VI: Clothing

With their agreement settled, Darian reached into his satchel and pulled out a bundle of crisp paper bills, bound neatly with a string. He held them out to Senna, who eyed them warily before taking the bundle in his large hand.

"What's this for?" Senna asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Two weeks' pay in advance," Darian said casually, leaning against the table with a grin. "Figured you might need it to get yourself sorted."

Senna's eyes widened slightly as he thumbed through the stack of bills, his rough fingers brushing over the crisp paper. "This much... for two weeks?" he muttered, his tone incredulous. "I've never seen this much money in my life."

Darian chuckled, clearly amused by Senna's reaction. "That's ten Tarsian dollars," he explained. "It's not a fortune, but it's more than enough to get you what you need—proper clothes, maybe some better gear. And if you're tired of squatting in abandoned houses, you can use it to stay in one of the Seeker tents for a while. Free of charge, of course."

Senna stared at the money for a moment longer, the weight of it unfamiliar in his hands. He had spent his life in servitude, working endlessly for scraps, and now here he was—holding enough to feel like a king compared to his old life.

He looked up at Darian, his expression a mix of bewilderment and skepticism. "You're just giving me this?"

Darian shrugged, his grin widening. "You're working for me now, remember? You're risking your neck out there just like I am. It's only fair you get a proper start."

Senna shook his head slightly, still trying to process the situation. The idea of being paid, and paid well, for his work was almost too foreign to grasp. "I don't know what to say," he muttered, his voice quieter now.

"You don't have to say anything," Darian said, his tone light but sincere. "Just take care of yourself and be ready when we leave in a few days. You've got time to get what you need."

Senna nodded slowly, slipping the bundle of bills into his pocket. "Thanks," he said gruffly, the word feeling strange on his tongue.

Darian waved him off with a smile. "Don't mention it. Go get yourself sorted, Senna. You're part of the team now."

With that, Darian turned back to the maps and reports spread across the table, leaving Senna to his thoughts.

As he stepped out of the tent and into the bustling encampment, the weight of the money in his pocket felt surreal. For the first time in his life, he had more than just his strength to rely on. It was a strange, empowering feeling—and one he wasn't entirely sure he trusted.

But for now, he had what he needed. Clothes, supplies, and a tent to stay in—these were luxuries he had never dreamed of, and they were suddenly within reach.

With a deep breath, Senna began to make his way toward the markets

Turning onto a quieter street, Senna found himself in front of the clothing department. The door jingled softly as he entered, the smell of leather, fabric, and warm wood greeting him.

The fashion on display was unmistakably modern—by Tarsyn's standards, at least. The racks were filled with tailored suits and jackets, their clean lines and sharp lapels giving them a formal elegance. Coats with double-breasted fronts and polished brass buttons hung neatly on mannequins, their fabric thick and durable, suitable for travel or urban life.

Nearby, rows of waistcoats in muted tones of gray, brown, and navy were stacked neatly alongside crisp, high-collared shirts made of fine linen or cotton. Some were plain, while others featured subtle stripes or intricate patterns. The shelves above held stacks of bowler hats and flat caps, the former exuding a refined sophistication and the latter offering a more casual, working-class aesthetic.

Further along, Senna spotted racks of trousers with creases pressed so sharply they looked as though they could cut. Most were made from sturdy wool blends, their muted tones matching the jackets and waistcoats, though a few pairs were lighter, meant for summer wear.

In another section, he saw workwear—thicker fabrics and simpler cuts designed for durability rather than style. Heavy coats with deep pockets, sturdy leather belts, and boots with thick soles lined the shelves, their utilitarian designs contrasting with the elegance of the suits.

Senna's eyes drifted to the shoes displayed along the bottom rows—polished leather Oxfords, brogues with decorative perforations, and tall, laced boots meant for harsher terrain.

He moved further into the shop, noticing a section devoted to women's clothing. Dresses with high necklines and long sleeves were displayed alongside blouses and skirts, many of them adorned with lace or subtle embroidery. The colors ranged from somber blacks and grays to more cheerful shades of cream, soft blue, and burgundy.

The variety was overwhelming. Senna had never seen so many different styles in one place, let alone imagined himself owning any of it. His own rough, patched-up clothes felt woefully out of place here.

A shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed mustache and wearing an immaculate waistcoat, approached him with a polite smile. "Good day, sir. Looking for something specific, or just browsing?"

Senna hesitated, glancing around at the racks again. "I need... something sturdy," he said finally, his voice low. "For travel."

The shopkeeper nodded, gesturing toward a section of heavier coats and durable trousers. "Right this way. We have excellent options for gentlemen on the move. Anything else you'll need? A proper hat, perhaps?"

Senna followed, his gaze lingering on the rows of clothes as he tried to imagine himself wearing something new, something that didn't remind him of his past life.

