Fashions by Bolormaa - RPLOG
Participants
Date
1/4/478
Log
Donovan swaggers through the doors of the relatively new shop off of Saint's Square. "Right, here," he says, "They have toys and gewgaws, of course, but I understand that they will make just about any clothing you can ask for." The Ass holds the door for Bolormaa, more out of habit than any real flirting. "I'm sure our friends here can help you set my style straight."
Hands in pockets, glancing about nervously, Bolormaa is trying and failing to fit in to midday crowds--if that paranoia wasn't enough of a giveaway, that bright orange jumpsuit seems to make her stand out like a sore neon thumb.
And matters don't get any better as the duo enters the store--Donovan may have swaggered in, but Bo freezes in the doorway, blocking the entire thing with her body and hissing wildly--"Don! DON!"--as she holds up traffic to glare daggers at the crators behind the counter. "Don, you Ass, c'mere!" Yep, nice and discreet...
Donovan arches a brow at the strange being, but swaggers back over to Bolormaa. "What?" he asks, "There are no magic clothing makers out there." He stands just inside the door and holds his arms akimbo, hands on his hips. "What is it?"
"You didn't tell me there were HUMANS in here!" she
spits, with extra venom on the HUMANS. "They said they sent me here cuz this planet was free of fleshies!"
Donovan rolls his eyes. "It is the CREATOR Store," he says, "Of course there are. . . whatever it was you called them. I assume that is what you meant." He beckons her into the store. "They have not been here long," he says, "And they are here as individuals. Sort of like tourists, really. I understand there is a strict application process to be permitted to visit. What is the problem?"
"The /problem/ is that they're useless FASZing piles of AGUR that couldn't DYX a SOCZ if they were given a VLERWEN and some SYXTEO..." and so it continues for a minute, with Bolormaa pointing at her various scars and working herself into a frothing rage. Whatever her words mean, the Creators on duty don't seem too happy to hear it.
"Temper, temper," Donovan says cooly, "Whatever you think of them, they are the one with the clothes. Are you coming in or not?" He stands holding the door. "You are letting in the heat and I find sweating distasteful," he says, "So either grow a pair and get over it, or admit that my outfit is the finest in Haute Cauterre."
The notion of giving this wannabe the satisfaction of a compliment really got Bolormaa's goat, and with a wary eye toward the Creators, she enters. "Alright. First things first, your aesthetic is an absolute clusterDYXL. Your boots say VIBS villain, your jumpsuit says wannabe AOLXNOWUBE, and those earrings make you look like a tagged animal. Pick a piece of clothing you like the best and we'll work from there.
Donovan smirks and swaggers after the angry Angora. "Well," he says, "I suppose I have to pass up on tagged animal." He fingers his fine diamond studs. They had been rather expensive, though not nearly so expensive as his boots. "I cannot pretend to know what the other things you called me are, though I assume they were offensive." He looks to the two Creators manning the store for support. "I confess, though," he continues, "That I am rather fond of these boots. Perhaps we should start there?"
The Creators seem a little surprised to hear someone on this planet speak of references they understand, though it seems Bolormaa's initial outburst and constant evil-eye cast their way every minute or two seem to leave them reluctant to speak to her directly. They do talk among themselves about it, seeming more than a little amused.
For her part, Bo gives them a bit of the permanent sneer, then snorts at the boots. "So, you're a space cowboy?" A couple cracked teeth appear from under the split lip in a parody of a grin. "I bet we can work with that...
"Now...number two. Look at those posters." Bolormaa points an orange-clad arm to some of the pictures of Creators, presumably their native celebrities, cast in breathtaking poses with impeccable sense. "But don't copy them. There's a line between 'inspired by' and 'child playing dress-up,' and copying is the latter." Despite still casting a stink-eye towards the Creators every so often, the scruffy Goat sounds like she's actually enjoying this process...
Donovan would snort in derision, if he did that sort of thing. As if he did not know the difference between imitation and inspiration. "Fine," he says, then turns to peruse the posters of beautiful people. He slowly swaggers his way around the room, looking things over and winking at the creator woman as he gets closer to the pair at the counter. "What about that one," he asks, pointing out some sort of action hero poster. While here it might be misconstrued as an army enlistment poster, it is probably some movie star advertising their latest film.
"Hmm...Sergeant KEZWAR? Not a bad start," Bolormaa admits absently, "but I suspect you're not the sort who thrives on taking orders. Let's give you a promotion, hmm?" she murmurs, picking through a rack of pants. "No, no, no--yes, this, but not quite," she announces, pulling out a pair of olive drab slacks. The fabric seems light in the air, but not at all sheer. "There must be a better color--oh, and we'll have to get it fitted." She slings the pants rudely to the Ass, already poring over the next rack...
