Council of Well-Dressed Individuals

“Here we are,” Willow announced grandly, sweeping her good arm toward the rows of storefronts like it was a trial of courage. “The real test of character.”

Bart immediately thrust out his chest as if he were a bodybuilder. “At last! A proving ground where only the bold survive. Fashion, thy judgment awaits.”

“Please don’t make this weird.” Gus muttered, already eyeing the sturdier-looking shops that displayed travel coats and boots in the windows.

Nyra adjusted her jacket with a delicate sniff. “If you insist on wasting time in one store, than it better be a truly spectacular outfit."

"Oh, don't think you aren't getting an outfit either, Nyra." Willow said, grabbing her arm as she dragged the group to the first store.

Nyra stiffened, heels clicking against the cobblestones as she tried to dig in. Her cheeks were very pink now. “Excuse me? Absolutely not. I am not participating in… whatever this is.”

Willow smirked, tugging her toward the shop anyway. “Too late, you’re already part of this mission. If Joren jumps, you jump with him.”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside. Rows of clothes and outfits lined the walls in cascading colors, mannequins stood dressed in everything from polished military jackets to garish festival wear. A tailor’s apprentice looked up, eyes brightening at the sight of potential customers.

In this particular shop, it was more a mix and match of existing things, similar to a thrift store. Not that anyone except Nyra was familiar with them, which she only visited once when she was very young. “Okay,” Willow declared, steering Nyra toward a rack of soft fabrics, “girls’ side. We’ll reconvene for the big reveal.”

Her pouty face returned, but she didn’t resist when Willow hooked her arm. “This is a misuse of departmental time,” Nyra muttered, even as her gaze snagged on a row of pale fabrics that caught the light like water.

The group split up, Willow and Nyra deciding to stick together. Dressing rooms lined the store, letting them keep their outfit a secret until the big reveal. The others drifted the opposite way, into the jumble of leather, denim, and strange lines.

“Rules,” Gus said, already sorting hangers by size. “If it doesn’t have pockets, I’m not trying it.”

“Spoken like a philosopher,” Bart replied, plucking something from a high rack with the flourish of a stage magician. “Behold! A cloak that whispers of midnight roads and tainted hearts.”

Joren trailed behind them, running his good hand over a rack without paying much attention. His fingers caught on heavy fabric, then something ridiculously shiny, then something filled with holes. He shrugged and pulled them all, piling them into his arm.

Bart dove headfirst into another section and emerged tangled in a bundle of belts and scarves. “Perfect.” he muttered, as if fate itself had asked him about them.

“You’re not even checking sizes,” Gus pointed out. He grabbed the first neat jacket in his reach, then added a pair of trousers that looked at least one size too big. “I’m not helping you if it doesn’t fit.”

“That is the tailor’s problem.” Bart said solemnly, scooping up a pair of boots from a display that didn’t even look remotely his size.

By the time they reached the dressing rooms, each of them carried a mismatched stack of fabrics and accessories that could’ve belonged to three entirely different people.

The tailor’s apprentice handed out numbers for the stalls, clearly second-guessing his decision to let this group in. Bart saluted him like a knight receiving a sacred quest before disappearing behind a curtain.

The shop quieted for all of ten seconds before the noise began.

“Why are there so many buttons?” Joren’s muffled voice floated out. “I can’t even figure out which side is the front.”

“Try harder,” Gus grumbled from the next stall over. “This suit feels like it’s strangling me. Who designed this, a sadist?”

"Oh no..." Gus said not a second later, "I think this is a gimp suit or something. I look like a catburgler."

Bart, of course, was thriving. His curtain swayed dangerously as he spun inside. “Behold, my transformation has begun! The cocoon unravels, the butterfly prepares to—oh shoot, this sleeve is backwards.”

A belt flew over the top of his stall and landed on Gus’s head with a loud tink. Gus tossed it back over with a growl. “Stop throwing things. That hurt...”

“It was a gift,” Bart said with grave dignity. “The missing piece to your ensemble.”

