven scar tissue made it hard for him to get a clean shave, but his past occupation as a barber meant he had the skill and experience not to cut deeper than necessary. Shaving his face clean save for the thick sideburns that nearly reached his lower lips, and applying balm to give them proper shape, he found the impression he’d made on passersby had changed for the positive. More importantly, though, he’d come to terms with yet another flaring existential crisis. His old life was gone, Solveig was gone, he wasn’t going to get what he wanted in life (perhaps there really was nothing he wanted in life), and there was nothing he could do but to accept that. As weak as that made him feel, Sadri had come to realize how denial of it would lead to nothing but further self-destruction. One freak incident with a Sload necromancer he could survive high on Skooma and booze, but he knew that even he had mortal limits; his magically mended heel was proof of that. At some point he was going to break. Break in a way that a prosthetic couldn’t fix. So, he knew. He needed to be a new person. Because the old one was failing, fast. And what better way to celebrate a new outlook than to build yourself a new image? [hr] [b][center]Early Morning, Last Seed 16 Sir Groin and Co. Fine Tailoring, Evermore[/center][/b] “Are you sure you wish for a doublet that bright red, sir? With the slashes and color of that tunic you have chosen, it looks… awful violent, does it not? It’s rather provocative.” “Oh, please, it is a banquet, my good man. The entire point is to tread the fine line between provocative and crass,” Sadri replied to the old, amiable tailor. “And I, [i]Madura Dalas[/i], deserve such a look for my first public appearance since my… gross wounding, I would say,” he added, eyeing his mechanical arm regretfully. The tailor smiled. “It does make sense when you put it that way, sir. I remember when the Earl of Warwick wore bone tipped gloves and a hair shirt under his slashed doublet to his celebration, after he was dubbed the Wolf of Warwick for his exploits against the Brigands of Cracktusk. It had made quite a commotion in the circles.” Sadri nodded. “That’s precisely it. The exploits of the Tamrielic Gazette deserve to be known further; what better way to remind them how we suffer in our toil to gather news, than to show them myself, rightfully, as a wounded man?” “That’s a capital outlook, sir! I like the cut of your jib, if I may say.” Sadri felt that his words had touched the sole surviving specks of youthful idealism he must have had as an apprentice tailor. Over time, even this quaint fellow had turned into a balding hobbit, spending his days and toiling his craft out of sheer habit, his passion extinguished. Sadri solemnly looked at his spindly fingers to try and find something occupy his mind, and to fan the cloud of sadness away… And found just what he needed. More bling. “Thank you, my man, thank you… You’d mentioned a friend running the jewelry store one street above, hadn’t you?” [hr] [b][center]Noon, Last Seed 16 Used Sundries, Evermore[/center][/b] As expected, things were much simpler for Marcel. While he’d been somewhat disheartened by his failure to save the Bosmer, and also his brush with hypothermia following said failure, there was really nothing to do but to move on, Marcel knew. He’d failed many things before, and suffered many things because of his failures. But he considered them naught but occasional mishaps in the bigger picture. He remembered the adage of the Torchbearers, the cult that he’d ended up as cohorts with back in Hammerfell; [i]“Acts of good are not always wise, and acts of evil not always foolish; regardless, strive to do good.”[/i] He wouldn’t quit trying just because it’d make things easier for him. That was just not right, he was taught. And Marcel was a good pupil. The upcoming banquet mission made the impression of an interesting change in pace for him; a situation where he actually had to disarm to proceed. As a Hunter of High Rock, Marcel was obliged to [i]‘bear arms against foe, mundane or magic, at all times’[/i], and by his own admission he was somewhat conservative when it came to principles such as these. But he’d been taught how to stand by his principles while also adhering to the customs of the majority. As Master Diarmid used to say, when amongst Septims, do as the Septims do. So he did, by way of a small, decorated letter opener made of silver. While it had [i]some[/i] lethal capability, it was about as much as a dinner knife, and guests were privy to much more than that in the banquet. He could only thank the Gods for Hunter attire being a matter of fashion and keeping him from having to try and find new clothes, although, by Gustav’s orders, he still had to get his coat tailored further. Thankfully, Gustav had bought a tailor’s services, because of some of his comrades’ unwise investments in their clothing allowance, and Marcel knew he could cut costs there by merely buying the material necessary for a more suitable coat. While the man seemed experienced and assured Marcel that he could embroider the appropriate goldwork atop his buff coat in no time, he was rather perplexed about Marcel’s request to line chainmail into its collar until the Breton ended up unfastening his gorget and showed the man the recent and severe wounding his neck received. The transaction turned fairly quiet afterwards. There was not much more to do from that point but to wait. While he’d also spent money on a dueling doublet and also a scaled gauntlet for the banquet, these were already at hand, although the cuffs on the doublet needed trimming. Marcel decided to spend the remainder of the money on replenishing his stock of potions, adding some more vials to his satchel, and more importantly, buying some well-made pastry. After the bloodbath that was the Smuggler’s Cove, he figured that he, and everyone else, could use some sweet sugar (no, not [i]that[/i] kind of sugar) to take a load off their minds. Though he, being the one who’d thought of this sweet gesture, obviously deserved the lion’s share. Mentally adding up the costs of the necessities and the tailoring, he figured he only had around 40 Septims left from Gustav’s allowance. 15 Septims for his own food expenses, 10 Septims for some Sambocade, 10 Septims for a carafe of lemonade… those pesky alcoholics would not be able to appreciate the beverage on its own, though, would they? 5 Septims for a small glass of rum to be mixed into the carafe… and that was it, really. Excellent. He could proceed. [hr] It turned out that, unfortunately, a whole cake of proper Sambocade cost more than 10 Septims, and Marcel had to make do with only 5 Septims’ worth of pancakes to be able to afford enough for the whole party. Okay, maybe he’d eaten 10 Septims’ worth, and instead [i]sourced[/i] the rum from the store kitchen's stocks, but he was a member of the Company anyway, so there was no problem, was there? Plus, the bakery owners had generously let him keep the small vial of honey that they’d served alongside the pancake plate, and there was enough in it to flavor the cake further, in case his colleagues found the flavor of elderflower, rose and berry far too fleeting. Either way, there it was, on a tray: A carafe of thick glass, filled to the brim with ice and rum-reinforced lemonade, a knife, a vial of honey, a whole beautiful baked cheesecake on a plate, covered with raspberry and smelling of rose; and a bunch of wooden cups, for everyone to drink and be merry. He grabbed the tray firmly and walked into the dressing room, hoping to make a good memory amongst the plethora of bad ones that they’d accrued over the last few weeks.