rodeo drive, baby.

[tender]

WHO: Chaos shoppers
WHAT: Preparations for fancy party
WHEN: Mid-Kingsway
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: We're here to peer pressure Ellie and acquire some fancy clothes, folks.

The invitation had said Formal attire required.

There is, of course, some question as to what exactly "formal attire" means when it's an Orlesian issuing the invitation, but without a doubt it means a trip to a certain swath of shops in Hightown where formal attire is available in a variety of different options. Does formal attire mean dresses with hip-high slits? Does it mean a silk tunic with an abundance of ruffles? Does it mean velvet or brocade or chiffon?

The shopkeepers will be sure to advise, if given even a breath of opportunity to swoop in with their suggestions. A budget? What's that? Surely it's not applicable to such a momentous occassion. Why, just step this way, look at this garment, one of a kind, isn't the color just divine—

Comments

ellie.

[tender]

"Here," Derrica is saying, drawing Ellie along in her wake. "We can find something that can be tailored, I think."

Not a dress. The overstuffed racks lining the back wall are filled with one-offs, things unmatched or left over from earlier seasons or sporting some type of deficit or simply not quite the style favored by Hightown society.

"I know you prefer trousers, but what about colors?"

There is quite the selection to choose from. Derrica's hand has already left Ellie's back to test the fabric of a silky tunic, deep red with winding gold trim. Too fine for daily wear, but the colors—

Derrica can't justify the purchase for herself, but if Ellie is interested in red...

[notathreat]

The whole thing makes Ellie massively uncomfortable. In her own world there was never such thing as fancy. Fancy meant clean-ish clothes, the ones with the fewest patches and holes, maybe ditching sneakers and taking a brush to her boots. Dina had long-since given up in despair.

Fancy, in another life, another reality that now seems very much like a dream, she'd grown through her teenage years mired in this shit. And she'd grown to hate it with every ounce of herself. Nathan had done his best to coach her through being charming towards the sponsors, and she could, but fake-smiling her way through the upper echelons still had her stomach churning in remembered rage.

Still. Orders were orders, and Ellie was highly susceptible to Wysteria's strongly worded letters.

And she had Derrica on her side.

Actually clothes shopping is dizzying, and Ellie is trying very, very hard not to be a grump. She is not succeeding.

"Fuck if I know," Ellie mutters, looking at the vest. It seems garish as fuck, the red too bright and eye-catching. An easily-visible target.

"... blue?" she fumbles.

[tender]

"Blue," Derrica repeats, pushing the vest back among the others. "Alright, we'll find something blue."

It doesn't take very much to clock Ellie's trepidation. Whether it's the shopping or the party of some combination of both is hard to parse. Maybe Derrica could ask, but she's opted to leave it alone for the moment. She flicks a bit further, coming across greens and blacks, but no blues. Or worse, fabric that's too heavy, and Derrica knows immediately won't be comfortable for Ellie to wear all night.

It feels like a given, that whatever they pick should have room for knives, or some kind of weapon. In case of an emergency.

"When I first came to Riftwatch, we all went out to a party at an estate in Ostwick," Derrica tells her, by way of lightening the mood as she wrinkles her nose at a black velvet coat. "There was an assassin that we were meant to stop."

[notathreat]

None of the clothes really jump out at her as something she could see herself wearing. Back home she hadn't had an interest in clothes in what felt like years; she'd defaulted more and more to wearing old things of Joel's until they started to fall apart. His old shirts, his jackets...

Even before then it had been graphic t-shirts, sweatshirts, plain jeans. The only thing she really had gotten into were her sneakers, but they don't make anything like them here.

She rubs some of the velvet between her fingers, thoughtful, and when Derrica calls her back to earth, she doesn't fight the beginnings of a grin.

"That actually sounds awesome," she says in utter seriousness. "I mean, not that somebody ordered an assassin. An undercover operation. Did you get them?"

[tender]

"I think we must have. I don't really remember, exactly."

It seems like an odd thing to forget, but, well—

A small, rueful smile, one shoulder shrugging. She remembers what she'd been doing for the end of that party, and it had occupied most of her attention. But considering the night hadn't ended in tragedy but instead in everyone leaving more or less uneventfully, they must have prevented the actual assassination.

"It was a strange party," Derrica proclaims. "Romain's will be easier. All we have to do is enjoy ourselves."

Which sounds simple, even if Derrica has a suspicion that Ellie might find it a little more difficult than just arriving and going with the flow.

[notathreat]

"Must not have been that important."

Derrica would remember if anybody died, surely. Ellie gives her a thoughtful look, then reaches past her to feel a length of watered silk, letting it slip through her fingers. It's beautifully soft, and it seems to almost catch on her rough fingertips.

"How do you even wash something like this?" she mumbles. "What if you got blood on it?"