Mister Scratch, the raften fella I'd helped in Hightown a few days before proved to be a man of his word. As soon as I stepped into the fancy boutique right off the main road in the city's rich district I was greeted with a wave and a warm smile. The raften woman behind the counter was about Shorty's height, her fur a greying brown and her eyes a soft, almost lavender. Her clothes were tailored, but not overly fancy. Her's was style that didn't need any bells and whistles. The kind of simple elegance that took money, and taste, to pull off.

  "Ah, I know you," she said with a wide smile, "My brother mentioned a scruffy looking young man might soon visit. What can I help you with Mister...?"

  "Roche, and I'm not sure yet. I've got a bit of a list," I said, diggin' around in my pocket.

  Shorty and Raph followed me in a breath later and got a similar, if slightly less warm, welcome.

  "Greetings, all people of good will and honest intent are always welcome. Are the gentleman and lady with you Mister Roche? My brother's promise of recompense does not extend to-"

  "Yeah, yeah," I cut her off, not needin' the explanation, "John promised me some new clothes, not me and all my friends. Don't think me a flimflammer ma'am. My associates will pay their own damn bills, not you, or me." I said, sparing a glare toward Shorty as the red scaled woman pinched the hem of a particularly expensive looking jacket.

  The shopkeep laughed, a genuine, hearty thing, "Of course, of course. Now, please tell me about this list of yours Mister Roche. And feel free to call me Miss Dot."

  I gave a polite nod and handed her the piece of paper.

  "Ah, a full suit, new duster, new hat," she spared a glance toward my boots then withdrew a pen and wrote, "new boots, and a... new gunbelt. I can do all of that. And I can recommend an armorer to replace that tatty vest. I don't work hide or scale, only good silk and fine cloth."

  As she finished her spiel Miss Dot grabbed a long length of marked string and walked toward me, her arms outstretched.

  "If you would please," she muttered, loopin' the thread around my neck and chest. She measured each of my limbs and waist with the same length of string.

  "Uh," I started, stiffening as she moved lower, wrapping me up just a bit too high for comfort. When she tucked a claw around one leg and then drew the string around my nether I damn near jumped outta my skin, "hey, hey! What're you-!"

  Miss Dot paused, her face in a stern frown, "You want it to fit properly don't you?"

  "Well, uh, I mean..."

  She snorted, "Then hold still young man. I assure you, this is all part of the service."

  "It is Roche. She needs your inseam and to check which way your dress, otherwise you'll be in a bind when it comes to trousers."

  "What?"

  "The way you cast your line, Roche," Shorty said absently, now invested in inspecting a small collection of frilly belts. Not leather, but a strange, iridescent lace. Likely something mana infused, the way they shimmered under the light.

  "Uh, sure. But you'll need to, uh,"

  Dot grabbed a handful of my ass and squeezed, "I'm a professional, Mister Roche. If you could stop fidgeting and allow me to do my work."

  I was frozen, stunned and unable to even protest. Is this the wicked shit rich folk did every time they bought a new pair of drawers? Was this kind of... casual, contact, normal?

  Why the hell did they even bother with whore houses then? Seemed like a tailor was perfectly willin' to do a bit of squeezin' and pinchin' and proddin', and all for free.

  Then again, I'd prefer a pretty Southern girl to 'ol Miss Dot, no matter how skilled her hands.

  After a minute or so of the tailor's fussin' and my silent fumin' the woman stepped back and began scribbling notes on her own notepad.

  "You've an odd build, Mister Roche. Lot of muscle for being rather short."

  "Hey," I growled, "watch who you're callin' short. I'm the tallest person in this room."

  "Scarcely," Raph commented as he tried on fancy feather hats near the counter, "and two of us have Outsider blood. What's your excuse?"

  "Fuck you," I shot back, but it was without heat. He wasn't wrong.

  "Mind your tongue in my shop, boy. This isn't a tavern. I don't care what my brother owes you. I will toss you out on your rear if you can't act civilized."

  A memory flashed through my mind. My mama's meanest look and the taste of cheap soap.

  "Um, sorry ma'am."

