#wreaz

We walk together out of the train and onto the platform and say our goodbyes with a hug. Somewhat of an awkward maneuver for Mez’gin with her being roughly half-again my height, but then it’s an awkward maneuver for me as I restrain myself from literally diving into her ample cleavage. Mez’gin waves and heads on her way and I turn for my first real look at the train I’d just been riding on.

It’s… impressive. The cars are fairly familiar, much like the old “steam engines are the big new thing” era train cars of my home world, but prettier, befitting the luxury of a magical means of transportation here, but they have no wheels, instead sitting on large glowing discs of nebulous lambent energy that floats several feet from the ground, where a narrow stream of water runs through a radiant channel. Deeply curious about what the engine looked like, I head towards the leading end of the train, finding no Earthly train engine, but rather a horse-like construct of the same glowing energy as the discs that bear the train. It stands impassively, not even nickering, or flicking its luminous tail or ears. Like a static hologram of the platonic ideal of a horse’s body, absent the mind of a horse. A scant handful of crew, at least compared to what would staff a train this size at home, go about various station-tasks. Some are taking their break, others looking over the carriages in a very quick-perfunctory way. I imagine that wear and tear on this vehicle is rare and light, but still something they watch for, just to be safe. A few crew members bend their heads together over a standing-height table with what I guess to be maps or similar charts, with the occasional courier or messenger running up to share some unknown but presumably vital news and they grumble or nod as they turn to make a note.

All around me, people go on with their lives. I’m a rube, seeing the big train for the first time, awed by this completely mundane thing. Or that’s how I feel. Just like no one’s bothering with the train, no one’s paying attention to this one goblin gawking at it.

I pull the strap of my bag higher up on my shoulder. I got shit to do, so, enough gaping. First up, a scry slate. I want to keep in touch with Mez’gin, she’s cute and can maybe teach me about Urtrament. It’s good to have someone who knows the truth already.

Asking around a bit gets me to a small storefront, undoubtedly with an apartment above it, that has a chalk signboard outfront reading “Greizis Ænimat, Magewright” and “Scry Slates in Stock.” The door is open and a steady ambience of tapping and etching flows out of it. Inside, for a moment, I think the store is unattended, but notice that, actually, what looks like a lumpy coat or robe or something on a chair is the artisan producing the sounds of crafting. A darkness-filled hood with the faintest hint of features sewn and embroidered onto it looks up and greets me with a cryptic, babbling voice that takes me a second to parse into actual words.

“...hi, Greizis, I take it?”

“That’s me” the strange figure replies. “No apprentices, never works out. I do have a few homunculi wrights in the back, but they’re not much use on the sales floor.”

“Nice to meet you, Greizis. I wanted to pick up a scry slate? And maybe a quasi-dimensional bag if you have any.”

“Oh! Yes!” says the wild-throated person who hops down from their stool and comes out from behind the counter. I’m a little surprised to see they are shorter than me, coming up to about my mid-chest, and still with no indication of what the person inside the patchwork robe looks like. Their robe touches the ground, with no rise from it as they glide towards me, not a hint of actual feet stepping inside, and their hands are covered in rough leather gloves that move stiffly, as if the leather was incredibly thick, but their width would leave no space for fingers inside if they were. “Did you have a particular scry model in mind?” they say in a voice that is just too comprehensible to rightly call a jabber.

“Uhh… well, I was thinking either a mirror slate or black ice slate. I’m likely going to be attending The Ororboric Coil soon, and figured those would be the most appropriate.”

The enigmatic Greizis walks over to a case, beckoning me to follow, “Blue ice has been difficult to get lately, so I don’t have any black ice slates in stock, been trying to find a new source… but I have mirror slates in stock. Those are much easier to produce.” They gesture to the case, with numerous scry slates of various makes propped up under the glass, a small stack behind each display. I’m struck for a moment by the familiarity of it, with some even having loops built into the metal backing that allow you to attach small charms. “Most of these use standard iron backing, but I have a few other pricier options if you’d prefer.”

“...do you perhaps have any with obsidian backing?”

“Ah, the full necro-core option. I keep a few in stock, since we’re close to The Coil here in Marsti,” Greizis points to a small group of slates on a black cloth. One floats up from the middle stack and the shop owner plucks it from the air and hands it to me. Turning it over in my hands, there’s a silver design etched into the back, depicting a skull grasped in a ghostly hand.

“Your maker’s mark?” I asked.

“Yep! Thought it was a pretty fitting mark for myself, and it could be more prominent on the necromancer special models.”

“You’re a necromancer yourself, then?”

“I am, and of course an artificer, and a raggamoffyn.”

“...I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with raggamoffyns.”

“Oh, you must have been pretty sheltered,” they … well, it isn’t a visual smirk, but you can hear their smirk. “Ask around about us. Then ask at the Coil. It’ll be entertaining,” they chuckle and take the slate. “There’s a selection of quasi-dimensional bags on the wall over there, lots of different styles, all the same basic enchantment. Were there any slate scrolls you wanted as well?”

I browse through the bags as I think, “Well, you’re not wrong about me being fairly… sheltered about this world… I have a pretty general knowledge, I suppose. I guess I’d be interested in any slate scrolls that can capture images and play music? I don’t know if those are things…” The raggamoffyn artisan bustles around as I look at bags, and I can hear parchment rolls being set together. “Oh, actually, come to think of it… is there anything like an encyclopedia ap-, uh, slate scroll? Something I can use to look up basic information about things?”