"Now, despite popular conception, red isn't really that good at hiding bloodstains--the dampness still shows up quite clearly. I'd recommend black, though it gets hot in the sunlight..." she says idly. paying no mind to the looks of discomfort from those nearby.
Donovan catches the tossed trousers with a frown. "I imagine that they can make whatever you like," he says, "I have seen that magic machine of theirs turn out custom made clothing faster than you can dream it up." His long ears perk up though when she mentions her color choice. "I do like black," he says, "You always know where you stand with black." He rolls his eyes at the mention of blood. "Creators above!" he says, raising an eyebrow, "What is it that you think I plan to do in these fancy new clothes?" The Ass has the pants she threw draped over one arm. "I should be more concerned about wine stains than blood!" he says. And it is true. He was a professional! Getting blood on one's clothing gave customers and clients the wrong idea.
Bolormaa pauses from glaring at the Creators to level a skeptical gaze at the Donkey. "Hmph. Suit yourself," she huffs, before pulling out a double-breasted Chesterfield coat. "This. But navy-blue. Gold trim, it'll match your WHUQOYLAM eye-paint. No epaulets, but keep the wide lapel--you getting all this, fleshies?" she snaps, a dirty glare at the employees. No wonder her owner had bossed her around so much--this felt good!
"Kerchief for the pocket, lambskin gloves...oh, and make sure to CKOZHHOWD it, in case Mister Professional here spills any...wine," she finishes with a laughing snort.
Donovan stands with hands on hips, listening to Bolormaa boss the Creator shopkeepers around. "Excellent," he says, "Although I am curious about what it was you have to say about my eyes." The Ass looks at one of the shopkeepers. "I don't suppose you care to translate any of what my verbally abusive friend here is saying?" he asks, "And before you ask, I can certainly afford whatever she is ordering." He turns back to the Goat. "And what about my earrings?" he asks, curious, "Are they too. . . animal for your tastes?"
"Well, since you asked, that brings me to point three, " she begins pleasantly enough.
"You /are/ an animal. A servant, a slave, a beast of burden, a tool--and that's all you'll ever be," she snarls darkly. Well, that didn't take long. "At best, you will amuse them. I guess you could make them fear you if you tried. But they will never respect you
," she finishes with a hiss and a smug fractured smile on her torn face.
Donovan is no longer amused. "You are quite as stupid as you look, aren't you?" he says, his eyes glinting like gold discs in the low light of the shop, "I carried through with all this because you interested me, you strange, broken creature. I confess, the clothing you have chosen is quite nice and I think I shall enjoy it." He levels a cool stare at the mad goat, holding her eyes with his own. "But do not confuse me with one of your sorry, short-lived lot," he says in a low, soft, dangerous purr. The Ass turns away and brightens as he leans over the counter to leer at the female Creator. "How much is this going to set me back, beautiful?" he asks, giving the girl a brilliant white grin.
A thousand retorts rose and died on Bolormaa's tongue as the Ass turned to set her straight. She had tuned out the words--probably empty threats or whatnot. But that voice--she knew that voice. That was the tone of 'if you don't stop it I'm going to abandon you.' And seething self-loathing misery loves company. Or rather, company didtracts from a sick mind. Reflexively, Bolormaa shrinks back and starts whimpering, those slit eyes squinted in an attempt to look pathetic, scarred mouth pulled back in terror. The world seems to melt away, leaving a tunnel between her and her sole benefactor, and she sinks into a catatonic state, simply panting and cringing with fear at the notion of crushing loneliness.
Donovan grins, apparently satisfied with what the shop keeper had to say. "Good! Good!" he says, "And I can just wait while your machine spins it out? That is marvelous!" He turns to see Bolormaa's huddled form. "Moons, girl!" he sneers, "You would think I had struck you! Now are you going to choose a new outfit or not?"
Striking would've been preferable--pain is external, and temporary. But existential dread makes his home in your mind and your soul, and comes and goes as he pleases. After a moment of sitting stock still and unresponsive, Bolormaa shudders and seems to come back to herself.
"A--wha--nuh--new outfit?" she responds, her voice taking on an oddly servile tone. "Well--hm..." she murmurs before disappearing into an an aisle. She emerges a short time later with an armful of things in various shades of black--from the matte grayish-black of a leather jacket and chaps, both studded with numerous, (relatively-)harmless metallized pyramid spikes, to a ridiculously revealing vest and scandalously short miniskirt, both a blindingly shiny black "creator fabric" (PVC, in this case). "If...you would," she murmurs, still seeming a bit lost in herself as she dumps this besides Donovan's load.
