imogen qsarrae

Up to this point her job, either one of them, had been far more difficult than it should have been. Far more difficult than she was used to. The language barrier was mostly to blame. The culture still confused her. It meant negotiating with merchants, even getting their attention most of the time, fell flat. Many times she ended up leaving the deal with subpar materials and incorrect change (she suspected). She made due with what she had, delivered exceptional results, and her clients walked away happy and always willing to return.

However, once she took the Inquisitor as a client everything changed. The merchants were not only eager to work with her, they offered discounts, attention, their best materials and accessories. It almost made her feel at home. She even made a very good deal with one of the merchants that landed her the same benefits that would carry over beyond her order with the Inquisitor.

Imogen poured over her notes from the original measurement taking, fixed some markings based on her memory of his size and build, and set to work. Six attempts, and four weeks of near non-stop work and she had something passable. No. She couldn’t give The Inquisitor, who not only ran this outfit but seemed to have an importance about him that no one could quite articulate to her something only passable.

And it was another week of sewing, carefully ripping out seams, swearing, and a lot of wine before she had something of good quality. Simple, warm yet breathable, and should fit him in all the right places as his other clothing didn’t seem to do.

She made an appointment with Josephine for the fitting, and the day of she packed the four pairs of trousers, and two tunics — which had some resemblance of the tunics the men wore back home — along with her best teas and made her way to the Inquisitor’s tower.

It wasn’t easy juggling the heavy box up the stairs, and once or twice she imagined herself tumbling down them. That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it? To have her end from falling down the stairs, breaking her neck on the cold ruins of a castle in a far away land that she knew nothing about, away from her friends, loved ones, and life. Not like anyone knew where she was, anyway. She could be dead for all any of them knew.

Stop. Not now.

Tavis nodded along, and at the ‘being able to afford things’ comment he felt a bit bad and padded the rations in his bags with his fingertips to see how much was there. Well, he was still poor in a manner of speaking, but only ‘mostly poor’ if he got kicked out of the inquisition, because all he had to his name that was worth much was what benefited the almighty Inquisitors forces. “Thank you for the information.” He nodded towards the woman and handed her the rations he had on him. He didn’t need them, he wouldn’t travel that day, and he lived on less in the wild when he was starving. Tavis asked around for the seamstress/ sex workers name but he could never find it. Instead, he had to go with the physical description. When he was able to make out the person who undeniably fit her description, he dismounted from his hart and proceeded to approach her cautiously. “I’m afraid I don’t have a name to identify you with.” He looked around, a bit nervous and uncertain, and then looked back at the woman with a small smile. “Are you the seamstress?