“A lorecall scroll, yeah, that’s reasonably common, I have some in stock. Would you like a psyche charm as well?”

I turn, holding a black leather bag with a tendrils and skulls motif, “Pretend I have absolutely no knowledge of what that is.”

Greizis chuckles, “a psyche charm is a magical sapience. Most can converse with you, and if connected to a slate with lorecall, it will convey the knowledge unless you would rather read what is turned up. I have a simple set up here that allows you to select a charm and then have it made into a psyche charm with a chosen personality, rather than choosing from whatever I’ve already made. No turn around time.”

“That’d be cool.” I take the bag up to the counter and set it down, where I take a moment to re-orient myself as Greizis is suddenly looking over the counter at me, presumably standing on a stool or box behind it. They slide a bowl of assorted charms, each with some manner of strap and clip, over to me.

“Go ahead and dig through the charms. I can also make some minor customizations if you find one that’s not quite what you want, no additional charge. Was there anything else?”

I consider a moment, “no, I think I’m good, though if you could point me to a good shop for some more fashionable clothes, and maybe give me a recommendation for lunch, I’d appreciate it.” I dig through the bowl of charms a bit more and pull out a few I like, “And I think I’d like this spectrolite bird made into a psyche charm, could you make it more crow-like? And maybe give it more eyes.”

Greizis takes the glittering proffered charm, “Well, for clothes, you might find some things you like at The Black Sailcloth, it was opened by a pirate who got rich quick and tired of dodging the navy even quicker, so it’s pretty eclectic. I get some good off-cuts there. For lunch… well, I don’t eat much, and ragamoffyn taste is… different from others’, but I’ve heard good things about The Strange Lounge. I can give you directions, but you might want a Land Lay scroll for your slate. It won’t map anything and everything, but it can give you a map of most cities, towns, that stuff, at least in a broad points-of-interest level.”

“That’d be great, actually, I’ll take a Land Lay scroll, too.”

“Ok, I’ll grab that from the back when I enchant your psyche charm. You have a choice of whether it’s empathic or can speak, it could be telepathic, too, but that’s a good bit costlier.”

“Speech would be fine.”

“Ok, then you can select some abilities for it, two or three, more than that, and it has to be telepathic, and you can choose a personality. I have a booklet of the basic options, if you’d like to take a look.”

“Sure. Otherwise I’ll be sitting here asking you things all day,” I smile.

Greizis lifts out a book from under the counter, “I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s slow, I don’t mind. I’ll start altering the charm while you look.”

Leafing through the booklet, I quickly find some options that sound good, “Ok, I think I want deathwatch, detect magic and spellcraft, and a sympathetic personality. Though, is it possible to give the charm the ability to read all languages without necessarily going up to the telepathic price range?”

“Strictly, not as part of the typical psyche charm effects, but I can make it work.” Greizis tallies up some amounts on a scrap of paper, “Ok, so that brings you to 22,000 gold. I shaved off a bit since you’re buying… a good bit,” Greizis audibly smirks again.

“Ouch. Alright, well, no worries, I’m spending ‘daddy’s’ money,” I snark and offer my arm with the… debit? tattoo on it.

“Coffer mark, eh?” Greizis waves a small wand over the tattoo and startles a bit, “you’re the Oredenark girl?”

I make a note of how Greizis referred to the tattoo. “There’s been… a substantial rift. But I haven’t been cut off, just disowned. It’s like I’m dead to him,” I smirk ghoulishly. “Don’t worry, I share literally none of his beliefs.”

“And don’t you worry, I will gladly take that asshole’s money. Serves his entitled dick right. Ok, I’m gonna go enchant your charm, and get that last scroll for you, do you need any instruction on any of these?”

“Nah, I… have a good working knowledge of how scry slates and quasi-dimensional bags work, I just don’t know what all ap- er, slate scrolls exist.”

“Ok, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As Greizis hops off of whatever was boosting them to see over the counter and shuffles to the back, I start familiarizing myself with my new bag and loading things in. The scry slate comes with a nice wooden box, with an illuminated instruction manual inside, and I resolve to take a look at that over lunch. Hopefully basic setup doesn’t take too long, but we’ll see. Greizis comes back with my new multi-eyed raven charm and another instruction manual and a scrap of paper.

“Figured it would be handy to give you the basic write up for the psyche charm, and here’s directions to The Black Sailcloth and The Strange Lounge.”

“Thank you so much, Greizis. Hope to see more of your shop in the future.” Shouldering my bag, I turn to leave and take a look at the directions. The desire to sit for a bit and set up my new totally-not-a-smartphone and the desire to get into clothes I chose being pretty even. My stomach gurgles and my brain yearns for serotonin, making that decision for me. The Black Sailcloth isn’t far, but neither is The Strange Lounge, and the latter is on the way to the other, so lunch it is. I have no clue what food is like here, but at least there should be a menu.

