"No plate?" Freddie's nose wrinkles. "You want something less than the best?" She flicks a hand and shrugs, already turning away, "Suit yourself." As for no feathers, she makes no promises. What she does make is the armorer step aside so she can whisper with him, in that way where lots of hissy noises travel to make very clear that they are whispering. She gestures at Bellamy several times.

When she's finished the smith bows politely and takes a step into the back of the shop, and a minute or two later he and assistants begin streaming back out, bearing bolts of cloth and scraps of metal and measuring tapes and pads and pencils. They herd Bellamy up onto a small circular platform before several mirrors, and proceed to begin measuring and checking coloring and maker knows what. One bolt of cloth is a bright, sickly green nearly the color of the anchor in a rifter's hand. Another is a soft pink, subtly embroidered with tulips. One swatch of chain mail is striped, black and silver. Even the helm they use for sizing has multiple holes in which one might secure a feather.

It is, in short, his nightmare. Which Freddie is no doubt enjoying, as she perches not-quite sitting on the edge of a windowsill, alternating between idly watching passers-by on the street and observing the flurry of activity and Bellamy's expressions as it surrounds him.