Donovan looks over Bolormaa's selections and nods in approval. "You always know where you stand with black," he says, "Much better than those gaudy rags you have now! We will still need to get you cleaned up a bit before you are really, ready, but I find a new wardrobe does wonders!" He lifts up the revealing clothing and grins that white, buck-toothed grin. "How scandalous!" he says, but he says it approvingly, "Yes, I think you will fit in nicely!"
"Well, I should hope so, I know my sizing," Bolormaa replies drolly, offering a snivelling little chuckle. At the cold response from Donovan and the bemused stares of the Creators she had been sneering at all day, she seems to return to her previous hateful self, sneering at the lot. "What do you mean, 'fit'?" she sneers at Donovan petulantly, looking at her choices and second-guessing them.
"At the party, of course," he says, his earlier coldness a distant memory, he is back to his normal sleepy coolness, "You should fit in well with the swingers and the movers I plan to introduce you to. I think there is a definite place for you in the organization I represent and I intend to wine and dine you and show off my new clothes." The Ass tosses a pouch of crown onto the counter without counting. "If you can lose the gloom and doom attitude, or at least keep it to yourself in public, I see a bright future for you, Bolormaa," he says.
Of all the cock-eyed looks Bolormaa has given beings over the past few days, the one she has for Donovan must be one of the wildest. One eyebrow raised, then the next, nose scrunched like she's gravely offended, and the mouth caught halfway open.%"Bwhat? Future? BAAaahahaAHAAH!..." There goes that black-hearted, bleating laugh again--though it results in the strangest faces, as she constantly tries to keep a straight face and distrustful glare at the Creators working the shop, punctuated with hysterical but oddly mirthless giggling fits. "Gotta do something...to mark time 'til I die, huh?" she exclaims between choking laughs, clapping a hand roughly on Donovan's shoulder to keep herself upright. Apparently, her mortality is the greatest joke she's ever heard.
Of all the cock-eyed looks Bolormaa has given beings over the past few days, the one she has for Donovan must be one of the wildest. One eyebrow raised, then the next, nose scrunched like she's gravely offended, and the mouth caught halfway open.
"Bwhat? Future? BAAaahahaAHAAH!..." There goes that black-hearted, bleating laugh again--though it results in the strangest faces, as she constantly tries to keep a straight face and distrustful glare at the Creators working the shop, punctuated with hysterical but oddly mirthless giggling fits. "Gotta do something...to mark time 'til I die, huh?" she exclaims between choking laughs, clapping a hand roughly on Donovan's shoulder to keep herself upright. Apparently, her mortality is the greatest joke she's ever heard.
A haunted, hunted look appears in Donovan's eyes at Bolormaa's commentary on mortality. "Yes," he says firmly, then turns to take his freshly minted clothing from the counter in its neat packaging. He does not bother to brush Bolormaa away, not seeming to mind the contact. "The point, though, my dear Bolormaa," he says, regaining his composure, "Is to mark the time as extravagantly as possible. There are those who cower and fear the inevitable end. But I will not take it lying down." He smirks at the goat, the ghost gone from his golden eyes. "In fact, I plan to meet death on my feet with a glass of fine wine in one hand, a beautiful girl on my arm, and singing a Marsellaise," he holds out his arm as if to a Lady, "Interested?"
Bolormaa is too wrapped up in her own hysterics to notice the sudden sobriety that grips her unlikely companion. Which is a shame--she'd wanted to see that arrogant Ass brought down a peg this whole time today. Her extended cackling does seem to have lifted her spirits, though, and made her far more amenable to...well, just about any suggestion.
"Yeah?" she says, unmasked envy in her voice. "You can grow old enough that your bones might fail you. Thanks to the HUMANS that...made me, I'm a ticking RUNVINV waiting to go off." Despite the obvious bitterness towards Don in her voice, though, she digs her fingers into his forearm with one hand and coils the opposite arm tightly around the offered elbow--and if he's paying any sort of attention, he might notice she's mostly fluff, and surprisingly lank underneath all that hair.
Donovan leads Bolormaa out of the store. "We could stop and have your hair done before we go," he says, "If you like. I think you will like this place. If they don't know about your strange drinks, then they will make something that will curl your hair anyway!" The Ass leads the way, talking pleasantly and smoothly to the goat as if to a skittish animal or frightened child, and Bolormaa is certainky a little of both.