The Strange Lounge is only about a ten minute walk away, but some of that time is mean gawping in excitement and wonder at strange things and stopping, or missing a turn because I was paying more attention to a pretty, tall woman I want to raid and pillage my warrens than where I was going. I should have told myself there’d be plenty to wonder at and lust over at the Lounge, but, hell, I doubt that’d have focused me. Walking in, I carefully focus on looking at tables, not people, just so I would actually find myself a place to sit, and see a small table in a corner available, likely empty because the few patrons here at this time being larger groups. There’s a steady low buzz of activity. Not loud, not raucous, just the hum of people being social and eating. I take one last quick look to make sure I didn’t miss a sign or indication that there was a “seating by host” setup, and slip over to the table, lounge on the large-for-my-small-body seat with my bag beside me, and allow myself to really look at the place for the first time.

The walls of The Strange Lounge are a rich purple, with deep red curtains and wall hangings giving texture and absorbing sound. There’s a seating area towards the front, soft padded chairs arranged around a low table with what I think is a hookah, or something similar, sculpted in the shape of some strange beast or animalistic demon god–I really need to get my slate set up so I can look things up. The clientele are in the “young, thinkers of profound thoughts and holders of non-physical jobs” mold, or at least playing at it, but I can see ink on the hands of some the ones closest to me, and no one looks like a dockworker. The dishware at the other tables gleam with a polish that belies their utilitarian sturdiness. I doubt they’re the silver they seem to be, more likely a tin alloy, thick enough to give some weight, but shiny and cheap, but above all durable, at least compared to actual silver. A variety of drinking ware sits on the other occupied tables, wooden tankards of something like a beer, glasses of wine, and steaming ceramic cups of tea or coffee. The utensils are stamped metal, almost certainly a tin alloy, but actual silverware is not out of the question.

A slender elf woman with a short apron over her peasant-style skirt, wearing a thin bodice and light blouse, her hair closely cropped and hints of vibrant tattoos slipping over what could be seen of her shoulders and nape comes to my table, and I realized I haven’t looked at the menu card in the center of the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Uh, sorry, mind’s a bit elsewhere today, still need to look at the menu. But could I please get a cider, if you have it?”

“Certainly, pear or apple?”

“Apple, please. Is that served chilled, by any chance?”

“Yes, we pride ourselves on actually having a blue ice box here,” she smiles.

“They’re not common in Marsti?”

“No, a lot of blue ice that comes into the city is quickly turned into scry slates. We even have been getting artificers wanting to buy our box to turn into slates. But Óminni figures we make more money on the prestige of cold drinks and sweets than they’d make even on the finished slates, let alone what they’d pay us for the ice. I’ll get you your cider and let you look over the menu. If you need anything, my name is Delsanra.”

“Thank you, Delsanra,” I reply and pick up the menu card. The menu’s simple layout and small offerings bely the complexities of flavors the dishes speak of. I can read it as well as if I’d grown up here and learned the language from birth, but can only guess at some of the spices and components mentioned from their use with things I do recognize. Delsanra returns shortly and places a bottle of pale golden liquid with a light froth inside in front of me.

“All ready?”

“I think so. You’ll have to forgive me, my upbringing was a bit spartan, so I’m not entirely familiar with some of the things here. I think I’d like the bonamundi sandwich, but, please, tell me, the sigisforz peppers, are they yellow and pickled?”

“No, you’re thinking of, I think, jadwellocins. Sigisforz are a red pepper, and we roast them for the bonamundi sandwich.”

“Excellent, I think I’d like that. Are they particularly hot peppers?”

“They have a little heat, but they’re more sweet, and pretty mild. A little bit more bite than bell peppers, but that’s it.”

“Oh, that sounds good. What kind of cheese do you use?”

“Well, our bonamundi sandwich uses a salt-kneaded and cave aged cheese. We can’t get the salt brine bathed cheeses out here.”

I think for a moment, trying to remember culinary lessons a decade past. I think that’s cheddar. “Great. I think I’d rather the salt-kneaded cheese,” I smile.

“Perfect, that’ll be up pretty shortly. Fried potatoes with it?”

My mouth almost waters more over the prospect of something like french fries than it has over anything …else since I woke up here. “Yes, please, you’re a goddess.”

Delsanra chuckles. “Ok, let me know if you need anything else.”

I set my menu back down in the rack I pulled it from and pull the box containing my new scry slate out. Looking over the manual, basic setup seems pretty straightforward, but the scrolls will need to wait. They can take a bit, and I’ll need fire. I sip on my cider as I go through the process of forming my astral attendant in the AMS–an impish humanoid figure of black and red streaked stone-like material, designing my home marker–a tower of an ascending horned raven clutching an inverted pentacle in its beak, and selecting a messenger–a crow to carry out the theme. By the time my sandwich and potatoes–beautifully golden fried larger sticks, with what I’m fairly certain is a small ramekin of ketchup beside them–arrive, I’m using a little bit of polymorphic magic included in the setup options to give my messenger two more eyes and small curving ram horns.

The sandwich is wonderful. It is piled high with thinly sliced fennel kielbasa, pepperoni, ham, and even some lightly pan fried pulled chicken, then onions, fresh bell and roasted sigisforz peppers, and a generous brushing of oil and vinegar on the inside of the toasted bun. I order one more cider while I eat and finish sorting out the slate setup that doesn’t require a crucible and stand, mostly just waking up my psyche charm and naming them–Taufr. At the end of my meal, I’m wishing I had my vape, or a cigarette at least. Guess this is as good a time as any to try out my new slate.