"Just the basics for now," he muttered, though his mind churned with the realization that this was a luxury he had never expected to experience

The shopkeeper returned with a bundle of oversized clothing draped over his arm, offering a polite smile as he handed it to Senna. "These should suit a man of your stature, sir. The fitting rooms are just down that way," he said, gesturing toward a row of curtained alcoves at the back of the shop.

Senna nodded his thanks and made his way to the fitting rooms, his large frame navigating the narrow aisle with care. Once inside, he pulled the curtain shut and looked at the neatly folded clothes in his hands.

The set was far finer than anything he had ever worn—a high-collared shirt in crisp white, a dark brown waistcoat with subtle pinstripes, and matching trousers that looked both sturdy and stylish. A heavy coat in charcoal gray completed the ensemble, its fabric thick and tailored.

He began to change, the fabric smooth and unfamiliar against his rough hands. The shirt clung tightly to his broad shoulders, and the waistcoat was snug, its buttons straining slightly as he fastened them. The trousers were just as tight, the fabric pulling across his powerful thighs as he adjusted them into place.

When he finished, he turned to the mirror and froze.

The man staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. Gone was the dirt-streaked wanderer wrapped in a coarse blanket. In his place stood someone who looked... distinguished. The clean lines of the clothing accentuated his massive frame, giving him an imposing but refined appearance.

Senna tilted his head, running a hand over the fabric of the waistcoat. "Fancy," he muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

He turned slightly, admiring the way the coat hung from his broad shoulders, the way the trousers, though tight, gave him a sharper silhouette. He wasn't used to seeing himself like this—clean, polished, almost noble.

For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the transformation, the simple act of wearing new clothes feeling like a small victory. But the tightness of the fit reminded him that these garments weren't made for someone of his size.

Pulling the curtain aside, he stepped out, catching the shopkeeper's attention. The man's eyes widened slightly, and he quickly approached. "Ah, I see they're a bit snug," the shopkeeper said, adjusting his waistcoat nervously. "We may need to tailor them to fit you properly."

Senna glanced down at himself and nodded. "Yeah," he said simply. "But they'll do for now."

The shopkeeper smiled, clearly pleased. "You cut quite the figure, sir," he said. "If you're interested, we can have the adjustments done in a day or two. It's not every day we get a customer of your... stature."

Senna huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes drifting back to the mirror. "Yes, I would like to be adjusted," he muttered.

Senna shifted slightly as the shopkeeper bustled around him, pulling out a measuring tape and a small notebook from behind the counter. "If you'll just hold still for a moment, sir," the man said, his voice polite but focused. "I'll take some quick measurements and ensure these garments fit you perfectly."

Senna nodded, standing straighter as the shopkeeper began. The measuring tape brushed lightly over his shoulders, across his chest, and around his waist. The shopkeeper muttered numbers to himself as he jotted them down, occasionally clicking his tongue in thought.

"Goodness," the shopkeeper said with a chuckle, stepping back to take in Senna's full height. "You truly are a remarkable figure, sir. I haven't seen anyone quite your size in all my years."

Senna smirked faintly, though inwardly, he felt a surge of pride. Being admired for his stature was something he wasn't entirely used to, and it stirred something unfamiliar within him.

The shopkeeper knelt briefly, measuring the length of Senna's arms and legs with precision. "The coat will need to be lengthened here," he said, gesturing to the hem, "and the trousers taken out a touch for comfort. We'll adjust the waistcoat as well—no point in straining those buttons."

As the shopkeeper worked, Senna found himself glancing around the shop, catching sight of himself in a nearby mirror. The sight of the measuring tape draped across his shoulders, the shopkeeper's careful attention to detail—it made him feel like a noble, someone important.

'So this is what it feels like', he thought, his lips curving into a small, unguarded smile. He hadn't realized how much he'd craved moments like this—being treated with care, respect, and dignity.

The shopkeeper straightened, dusting off his hands and tucking the notebook back into his pocket. "There we are," he said with a satisfied nod. "I'll have these adjustments made and ready for you in two days' time. In the meantime, I can lend you a slightly larger coat for temporary use—it won't be as fine, but it should do the job."

Senna nodded, his voice steady despite the excitement bubbling under the surface. "Thank you," he said simply.

The shopkeeper smiled warmly. "It's my pleasure, sir. A man like you deserves attire that reflects his presence."

Senna's temporary outfit wasn't the fine, tailored clothing he had been measured for, but it was leagues ahead of anything he had worn before. The shopkeeper had provided a sturdy, dark gray coat made of a thick wool blend. It hung loosely on his broad shoulders, the hem falling just below his knees. The buttons were mismatched, and the sleeves were a touch short, revealing his wrists when he moved, but it was functional and clean.