Joren let out a laugh that dissolved quickly into a groan. “This thing weighs more than armor. And the collar—do I look like I should be reciting poetry? I think it's a jester's outfit. Oh, there's the shoes for it too."

The apprentice peeked nervously down the row, only to hear Gus mutter darkly: “If one more button pokes me, I'm ripping this thing in half."

“Gentlemen!” Bart cried, curtain flapping as he struck a pose no one could see. “We are not here to complain, we are here to ascend!”

“Ascend into what?” Gus snapped. “Heat stroke?”

Bart began to break out in song, adding a bit of vibrato at the end. “Oh the tailor weaves and the buttons squeeze, yet the hero struts with unmatched ease!”

Gus slapped the side of his booth with his palm. “I swear, if you sing one more line—”

“—you’ll join the chorus?” Bart offered brightly.

The apprentice, who had been folding scarves with admirable patience, dropped one and sighed. “Are you… are you all almost ready?”

“No!” all three answered at once.

Bart added dramatically, “Greatness cannot be rushed.”

Joren fumbled with a sleeve that seemed to go the wrong way no matter what. “Why are there four ties on this shirt? Who needs four ties?”

Bart was the first to fling his curtain open, leaving them behind with only a phrase as he made his way to the center of the store. “Behold,” he intoned, lowering his voice an octave, “Bart… but bad.”

The silence that followed the few moments after Bart’s departure was broken by Gus’s resigned sigh. Hinges creaked, fabric rustled, and his footsteps carried steadily away from the stalls. No declaration this time, just a muttered, “This one isn't too bad..."

Joren waited.

The shop seemed too quiet all of a sudden, just the faint scrape of hangers as the apprentice tidied racks in a nearby row. Joren's choice was quite unique to say the least. His hands were very sweaty, yet also extremely cold as he adjusted the outfit and buttoned the last few remaining spots.

The jacket was heavier than it looked, cut in a way that forced his shoulders back whether he wanted it to or not. Deep blue fabric caught the light with a faint metallic sheen, embroidered with silver threads that trailed like constellations across the sleeves. A short cape crossed his chest, purely ceremonial, its clasp and chains polished bright enough to flash like a star. The trousers fit tighter than anything he’d worn in his life. The boots gleamed with polished buckles, and the high collar brushed his jaw as if trying to remind him to hold his chin higher.

He didn’t look like Joren Merrick, the farmhand who used to shovel hay before dawn and stumbled into a god's power. He looked like someone who could stand among nobles, or even walk into a king’s hall without anyone daring to question if he belonged there.

His hand lingered on the curtain’s edge. He could still hear Bart humming tunelessly somewhere in the store, Gus murmuring to himself in that flat, unimpressed way of his. For a second Joren thought about staying put, but the weight of the collar under his jaw pushed him forward.

The curtain scraped aside.

He made his way towards the center of the store, ogling other articles of clothing that would have fit his style much better, or at least made him less embarrassed. A worn travel coat with a hood. A pair of baggy pants, which he recalled as being named harem pants. He wasn't sure where he heard it being called that before, but it came to mind anyways.

When he finally looked up, Gus and Bart were already waiting.

Gus stood in a sleek black suit, his broad frame making the crisp lines look almost intimidating. He tugged at the collar with obvious discomfort, but there was no hiding that it fit him too well. He looked like an important man's bodyguard, or a beautiful lady's groom. So many things went through Joren's mind, but he decided to look a few feet to his right instead. What a shock it was to see Bart’s choice.

While Gus was very dressed up, Bart on the other hand had gone the opposite direction entirely. Black leather jacket, dark jeans clinging to his legs, and biker boots completed his look. The smug grin added to the part, a sort of street-tough every parent warned their kids about. He was a bad boy alright.

They both turned at the sound of Joren’s boots clicking against the tiles.

Gus let out a low whistle, a sort of catcall. "My liege, it's a pleasure to have you join us. Very snazzy."

Bart clasped his hands dramatically, bowing low. “Your Highness, forgive my impertinence for dressing this way in your presence."