I sketch out an image of my home marker and write a quick message-

“Hi Mez’gin! Got my slate. How well do you know Marsti? I just finished lunch at The Strange Lounge, and could really use a cigarette on my way to my next shopping stop, do you know anywhere near to the Lounge I could pick some up?”

I send the message off and take care of my tab while I wait for Mez’gin’s response, which doesn’t take long.

“Wreaz! There should be a corner shop within sight of The Strange Lounge, there are plenty in Marsti. If you prefer vapor to smoke, look for a more upscale corner shop, and you should be able to find a vapor pipe. I’m not very familiar with the area around the Lounge, but I think pretty much any corner shop within a few blocks will have them.”

“Oh! Sorry, do you have vapor where you’re from?”

I smirk, and send a message back as I walk out of the Strange Lounge, a couple more bottles of cider picked up from the bar and slipped into my new bag.

“Hahaha. Yeah, we’ve got vapor where I’m from. Does Urtrament do flavored …well, we call it juice where I’m from. Vapor liquid.”

Looking around as I step back towards the wall of the building, keeping out of the bustle, I spot a couple of corner shops and my slate pings as I’m working out which one looks fancier.

“Yep! We flavor our vapor liquid here. We just call it tobacco extract. I’ll spare you the litany of slang and short terms that vary in silliness, but are all at least a little silly.”

I stop for a just a moment before stepping into the corner store to reply,

“You mean like ‘juice’? Haha”

Mez’gin replies quickly as I’m looking around, seeing if tobacco products are on a shelf or behind the counter like at home.

“No, that’s much less silly than almost all of our slang.”

I smile to myself as I find a rack of wooden boxes, each with a cut away showing a shiny metal tube and various makers' names and marks burned into the wood. Taking one off the shelf and looking it over, the tubes pass through glass bowls capped with metal lids, and are embedded in crystals, each with a tiny glow like a banked ember on the other side of a camp inside.

There’s an impressive array of colors, metals and crystals to choose from and I select a glossy black pipe embedded in a blood-red crystal. A fanged humanoid skull is burned into the box, which I guess means Marsti really does do a lot of business with Coil attendees. I briefly wonder how shops deal with theft as I think about how I could just walk right out, but if shops are selling magical magical smartphones and vape pens, they’ve got to have some kind of magical security against theft, and I don’t want to learn what that is on my first day here.

A spinning rack next to the shelves of vapor tubes holds small bottles of variously colored liquids. Or… not bottles, but syringes. Huh. That actually seems even better than the plastic bottles back home. Smaller nozzles, and easier to use regardless of hand strength. Each vial has a plunger and needle clipped to it with a metal ring, but to be honest I’d prefer larger bottles. I guess that makes the syringe model less usable, though. I grab a couple of flavors, one sweet coffee and the other cloves and cherries, and head up to pay the clerk.

“Just picking up these,” I say, smiling at the tanned skinned human man behind the counter. His build is trim, with a hint of muscle. A swimmers or archer’s build. I wonder if it comes naturally or if he works out for it. “Out of curiosity, these are 60ml bottles, right?” I have no clue if when I say “milliliters” he hears a relevant measurement, whatever’s used in Urtrament, but I have to hope, at least until I can do some reading.

“Ah, no, they’re 120s. The bottles have a very minor shrink item effect, allowing them to hold more liquid in less space. New to vapor?” he asks, tallying up my expenses.

“No, I’m an old hand at it, just new to the packaging here in Marsti. Or, well, outside of home. This is probably pretty standard, isn’t it?”

“Oh, not so standard. Common enough, but the enchantment is a higher end product thing. Altogether you’re at 100 gold.”

I proffer my coffer mark for him to scan, “ha, glad to know I’m buying the good stuff.” I gather up my new purchase, and turn to leave, “Oh. I suppose I should ask- how is Marsti about smoking and vapor? Are people going to hassle me for smoking inside, or on the sidewalks or anything?”

He laughs, “you must come from a pretty uptight place. Nah, no one worries about it here, or in most places.”

I smile, “Oh, they have their reasons. But, it’s nice to know. Thank you! Er, actually, mind if I take a moment to use your counter and fill my pipe?”

“Just don’t get your bac-ess all over the place,” he smiles.

I slip the clove and cherry juice into my bag and slide the lid off the box of my new pipe. It takes me a moment to work out how to fill the reservoir, but only a moment, and it’s only about a minute before I’m walking out the store with a lungful of coffee-flavored nicotine.

One last thing before I continue on my trek to check out the hopefully-not-transphobic wizard school. I need clothes I actually chose. So I check the directions Greizis gave me, and head over.

The Black Sailcloth is an… eclectic building. Which is to say, it’s a whole-ass ship that’s been sunk into the ground, with a blue tile mosaic patio that gives the impression of a deep sea around it. The only thing that belies the sense it’s a fully sea-worthy ship just biding its time until the oceans rise is the entrance–made of a rowboat on end and fitted into the bow–and large picture windows fitted either side of the entrance. Even the sails remain, great unfurled black cloths catching the light breeze of the afternoon. Inside the open door, as if a mark of shame worn in defiant pride, a war standard-like jolly roger hangs, slit up the middle to serve now as curtains. Emblazoned on it is a leering demonic skull over crossed cannons, from which issue curling clouds of smoke.