  "Hmph," she huffed, "well, as I was saying, you've a strange shape. I assume those gloves are concealing some mutation? Your arms are much too thick for the rest of your frame otherwise."

  I gave her a searchin' look. While most folk in the frontier had so far been tolerant of my changes, I was still keenly aware that the Chantry might have a different view of things. Folk like Shorty got a pass, she was born the way she was and had friends in the right circles. I, on the other hand, had made these choices.

  There was a difference, in the minds of some, between being inflicted with inhumanity or so-called deformity, and willingly changin' oneself.

  "Yeah," I said, "that's the case. I'd prefer that confidential though. No offense."

  "None taken," Dorthy said waving me toward the back of the store. There stood two doors set into the far wall of the smallish boutique. One labeled with a dress, the other a suit, "it will take me a few minutes to fabricate something suitable. Do you have a prefer color palette, material, and cut? A general idea will suffice. My Abilities are keenly suited for crafting, and the results will be more to your liking than anything else you'll find in this city. I guarantee that. You'll look like a man, and not an overgrown boy."

  "Um, thanks? I guess," I muttered, not really sure how to react to such a blunt assessment, "but I don't know shit about-"

  "Green," called Shorty as she made for the other door, a pair of trousers and a stiff looking collared shirt in hand, "he always wears green."

  "And something stain resistant," Raph added as he stared at himself in a nearby mirror, "dear Roche often finds himself in the thick of things."

  "Stain resistant?" the old raften woman said with a nod, "and probably cut for breathability and freedom of movement. I'll assume you go out into the dunes often enough to justify that. And that bow in your gait suggests a rider, so something comfortable in the saddle. Good." She clapped me on the back, "go and strip now, or you can watch me work. Either way it will be just a moment."

  I elected to wait a tick. Her mention of an Ability specifically for craftin' had me interested. I knew folk walked all sorts of Paths, not everyone came up through blood and struggle like me, or presumably, Raph. Some people actually worked for a living.

  I waited and watched as the woman moved about her shop, snatching bolts of fabric from racks and shelves before depositing them on her counter. She then retrieved a needle and a length of silvery thread. I suspected most folk never saw the truth of what a tailor did, it was damn subtle that even my Arcane Eye struggled to notice impossibly fine threads of mana that she invested in every stitch.

  It wasn't so much that she assembled the garment with just magic, though she did seem to use some kinesis to size, cut and sew, but more than that the threads themselves seemed to want for the shape she had in mind. All those disparate wisps of mana searched for each other, and the way they bound together, well, it was like the cloth was alive.

  The whole process took about ten minutes. And I never took my eyes off the old raften's work.

  It was rare for me to care much for the details. I could appreciate fine craftsmanship, especially with a firearm, but when it came to puttin' it together I would be the first to admit I was out of my lane. Here though, watchin' Miss Dot work her magic, well, it was like a revelation. Something in me seemed to latch onto it, some understanding of the word clickin' into place as she finished.

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  It was an epiphany, a small one, but I knew instantly that the spectacle had somehow improved my Arcane Eye. I peeked just a little into the intricacies of magic. And was more for it.

  When she handed over the folded jacket, trousers, and hat I inspected them and noticed mana woven right in with the threads.

  "Well isn't that somethin'," I said lookin' down to the older woman, "thank you ma'am. To be honest, I think you might have overpaid on behalf your brother. This is... beyond words."

  She snorted and waved me away.

  "Try them on before you go and get all mushy, boy. I didn't spend all that time and effort just to have the coat not fit. And leave your boots outside. I will tend to those as well."

  I gave her a sheepish grin and slipped into the changing room.

  When I stepped back out, barefoot and a tad embarrassed, I was met with the wide-eyed stares of both of my companions.

  "What?"

  "You look good Roche," Raph said, "very, um, professional." The man swallowed hard and looked away.

  "Yeah..." Shorty said, blinking rapid fire like she was starin' into the noon sun, "oh gods, I think I understand."

  I frowned and turned toward the mirror.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  I did look good. For a moment I thought I was lookin' at my own daddy. But where that old soldier was swarthy and tanned, I was fair, my hair too straight and my features too sharp. My green eyes matched the emerald accents of the shirt and coat, the dark charcoal grey of the jacket and trousers a perfect match to the black leather gloves.