Joren groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Stop. Both of you. I already feel ridiculous enough without the royal treatment.”

“Ridiculous?” Bart gasped, slapping a hand against his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “No, my prince. You are the very embodiment of regality. The star of every ball and the envy of every noble.”

Gus smirked, arms tucking into his pants. “Careful, Bart. You keep talking like that and he’s going to start expecting us to kneel. Only one man can make me do that, though it isn’t by choice."

Before Joren could come up with a retort, Willow’s voice rang out from the back of the shop.

“Alright boys, gather round. You’re about to witness a beauty.”

She strode into view, hiding Nyra behind her back like a little sister. Willow's outfit was

Willow’s outfit was surprisingly put together. She wore a white blouse with puffed sleeves tucked neatly into black pants that clung just right. A crimson sash was knotted at her hip with plenty of room for hiding things, ends trailing loose, and tall leather boots gave her enough height to add some swagger. A short vest with brass buttons framed her shoulders, and the headwrap helped keep her wild hair back and out of her face.

“Well?” she demanded, grinning at their stunned faces. “Told you I could clean up.”

Bart gave a solemn nod, as though he were witnessing a fugitive. “A rogue pirate with class. Dangerous. Dashing. A woman who could steal your coin purse and your heart in the same motion.”

“Accurate.” Willow said with zero shame.

Gus gave her a once-over, lips twitching. “You actually look like you belong on a wanted poster.”

Willow rocked back on her heels, clearly enjoying the attention before jerking her thumb behind her. “And if you thought that was good, just you wait. Presenting Nyra Braye, the beauty of Varenthal!”

She stepped aside, nudging Nyra forward.

Nyra stumbled one step before catching herself, shoulders slumped as if trying to drag her away from the moment entirely.

The dress was nothing like her crisp uniform. A light summer weave with narrow straps left her shoulders bare, its fabric soft and easy rather than thick and pressed. The color was a warm white with faint hints of orange, like sunlight peeking through the edge of clouds. The skirt brushed just above her slip-on shoes, swaying lightly with every hesitant movement, while the fitted style traced lines she clearly wasn’t used to showing.

It wasn’t ornate and it wasn’t formal, but that was exactly what made it striking. She looked less like the Department Head with a mountain of reports and more like someone who had wandered from a picnic into a festival, catching every eye without meaning to.

Her hands hovered awkwardly at her sides, uncertain whether to cover her face or cover as much of herself as she could.

“This is ridiculous,” she said too quickly, heat rushing into her cheeks. “Completely unnecessary. I didn't… Willow forced this—”

"It's very nice," Gus was quick to say, hoping to alleviate her discomfort as much as possible. "It isn't your usual style, but it fits you well."

Willow smirked, arms crossed like she’d proven a point. “Told you it would. You’re allowed to look good outside of a jacket, you know.”

Bart snapped his fingers dramatically but kept the smile on his face warm. "The Department Head, revealed as a woman of both strength and grace. Truly, this nation is unstoppable.”

Joren’s voice came last, softer than the others. “I think it suits you, Nyra. Really.”

That drew her gaze for the briefest moment: surprised at the responses, but glad that she was accepted.

"I thought you guys might make fun of it..." She spoke, a smile starting to take over her red cheeks. "Guess that was silly of me to think. Thank you guys."

Willow nudged her with a grin. “See? Sometimes I’m right.”

“Sometimes.” Gus corrected dryly, though there was no bite in his tone.

Bart clasped his hands together like he was officiating a ceremony. “It is decided, then. We, the council of well-dressed individuals, shall partake in a ceremony of one's birth. Onwards to the banquet hall where we may enjoy food, drink, and cake."

Gus rolled his eyes, already steering them toward the door. “If we don’t leave now, Bart’s going to start listing cheeses again.”

Willow spoke loudly. "Then let's get a move on, we have a little walking to do before we get there."

The bell above the shop door jingled as they spilled back into the street after paying, laughter trailing behind them. Sunlight stretched long across the cobblestones and the bustle of Thorneby carried them forward to the birthday party.