I suppose it's worth noting that this new world has some manner of firearms.

I open the door and step inside, not intending to creep, but my slight size and my instinctual wariness make it a quiet step that might go unheard if not for the ships-bell rigged over the door. The very loud ship’s bell. My sensitive goblin ears are aching as a woman looks up from behind the counter inside and greets me.

“Welcome to the Black Sailcloth,” she calls. “Sorry about the bell, but its volume has its uses here.”

I rub one ear as I take a draw on my vapor pipe, “it’s ok,” vapor coils out of my opening mouth. “I’m sure I’ll be able to hear again sometime tomorrow,” I respond in a stage yell.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected inside, but it’s impressive. The ship’s broad decks were gutted inside to provide a reasonable store space, within which lush rugs cover the floor, and racks hang along the walls, laden with clothing. The ceiling is hung with flags, banners and veils. The woman behind the counter is dressed in mismatched, haphazard layers–multiple shirts and tops and a coat over all of it. I can see a scarf and wide belt around her waist where she sits, and her propped up legs show a couple layers of clothing themselves. Her shirts and coat end at the elbow, but she wears knitted arm warmers on her scaly forearms, and two layers of bandanas are tied over her hair. Her face is scaled as her arms are, with only a hint of a bump for her nose, and no ears visible on the sides. Glasses with narrow lenses sit over her slit pupiled eyes, and I have a sense of why she is so covered up in a building that is comfortably cool for me.

“Name’s Inez, and if I like you, I might let you call me Captain,” she says, swinging her legs down and standing from the deck chair she sits in, a thick tail coiling absent-mindedly behind her, a knit warmer covering the base and extending down most of the length, “Looking for anything in particular?” she asks in a sibilant accent as her eyes follow mine.

“I have… well, I have what you see on me, clothing wise,” I say, looking up to her face, feeling a tad ashamed for vaguely ogling her, “they’re nice, but not my preference, to be honest. I grew up pretty sheltered from this world, and didn’t get to make my own choices in it until recently.” Not, strictly, a lie, but only by my precise wording. “And I… don’t have a lot of exposure to people other than humans, so, I’m sorry if I stared.”

“Marsti must be quite an education for you, then, but you seem broad-minded enough,” Inez replies, “a lot of sheltered women are shrinking violets, speaking in whispers and running scared when they see an ophebean. Well, assuming they aren’t ophebeans themselves. Obviously we don’t run from ourselves, but we can be pretty sheltered. The cult does ingrain a certain swaggering assurance rather than shrinking, though.”

“Ophebeans,” I repeat, “are all ophebeans part of this cult?” I hesitate, worried that might be offensive. I let myself forget my typical don’t-be-othering filter on my thoughts. “Er, sorry. That’s probably personal.”

“It’s ok. And you’re a very obvious goblin, so… we’re both in the margins, if not quite the same one. We ophebeans are the result of the cult we grow up in. The cult transformed themselves in ancient days from their human roots to us, and now no human is born into the cult, and most ophebeans are. It’s.. somewhat known that occasionally ophebeans are born outside of the cult, as a result of a cult agent infiltrating an outside society, or the rare rogue ophebean just living their life, but any cult agent will hide their true race, and any rogue’s days are numbered, in a very real sense. It took a lot of work to be able to exist without disguise here,” she says sharply, “any time I have to show someone they’re being rude, it endangers that.”

I gaze up at her, looking her steadily in the eyes, even though I’ve always preferred to look just to above or to the side of someone’s eyes, “I have no intention of threatening what you’ve built here. I’m a stranger to the world myself, and I get the sense that I’m somewhat less than welcome as a goblin, at least by the institutions.” I look away, hiding the metaphorical flinch in looking out the window to the city, “Marsti seems pretty cosmopolitan, though. I’ve talked to one human here, against a raggamoffyn, an elf, and now an ophebean, and on the journey, I met… I don’t actually know her species, but she had horns and dark skin like a rainy afternoon.”

“Teufil.” Inez says, “or, if you’re being overly familiar or impolite, demon-born. I don’t like the more outright rude terms for them.” she nods, “Marsti’s ok. I get shouts and leers from drunks, but half of them are because they want to fuck me, so, I suppose in a way it’s better than cities where they’d all be death threats and oaths.”

“Yeah… not looking forward to those…” I say. I’d forgotten what comes with a body that’s perceived as female. A trade, I suppose. Comfort in my skin, but every asshole thinks it’s public property.

Inez cocks a scaled eyebrow as I trail off, but doesn’t comment. “I could help you with some disguising of your form, if you’d like. It’ll at least take the focus off your gender.”

“No.” I weigh a thought in my mind a moment, and quickly decide to offer a sliver, “I chose this form, I’ll not hide it just to spare me some harassment.”

Inez smiles, “So, sailor, what do you come to your captain for?”

I smile at the subtle allowance, and gesturing vaguely at the fine, but simple and light earth-toned outfit I woke up in, “Black. Silver. Red. And a statement. Not this frock made to blend in with the wallpaper while I’m neither seen nor heard.”

