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.