  I could see a little of Dot's magic bleedin' into the air as I hung the hunter's green Windcrest hat on my head.

  I smiled, not just cause I knew I had been given something of real value, but because I was finally wearin' a hat fit for a man.

  My daddy had been Imperial Cavalry, a soldier of fortune that made his way to the frontier by the end of the Reclamation. He had a hat more than a bit like mine. One I would've inherited had I not gone and thrown my life away. It was tradition, see, for a son to take the father's hat and wear it into battle.

  I hadn't realized how much I wanted it, needed it, until the moment I had it.

  "You okay Roche?" asked Shorty in a low, hesitant tone, "you're, uh, you're crying."

  I sniffed and tore my eyes from the mirror, sullying my new sleeve with some water that must've dripped from the ceiling and onto my cheeks.

  "I'm fine. Must be rainin' outside is all."

  Raph looked at me seriously, "Oh yes. I think you're right. It is the season for it after all."

  "Exactly. And, um, well, how about them boots Miss Dot? Let's see what ya got there."

  The old woman snorted and handed over the new pair of footwear.

  They were black, polished and well-made, but there was something strange about them. They seemed to shift under the light, like oil, like the night sky, the color shifting and the pattern rippling.

  "These now, these aren't free, young man. I won't accept that bill of John's for them, and the only reason I've got them for sale is because a client cancelled their order. These are special. These are made of nightmoth scales, treated and polished, made by that armorer friend I mentioned. Two thousand gold."

  I choked, almost dropping the priceless boots, "Two thousand?!"

  "Yup," she said with a smirk, "and they're worth every copper. Nightmoth's secret a special type of mana from their scales, they drink sound and swallow light, leaving only the quiet and the dark. And I don't mean anything rude in saying this, but if you're acquainted with my brother, I suspect such a boon will come in handy."

  "Well," I grabbed the back of my neck and gave her a sorry look, "that sounds mighty useful ma'am, but I got a lot of gear to buy. I have to outfit little red there too," I said jabbing a thumb at the changing room that Shorty still occupied, "two thousand is a bit outside my price range."

  "Hmm," Dot rubbed her chin, her eyes darting between me and the boots, "how about fifteen hundred, and a promise?"

  "What kind of promise?"

  "You get the rest of your gear from that friend I mentioned. In fact, I would ask that you only buy his armor when In Agustus' Hope, no matter what. Lately there have been a few folk in the Merchants Guild who have made it very hard for him to conduct business, and a man's gotta eat."

  "Why is that?"

  "That's not for me to say," Dot said, her eyes narrowing, "and not at all important for our deal. I assure you he is a quality armorer and an honest man."

  I looked over at Raph who only shrugged, "If he is a Guilded merchant and comes with a recommendation from Miss Dot here, then he will be as reputable as can be. While I haven't had the pleasure of purchasing from her establishment until now, this is the only boutique my mother ever used in the city."

  Dot's eyes lit up in realization, a gentle smile cross her face, her ears flicking in a way I'd never seen a raften's do before, "Ah, you're one of the Della Luna's! Why didn't you say so earlier boy? Is Miss Esmee is your mother, no? I can see her lovely features in your face."

  Raph gave the tailor a deep bow, "Just so."

  "Well, trust your friend Mister Roche. His mother is a persnickety customer indeed. She also frequents this associate of mine. And that is all I can say on the subject."

  I nodded, still a bit uncertain, but willing to let the matter drop.

  "Alright. Fifteen hundred. It wasn't like I'd leave here without payin' something, not in good conscience..." I muttered as I counted out the embarrassing number of promissory notes onto the table.

  Buy these.

  Whispered a greedy little voice in the back of my head.

  Did I really need them though?

  No. Not really.

  But… I had the gold, so. What was one little reward for old Lorcan Roche?

  I let Raph and Shorty do their own business next. The former purchased a stylish hat, a long coat with an attached scarf and a pair of new shoes, all black and silver.

  He looked, uh, good. Real good.