Her smile breaks into a grin, showing predatory teeth and a pair of snake fangs in front, “Oh. You, I can work with.” She turns and beckons with her finger, “Come with me, girl,” and I barely stifle a moan and a ‘yes, Captain,’ as I force my knees to not turn to jelly in that instant.

“I am under your command, Captain,” I allow myself to actually say, with a smirk, and follow her. “Sa- Gods know I could definitely use the help in the fashion department.”

Inez chuckles, “Well, I don’t know about fashion, and my particular sense prioritizes containing body heat, but I’ll try to skip a layer or two for you, and I think aesthetically we should be on similar charts, at least.” She turns to address me in front of a rack, “first question, I suppose, skirts or pants? Access or mobility?”

I grin, “I’m good with loose skirts, as far as mobility goes, though,” I look down at my legs, which are a considerable portion of my height, but still short next to this statuesque woman’s, “length may be an issue. And honestly, as much as I like a good loose skirt, a pair or two of pants would be a good idea. Maybe one a bit looser than form fitting, but with a flare, and one that’s more skin-close, and distressed?”

Inez nods and grabs a few things from the rack, “Don’t worry about length, the sailmaker’s upstairs and she can see you right there. Is there a style of skirt you prefer? Do you like maxi skirts like you’re wearing?”

“I do, that’s more about color, though if you have a tiered skirt, I do like the look of those. Might be interested in a…” I stop, I know what I want to ask for, but it’s more particular than maxis and tiers. I don’t know how it would be called on Urtrament, or if it’s even really a thing, but there must be something like it. Skater skirts didn’t just pop into existence when figure skating or skateboarding became things… “Hm, I’m not sure what it’s called. I’m thinking of a skirt that’s high-waisted, but with a hem that ends just above the knees, loose and light, not pleated–though I’d be into a pleated skirt too–just kinda… well, loose. Like a short circle skirt, I suppose.”

Inez smirks and grabs another skirt from the rack. It looks long, but, I suppose if a skater skirt is a short circle skirt, then the sailmaker can handle that. “Ok, tops. What kind of blouse are you interested in?”

I nod, considering, “How about something a little military, loose enough for movement, but close enough that some bastard won’t grab it while you stab him,” Inez smirks, “with pockets and some style. Then also… a top with a low neck, and high hem, around the navel, could have sleeves around mid-length, or maybe shorter, but I do like mid-length sleeves. I definitely want a light button up shirt, too, something for layering. That can be oversized, and maybe a couple different ones, at least one light weight, linen or so, and one that’s a bit heavier, for warmth on cool, but not cold days. Oh, and a couple of light weight, close fitting undershirts.”

“Are you sure you need me? You seem to know what you like.”

“I… know what I think looks good, but I don’t know what looks good on me, and you know your ship. Store. Ship-stores. Plus, I’m trusting your sense of colors and patterns, quicker than pouring through everything myself.”

“Alright, that would leave undergarments, which I generally think a woman should pick for herself, and maybe a jacket, but let's get you sorted with these. I have a small room where you can try them on, and we’ll see what you think.”

Inez leads me to the fitting room and I try on the things she pulled for me. They’re mostly solids in dark tones, primarily black, but with some reds and purples, a few patterns in similar tones. Novelty prints have not cropped up in Urtrament, it seems, at least not on the racks. I ask for a few other things, sending a few she pulled back, and in about half an hour, she’s tallying up while I select some basic undergarments beyond the camis I asked for in the first picking. Here, at least, there’s some more flair like I’m used to at home. I suppose skulls emblazoned on your blouse will get some looks, but if anyone sees them painted on your panties, they should already have a sense of what they’re in for. Which… well, ok. Most people on Earth don’t look twice if you have skulls printed all over your top, because even most people who think that’s macabre are polite, but there are still some people who think they get to dictate others’ fashion. And they’re boring, at least until you upset them to the point of ranting and raving while you laugh at their outmoded sensibilities. I take my selections up to the counter and place them next to the pile. Still getting used to counters being about tits-height for me, but the perspective does lovely things for Inez.

“Alright, you’re looking at about 25 gold now, and then tailoring by the sailmaker will cost another couple gold–it’s a silver per item, unless you need really extensive modification. Want to see jackets and some more specialty stuff?”

“Sure, we’ve got the basics covered, lets have some fun.”

Inex smiled, “woman after my own heart. I figure in addition to a good coat, you might want some belts and sashes or scarves, since I think you’ve got a pretty similar sense of style to the ladies I sailed with, and you could probably use some boots. We’ll have to see what we’ve got in the store, but no promises on those. If we don’t have anything that fits you, you’ll have to see an actual cobbler. I can recommend a good one.”

With Inez showing me around the shop and chatting, I pick out some embellishments for my wardrobe, belts, enough sashes and scarves to wear a different one almost every day of the week, and a velvet tunic, not necessarily for fashion, but because I cannot imagine sleeping in something so fancy, and deeply want to. I luck out and find a pair of boots that come up to just about my knee, and a pair that are at least close to ankle height on me, and fit my feet, fortunately, goblin extremities are slightly large in proportion to the rest of our bodies, or at least people who express the goblin condition as much as I do. Inez shows me corsets with an indulgent attitude, like treating a friend to dessert, and helps me pick out a dusty muted purple corset with reddish brown embroidery of an angular motif that evokes daggers. It’ll be more expensive to tailor, but… I could never wear a corset at home, in the body I had, despite dearly wanting to, but fashion corsets on the rack just didn’t go up to my size, as I was already at the top end of womens’ sizes in stores, being overweight and trans, and custom corsets were just perpetually out of my price range. So even with it already costing as much as the entire rest of my purchase combined, a corset is mandatory.

