Chapter 49.4

The man did something that might have been a roll of his shoulders—perhaps in discomfort or just to resettle his extravagant outfit—except he did not seem to have any, so it appeared as if his stick-like arms had momentarily drifted up his torso.  Then, he dipped below the counter to retrieve an enormous hat and began fastidiously dusting it off.

“I see you have managed to lose those rags you were wearing before,” he continued in his own language.  “Much as I dislike seeing all those jiggling… lumps your women seem so proud of, it is a marked improvement.”

For a moment, I was half-afraid the targets of his scorn might say or do something regrettable.  And I was half-tempted to let them.  This guy…

However, to my surprise, neither of them seemed to give a rat’s fart about his opinions.  They made no move to cover themselves.  Nor did they hiss or growl as they often did when challenged.  The man might as well have been a disgruntled bug in their eyes.

Then again, they were not smiling, either.

“My women have very nice lumps, thank you very much,” I said finally, not quite able to suppress my irritation.  And from the series of provocative smiles and poses going on along my peripheral, much to certain individuals’ amusement.  “And you’re welcome!”

He shrugged… I think.

“Yes, very good, I’m sure,” he drawled before gesturing toward Lynnria.  “This one is new.  Seems familiar, though.”

She glanced at us, mystified, before addressing the man.  “I’m… sorry.  I don’t speak your language… sir?  Ma’am?  F-forgive me, I’m not even sure what kind you hail from.”

His left eyebrow rose so quickly, it was difficult to tell it had even moved.  I almost thought I heard a little poink accompanying the gesture.

“You don’t recognize him?” I asked.  “He’s a tailor from your hometown.”

“Oh, and because I’m a local, I’m just supposed to know everybody?”  She shook her head teasingly.  “Besides, I’ve only lived in Raialie for a little over a year.”

The tailor scratched at a spot just below his mouth approximately where his chin ought to be.  If he had one.  “A year, you say?  Hmm… by any chanze, deed you wonze leeve in Bradfirth?”

Lynnria hesitated and began studying the floor.  “I may have… passed through there.  Once.”

Both of the Dolilim glanced at her before sending me a significant look.  Not that they had needed to.  She might as well have just held up a sign:

Hi!  I’m Lynnria.  And I’m keeping secrets!

But her act seemed good enough for the tailor.

“Zat must be eet,” he murmured.

His eyes flickered to my poor attempt at a loin cloth.  I could not describe the look that passed over his face, but nauseated might be the closest.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to finish your commission?” he said, again in his own language.  “I had just started on it when this whole debacle began.  It’s in the back room, so we’ll have to wait for the poison gas to clear.”

Arx perked up.  “Poison?  We can handle poison if you need us to retrieve something for you.”

The tailor favored her with a condescending look before tapping at some sort of invisible barrier just over the counter.  “I’m sure you could.  But as you can see, that isn’t exactly possible.  I am trapped here, yes?  Forced to work as a shopkeeper for the Dungeon’s pleasure until I complete my assignment.”

“And with poison in the back room, you have to stand behind the counter while spikes come down on you?” I asked, horrified.  The guy was kind of a prick, but that did not mean I wanted to see him suffer.  “Until what?  Someone happens to wander in?”

“I will admit, they move slowly.  And I can drive them back.  Irritating as that might be.”  He pressed a hand to his chest and let out a wretched sigh before reaching below the counter to present a half-finished chemise.  Shaking it angrily, he sobbed, “I have been made to knit! Can you imagine?!  Me?  A tailor of my caliber?”

I glanced up at the spikes above.  “You have to knit… to keep from dying?”

He merely nodded, still too emotional to reply.

Man… Crafting Classes have it rough. It was like a cross between a sweat shop and the Temple of Doom in here.

“So what happened afore we came in?” Jax asked dryly.  “Too good for a knitting needle, was ye?  Couldn’t handle it no more?”

He looked down… his face at her.  “I’ll have you know, I hadn’t slept since I got here!  I must have drifted off.  My only reprieve from the constant knitting is when a group of you types come in, and all they ever want is for me to do more work!  None of them ever seem to care even a whit for my art, either.  It’s been nothing but patchwork on sweat-soaked, bloody underclothes for days!”

“Ach, ye poor fannybaws.  Me heart aches fer ye.  Truly.”

From her deadpan delivery, Jax might as well have been holding up a sign of her own.  But hers simply read:

Twat.

Because apparently, my imagination was being directed by Tex Avery this afternoon.

“So you have seen other Questers,” I said.  “From Raialie?”

He performed another of his shoulder-less shrugs.  “You are the first I have recognized.  Not all have spoken a language I am familiar with.”

Hmm…

I turned to Arx.  “Raialie is pretty deep into laoi territory, right?  Would there be any Questers there who are unable to speak the language?”

“It’s… possible,” she allowed.  “Questers range pretty far afield in search of Mouths.  But I doubt they’d travel all the way there without at least someone with a translation ability.”

About then, a soft chime sounded from the back.

“That would be the poison clearing,” the tailor informed us, effectively cutting off that line of questioning.  However, he made no move toward the door.  From his distracted tapping at the counter, he seemed to want something.  “Perhaps, you aren’t in… too much of a hurry?”

And here it comes…

I folded my arms.  “Somewhat.  Why?”

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So, funny story.  When I was trying to input a prompt for the AI to come up with a picture for this chapter, I was initially trying to generate a portrait of the tailor.  However, 'pencil-thin man with yellow skin and an extravagant feathered hat' returned a lot of... racially unfortunate stereotypes.

This is the end of chapter 49.  Decided to cut it a bit short this time.  Too many long chapters in a row!  See you next time with chapter 50!

We're almost there, folks!