  Shorty picked up a pair of tall leather boots, a wide belt and a set of soft pants that were cut like the trousers I wore. Fairly practical stuff, to my surprise. Each of them paid and then the three of us made a polite exit into the streets of Hightown.

  By now most of the usual denizens were indoors, havin' cocktail parties and waintin' on other folk to cook their dinner. Only a few of those 'other folk' were still out and about.

  Servants and slaves, most of them Outcast with the odd human or Pardaz in the mix, walked the streets with heavy sacks or pushcarts full of groceries and goods. Reminded me that I did, in fact, hate this half of Agustus' Hope. While the obvious divide wasn't quite as stark here, all the servants and slaves were well fed and well dressed, I couldn't help but think of the workers down in the docs.

  No matter where you were in this damned city, there was proof that not everyone was equal. And without change, no one ever would be.

  The three of us followed the directions of Miss Dot's scrawled map. It led down a set of stairs near her boutique and into the other half of Hightown, down into the Cellar. I thought briefly of Miss Dierdre. I hoped the friendly fleshcrafter was doin' well, and that her association with the Flock hadn't caused her much hassle.

  We navigated through the maze of near identical reinforced doors until we came to one that bore a simple sign. I froze as I read it, and had to scratch my head in good old fashion bafflement.

  Scaras Arms and Armor.

  "There's a godsdamned Scaras here in Augusts' Hope?" I asked to my companions.

  "Pardon?" asked Raph, a subtle frown on his pretty lips.

  Damn he looked good with that coat.

  "You know," said Shorty, looking at me with a raised brow ridge, "I think this is the first time you know something I don't."

  I stared at her, then Raph, then her again.

  "How the fuck do neither of you not know what the Scaras are?" I asked, half thinkin' they were playin' a joke on me, "ain't none of ya'll read the old sagas? Never heard of the Great Desert's greatest people?"

  "You mean the desert tribes?" Raph asked, "like the Pardaz and the halfling nomads?"

  I scoffed, "Damn. I guess I am the only one here who knows. Let me serve you two smarty pants a slice of history," I cleared my throat, baskin' in the feeling of being the teacher for once, "the Scaras are the original people of the desert, way before the Pardaz princes, the halfling tribes or the Southern humans colonized Kairnwoad, there was the Scaras and their hives."

  "Hives?"

  "Yep. They work together, share minds and such. Share lifetimes of skills and Abilities."

  Shorty frowned, "How the hell do you know about them?"

  I smirked and tapped the side of my head, "I read the scriptures Shorty. They, the Scaras, helped forge the blades of a hundred worthy Saints. They're a godsdamn, legend." I paused and looked again at the sign. It was a little faded, the wood rotted, the paint chippin' and scratched. Even the door had some rust at the hinges, and this section of hall was a little dustier than all the rest.

  "Well," I muttered, "they were. Doesn't seem like they're fairin' well here in the New World."

  I shrugged, who cares if the dipshits here in Augustus' Hope didn't appreciate the Scaras. I could.

  And so I knocked on the door.

  After a minute or so, there was a clangin' and hiss of chitin on chitin. The sound made me grin in anticipation. All the stories talked about the queer way the legendary smiths moved, like their bodies were a single organism.

  As the door slid open a wave of heat rolled forth, stinging my eyes and burnin' the air in my lungs.

  In the dim, orange light of a runnin' forge a wave of glitterin' black rose up.

  Shorty and Raph both too a step back as a million skittering, chitinous legs scurried to find positions in the mass. In seconds, the hive had formed into the vague figure of a man, towering over all who stood at it's door. It's face was only the barest approximation of humanity. Two pits of darkness for eye, and a wide valley of insectile bodies for its smiling grin.

  It offered a hand, and then, in the words of countless, hissing minds, it spoke without words, "Greetings. We forge for the worthy. Are you?"

  As I gripped the multitude of obsidian claws and shook, I knew, with an absolute surety, that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

  Happenstance had led me to legend, and I'd be damned if I was anything but fit in the countless eyes of The Myth-Forge Swarm.

  "You better fuckin' bet I am." I said with a hungry grin.