Underneath, he wore a simple cotton shirt in off-white, the material softer than anything he had felt before. It was slightly oversized, but that only made it more comfortable. The trousers were plain brown, made of heavy fabric that fit snugly around his legs without being restrictive. Though the shopkeeper had apologized for their simplicity, Senna found them more than adequate.

The ensemble was completed with a pair of sturdy, worn leather boots that the shopkeeper had lent him, their scuffed surfaces a testament to years of use. They fit well enough, and the solid soles made his steps feel more grounded.

Senna stood in front of a tall mirror near the shop's entrance, staring at his reflection. The dark coat framed his large figure, giving him a commanding appearance, while the simple but clean clothes beneath lent him a sense of refinement he had never experienced before.

For a moment, he forgot about the tightness of the sleeves or the mismatched buttons. All he could see was the transformation—a man who had spent his life in tattered rags now dressed like someone with purpose, someone who belonged.

Senna grabbed a bowler hat from a nearby rack and placed it on his head, casting a long shadow over Senna's eyes. Now he was a true member of society and a citizen of Tarsyn.

A grin spread across his face, wide and genuine, as he turned slightly to admire himself from different angles. He felt like a child seeing himself dressed up for the first time, the joy of it bubbling over despite his attempts to remain composed.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself, his voice laced with quiet wonder.

The shopkeeper chuckled softly from behind the counter. "It may be temporary, but I dare say it suits you, sir. You look quite distinguished."

Senna glanced over his shoulder, the grin still lingering on his face. "Feels... different," he admitted. "But I like it."

The shopkeeper gestured toward the counter. "When you're ready, I'll ring it up. And if you need anything else—hats, boots, gloves—just let me know."

Senna nodded again, still getting used to the feeling of the fine fabric on his skin. 

Satisfied with his look, Senna headed to the counter where the shopkeeper was already calculating the costs on the register.

Senna noted the phonograph machine next to the shopkeeper. He had heard about such a machine that could play melodic tunes without the need of any instruments. 

He stood there, lost in the warmth of the melody, his mind drifting as the blues from the phonograph continued to fill the small shop. 

The soft crackle of the machine was a comfort, the mournful tones of the music resonating with something deep inside him. The style of music was new to him—different from the folk tunes he had heard as a child, and yet, there was something undeniably familiar about it.

He found himself lightly humming along to the rhythm, the slow, soulful cadence of the song pulling at his heart. It was a sound that spoke of hardship, of sorrow, and yet there was a quiet strength to it—something that reminded Senna of the life he had lived, the struggles he had endured.

The blues was a new genre of music emerging from the songs of slaves throughout Tarsyn. It told the stories of people who had lived through pain, loss, and oppression, but also found a way to channel their suffering into something powerful and beautiful.

Finally, the shopkeeper finished ringing up all his clothing, knocking Senna out of his stupor. 

"That will be three Tarsian dollars in total, sir," he said, his tone polite but firm.

Senna's jaw nearly dropped. "Three?" he echoed, his deep voice filled with disbelief. "For this?" He gestured at the temporary clothes he was wearing, his astonishment impossible to hide.

The shopkeeper chuckled softly, as if he had heard this reaction a hundred times before. "Fabric and craftsmanship don't come cheap, sir. These are sturdy materials, and the tailoring requires skill. I assure you, the price is fair."

Senna stared at the shopkeeper, then at the money in his pocket, the weight of the bills suddenly feeling far heavier. Three Tarsian dollars. That was nearly a third of his advance. For clothes. He couldn't believe fabric could cost so much.

His first instinct was to haggle, to push the shopkeeper for a better deal. But then he caught sight of himself in the mirror again, standing tall in his new outfit. The clothes may have been temporary, but they represented something more—a step away from his past life, a step toward something better.

He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his ill-fitting coat, and forced a smile onto his face. He had to act the part now. No longer a pauper, no longer a slave. If he was going to walk this new path, he had to carry himself like a distinguished gentleman—even if it stung.

"Three it is," Senna said, his tone calm and composed despite the internal pain. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the crisp bills.

As he handed the money to the shopkeeper, his heart felt like it was crying out in protest. But outwardly, he maintained his smile, even nodding politely as the shopkeeper took the money with a small bow.

"Thank you, sir," the shopkeeper said, tucking the bills into a cash box. "I'll have your tailored clothes ready in two days' time. Do return then, and we'll ensure everything fits perfectly."

"I'll be here," Senna replied, his voice steady.

The shopkeeper gave him a final nod of appreciation before returning to his ledger.

As Senna stepped out of the shop and into the bustling streets, the sun caught the polished buttons of his coat, casting a faint gleam. He still wore the faint smile he'd forced onto his face, but inwardly, he was still reeling.

"Three dollars," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he walked. "For fabric."

Even so, a small part of him couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt. He may have spent more than he'd wanted, but for the first time in his life, he had chosen how he looked, how he carried himself.