it's quite famous in fancy
When Mòrag considered the various populations on Alrest that demonstrated a vested interest in increasing their proximity to Brighid, she found that this esteemed group included, in general, everyone save Urayan soldiers and those Lindwurm who didn't see an opportunity to take her down (Brionac viewed her as a fitting piece of the militaristic prowess of the empire).
It was a natural, understandable inclination. Brighid's presence was intoxicating, otherworldly and yet wholly grounded, present and real. She received respect that, even when it was feigned, carpeted the floor underneath her crystalline heels. Every Blade was special, but Brighid found herself continually flattered the specialest yet, even with the Aegis walking the Titans once more.
Everyone wanted to be within striking distance of the Jewel. They just didn't so much care for the Special Inquisitor who traveled with her. But that was all very well to Mòrag, who would rather pick her own company (a company that did not include rowdy and randy male soldiers, though the female soldiers weren't always so much better). And Brighid would, too; she just had broader options to consider.
And so, ardent admirers as wildlife aside, Mòrag also knew without having to question it that the very fabric of Brighid's dress clung to her with abandon and alacrity, both frontside and backside alike.
It wasn't much of a dress, was it? That is to say, it was, of course it was, fabulously fit and flared with those luxurious ruffles and elongating pleats. The slight gradient from the bodice to the skirt balanced Brighid's upper half with her lower half perfectly. Of course, the sleeveless cut was an obvious choice.
Mòrag would never flatter herself one with an epicurean taste in clothing, though she also wouldn't deem herself a total novice who knew nothing just because she chose the military uniform as her practical standard (and nothing any flouncier for the rare occasions when she was truly off-duty). There must have been layers upon layers of additional detail in the design of Brighid's regalia that escaped her, and possibly even Brighid herself.
And yet, regardless of the Jewel's prominently featured element, it was a little light for wintry journeys, was it not?
As part of her grudging truce with the playwright, Mòrag thought she might ask Cole about it, knowledgable as he seemed to be about...well, everything. And epicureanly so, too.
It was a little bit too convenient, too hand-in-every-pot connected of him, that Cole's recommendation of vendor was situated in Alba Cavanich directly, and Mòrag had never known. Though, it wasn't quite "directly" since the seamster was Tantalese. And thus, Mòrag had to wonder if Cole wasn't just pairing two dots together and calling it done.
He was a young man, this Factavian, with a fuller face and rounder strands of hair framing it, all cut to a bob of about chin-length. Mòrag knew her first measure of this man would be how his own clothing struck her, and though she knew little of the Tantalese people who didn't dress as audaciously as Zeke, she had to admit that the craftsman had tailored his suit, as it were, well. The geometric lines of the traditional symbology gave direction to a tunic with a higher, belted waist whose line matched those of the lighter half-length sleeves. He wore no hat, but the lack of structured collar made one irrelevant, to give weight to the head.
At the very least, he had an eye for interest, and a shift in textiles between climates.
When Cole didn't make a move to snag Factavian's attention, it was Mòrag who cleared her throat and offered a mild "Hello."
Factavian's head snapped up, and he regarded the newcomers with a cocked head and slightly slackened jaw.
"You're a tailor, yes?"
"Seamster," corrected the man.
"And he's union, too," noted Cole, non-sequituriously and to no one.
With a bite of his lip, Factavian looked Mòrag up and down. "You've business with me? Unless you're meaning to haberdash your gentleman friend, I don't see what I can do."
Mòrag chose to take this as a compliment, and ignore the reference to the dubious gentleman who waited behind her rubbing elbows with Brighid. Brighid herself had been quietly amused by the whole idea, and said that she wouldn't say no to a little...strategic variation in vestments.
"We're planning a journey to Tantal," Brighid explained, taking over at last. To Factavian's blanched look, she continued, "I'd like to enjoy in a fashion somewhat...less military, more luxury. But the weather, of course, is a substantial change to what we have here, as you yourself have adapted."
He nodded assiduously. "Indeed! But then, for the lady..."
Doubtless it was the arms that stumped him.
"I leave that up to you," replied Brighid smoothly. "Be it a poncho, a stole, a bolero...you are not just a tailor, so the design is up to you."
Mòrag breathed a sigh of relief that Brighid didn't top off her beguiling adroitness with a promise to reward Factavian handsomely. He would, of course, be compensated as he deserved, for materials as well as labor and intellect.
Speaking of: "We would be willing to procure any materials you might need." Brighid in particular was partial to certain fastenings, which Mòrag could quite understand.
"You..." Factavian looked puzzled for a moment, as if the idea that he was not being solely used for his talent in profession were foreign to him. But, he swiftly recovered, according to his workman's pride. "If you'll just let me take care of that..." And then he disappeared into the recesses of his stall, rummaging through a chest.
"Charming fellow, isn't he?"
"Who, Factavian?" Cole waved away the worry. "No, no. He might act a little sneery, but he's alright. Besides, nobody'll do your Tantalese Velvet better than him."
In fact, the not-so-humble post-Tornan tailor reminded Cole not insignificantly of Vez, who'd gone with Flora to wait in Leftheria for Addam and thus very likely bore no relation to this present-day personage. From red-helmed to red-haired. Vez had never been haughty, to be sure, though he could get uptight when folks poked in admonishing about how to do his job.
And wouldn't you get nervous, if you'd peeked out beyond the bounds of your kingdom's comparatively weak isolationist imagination, as a just-in-case for whatever should fall out from Indol, and it turned out your trade was being trampled on by Ardainian noblewomen?
No, let him his pride. As Cole had averred, Factavian the Fine had earned it.