Inez returns to the counter with me in tow, and adds the new selections, “ok, you’re at 60 gold, and then a gold and three silver for tailoring, plus whatever Wren quotes you for the corset, which will probably be another gold or two.”

I nod, “ok. Wren is the sailmaker?” Inez nods, “and I pay you for tailoring, right?”

“Yeah,” she replies, “Wren’s part of the crew, she tells me what the tailoring costs, and I just keep track, and pay it out at the end of the week. Or if she needs it sooner, that happens sometimes, too, but I gave her a good deal here. She’s from my sea days, and decided that she was done when I did, so since I was taking the ship anyway, and she was interested, I let her keep her cabin and set up a workspace upstairs.”

“Part of the crew, huh?” I ask wryly. Inez smiles a bit, but gives no sign that confirms or denies that she and Wren are more than just crew. But I’d bet pirates here are no different from the raucous queers I’d have felt fairly at home with had I been born a few hundred years sooner back home. “If you both are cool with it, I’d be fine with just adding three gold for the corset tailoring now, and if she quotes higher, I can pay the rest.”

“Sure, if that’s easier for you. So 64 gold and three silver, and I’ll show you up to Wren’s workshop.”

I pull my purse from my bag. Two pounds worth of coin for my vapor pipe and some juice at a corner store is one thing, but I feel like it’s easier for Inez if I can pay in coin. Taking a look inside, still reorienting myself to a pure coin currency, I find a few platinums and enough golds to hand over 65 gold, just for ease. I can eat the seven silver, I’m not that worried about money here. Though I definitely should get some sense for how much I can realistically draw with the coffer mark. My purse is nearing empty, though, so I also need to see if I can just…. Get coin through my coffer mark.

Inez shows me up a ladder and through the upper floor, reconstructed in gutted decks like the one below, save for a couple rooms towards the back that seem to be original to the ship, probably cabins for Inez and Wren, maybe anyone else from the old crew who’s still around and I just haven’t seen. Again, I’m betting pirates on Urtrament are just as queer as the pirates of old Earth, and us queers hang together. Because all too often, we hang separately otherwise.

“Wren!” Inez calls from the top of the ladder, “you have a client!”

“Aye, Captain,” a slightly raspy and husky voice replies from a room across the ship from the ladder. A woman with angular features, hands like bird’s talons with sharp claws and thick black bands of scaly skin running halfway up her forearms, crests of oil-slick black feathers framing pointed ears on either side of her head. She holds herself with a poised grace, “got some work for me,” she asks me.

“A good bit. Kinda needed a whole wardrobe, and… I don’t exactly fit a standard size.”

Wren smiles, and waves me in, taking the stack of clothing offered by Inez. “All of this?”

“I held back the things she doesn’t want altered,” she turns to me, “they’ll be at the counter when you’re ready,” then back to Wren, “but double check, of course.” She turns back to me, “sorry, hon, I didn’t get your name.”

“Wreaz,” I reply. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

Inez nods, smiling at me, “Ok, Wren’ll see you right. You’re in good hands.”

Wren ushers me inside and waves Inez away in mock dismissal, and sets about sorting through the clothes. “Let me know if there’s anything here you don’t want altered, I’ll set it aside. And nice to meet you, Wreaz. Anyone who the Captain likes tends to be a good-” she smirks, “I tend to get on well with. Even the bastards. Actually, especially the bastards that she lets call her Captain.”

“Oh, I’m probably the bastard sort,” I laugh. “Um, ok, I’m sorry, I grew up very… apart from the world. I’m not really familiar with …other peoples. Would it offend you if I ask what your species is? Race? I’m honestly not sure which term is better.”

“I’m a Vrava,” she indulges. “We’re mostly from up north, but we get around. We’re a wandering and noisy people. You’re ok here, but it can be dicey asking people that. You chose your words well, though.”

“I… try to not be unintentionally rude,” I reply. I turn to the piles of clothes and sort through, pulling out the tunic and lighter weight button up. “These are fine as is, they can be oversized. This other button up here,” I point to a plaid with longer sleeves, “I’ll want still a little oversized, but it can use some tailoring, too.”

“Ok, we can keep that in mind when we get to it. Let’s start with a skirt and top, and I can probably match the alterations from that skirt to the others, to save a bit of time there. You can change behind the screen there,” she point out a folding screen with beautiful painted paper in one corner of the room.

I pick out the tiered skirt and what will be a crop top, and quickly change. Wren positions me in front of a set of mirrors and chats lightly with me as she works through what needs to be altered, and how I want things to fit. It takes about an hour and the sun is just starting to visibly dip in the sky when I walk back down to the shop floor while Wren works.

“How’d the fitting go?” Inez asks.

“Well, I actually thought it might take longer. Wren says the alterations should be done in a couple days, so I guess I need to sort out where I’m staying.”

