“Remarkable! I dare say I’m the very picture of elegance in this humble wrap,” Baroness Oramande announced to the dressing room, twirling to admire herself in the mirrors. The indigo and azure Itela, tightly bound around her torso, brought order to her outfit without seeming bulky. A silver clasp glinted in the light as it held the garment together.
“Quite so, Ma’am,” her attendant, Col, agreed impassively from one side. Beside him, the gelatinous Xun tailor approached to adjust the Itela, but hesitated with a gurgle as the Baroness gave another flourish.
“Oh, this makes me feel so in tune with galactic culture! Like I really understand the Zoon. Why, I’ll surely be the centre of conversation this gala season,” she continued theatrically.
Col, inured to the Baroness’s ramblings after years of service, offered a simple “Indeed, Ma’am.”
“Except,” Oramande paused in her examinations, “If I had this in more of a gold colour, it would suit my autumn wardrobe much better.”
Glancing nervously at the tailor, who had begun to quiver and burble at this comment, Col translated that “the Xun don’t make gold Itelas, Ma’am. Yellow shades are, uh, forbidden.”
“Well, I’m certain the gentlebeing can make an exception for a generous additional sum, Col,” Oramande replied, steel creeping into her voice as she gave the tailor a disingenuous smile. Drawing breath to answer, Col saw the Xun shift in his direction suddenly. The being may have been alien, but its demeanour was unmistakable: Discomfort hardening into rage.
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