“Well, I can recommend a few places near the river, if you’re ok with a louder inn. Just passing through Marsti?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way to Pergamano. I’m gonna check them out, but I’ll probably be happier at The Oroboric Coil.”

Inez nods, “In that case…” she considers, “there’s an inn that’s a little more towards the phantrain channel than the river, but it’s well situated between them. It serves all, but is definitely more used by people heading to one of the colleges.” Inez takes a scrap of paper and sketches out a rough map, before handing it to me. “It’s called The Derelict.”

I take the paper, “Thanks, Captain. I really appreciated your help, and Wren’s. Guess I’ll see you in a couple days.”

Inez slid over the items I wasn’t having altered, neatly bundled together with a scrap of fabric and waved me off as she lit a pipe, settling back into her chair behind the counter.

The Derelict isn’t far, but it's still a bit of a walk. The late afternoon is cool and a breeze comes off the river, and I’m very grateful that I’m not doing all this walking in my old body. My feet are starting to get a little sore, but it's nothing like how unpleasant it would be with that husk. By the time I see the Derelict, a driftwood sign hanging above the door, sunset has begun in earnest, and the windows are starting to glow with lamplight in the faltering day. Inside, the clientele does look mostly as I expected. Younger people, at least respective to their races, a mixture of fashions between proper and rakish and some truly outre, while the majority is still mostly perfunctory.

The main room isn’t packed, but there are enough people that I suddenly worry, just a little, about whether there will be any rooms available. It did not seem like a particularly large inn from the outside. Servers of a variety of species weave through the mostly full room, while a stout man with literally coppery skin and a dense, well-kept and carefully braided beard, mottled like granite, served drinks behind the bar. Judging by rough proportions, the dwarf bartender must have a raised platform like Greizis did.

I hope Urtrament dwarves don’t have a problem with goblins…

I carefully pick my way through the room of people who start at around half-again my height and don’t seem to take care to look down when walking, and make my way to the bar. The bartender is busy pouring a drink from a large keg as I clamber onto a stool, but I don’t have to wait long before he turns to me, “What can I get you?”

“Do you have cider? Apple for preference, but pear is good too, and please tell me you have a room available?”

“Ya, we have cider, and we’re not full up yet. How long are you going to be with us?” He turns to say something to a serving woman, who I think is teufil, who just came behind the bar.

“Thank you,” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Let’s figure two nights. Might be one, but better to have the room and not need it.”

The serving woman returns with a bottle of cider from the kitchen behind the bar, and hands it to the bartender, who grabs a mug and pops the cork on the bottle, “alright, rooms are seven silver a night. We’re not fancy, but we try to stand out. If you’d like, we can bring you breakfast, or lunch if you’re a late sleeper to your room for an extra silver.” He sets the mug on the bar, “and its five copper for the cider.”

I fish out three gold from my purse and hand them to him, suddenly aware that different cultures feel differently about that, but no one’s seemed offended here yet, so I’m probably fine. “Breakfast to my room would be lovely, and the rest is a tip. For both you and the lovely young woman who fetched my drink,” I smile.

He chuckles, “Don’t worry, I make sure the bar shares its tips, even when I’m not behind it. I’m Fitrani, by the way, you can call me Fit.” Fit turns to shout and is surprised to see the teufil serving woman beside him, “Oh, Hazel. Find a room for our guest and get it ready for her, please.”

“Sure, Fit,” Hazel replies, “Hazel, nice you meet you, hon,” she says to me.

“Wreaz, thank you, both.” I take a sip from my mug and savor the sweetness as Hazel heads off down a hallway off the main room. “Oh, what’s on the menu? Or… Is there? A menu?”

Fit chuckles, “we’ve got a house stew, kinda tends to be whatever cuts of roast or the like left at the end of the previous night. We have some lovely roasted chickens tonight, with various root veg, and if you’d like, we can always do up a ploughmans for you, plenty of sausage and cheese and bread on hand. I think we might still have pork buns, but I’m not sure, I can check on that, if you’d like.”

“Could I get a ploughmans, some butter with it, and a bowl of stew? And a pork bun, if you have any left.”

Fit continues pouring drinks as we talk, handing them off to who I assume are regulars, or otherwise have a set order. Maybe most people just get the same thing and I’m the weird one. He nods, “find a table, gal, I’ll have one of the ladies bring it out for you. Dinner comes with your room, so don’t worry about it.”

I nod and raise my mug in a mock toast and slide off the stool to find a table. The edges and corners are mostly taken up, but I spy a small table near the hearth, only enough room for one or two people, but plenty for a goblin.

Hazel must still be setting up my room, because another server, a vrava, like Wren, I think, but younger, her feathers more true black, brings over a tray with my dinner. I thank her, and start filling my mouth with food. I eat, pouring over the books that Cassiel had in her bag, familiarizing myself with what I can of the world. I find a journal she kept, and look through that some. Hazel comes over to let me know my room is ready, and hand me a key at some point. I order another cider before heading to my room, and sort out the scrolls for my slate, finding a small crucible with little detachable legs to prop up the slate up in its box, and climb into bed after changing into my new tunic to sleep in, leaving the neck undone, planning to shoot Mez’gin a message and talk to her until I fall asleep, or just familiarize myself with things if she doesn’t answer.

Hey Mez’gin! How’s your night? Are you back at the Coil yet?