The stairs creak as I make my way out of the basement and up to the Emporium’s top level where the “gear” is located. I’m just about drunk enough that clothes shopping in a place where sizes will inevitably make even less sense than normal doesn’t sound like complete and total hell.

The Emporium’s top level doesn’t quite look like an REI, but it’s close, with racks of clothing in the center of the space and displays for weapons along the back wall. Camping and other gear adorn the side wall, and a whole hodgepodge of interesting items decorates the near wall, including a glass cabinet that seems to contain a variety of elixirs: some that I recognize, and some that I don’t. I’m surprised they don’t fall under the “curiosities” header of the middle level, but maybe they’re common enough that they’re generally considered accessible (at least, in the way that healthcare and the like is ever considered that accessible).

I move to the rack that looks more suitable for my body type and begin to sort through the garments. Most look brand new, but every now and then there’s a cloak or leather piece that looks a little more used, and I imagine that Flynt’s Da is like one of those storefront NPCs in any RPG in that he’ll buy a range of items from adventurers—though perhaps in a far more discerning and realistic way. Nothing looks like it was found in the depths of some dungeon somewhere or taken off a dead thing, which, huzzah for that, I guess.

It takes a little while, but I find a shift that should work nicely for sleeping, a couple pairs of trousers that look like they should just about fit me, and a belt to help with that. The belt is thick leather tooled with a green and brown leaf motif, and it has a long protective flap in front and back that I assume safeguards the arteries in the thighs or something. Or maybe they’re just meant to look cool. I don’t know.

I start creating a little pile on the back counter in front of the weaponry and notice little changing cubicles in the right-hand corner with a couple mirrors, as well as shelving that has cloth packages labeled “necessaries.”

Exploring them, I find that, yes, it’s underwear: female on one set of shelves, male on another, and then shelving for non-binary and other genders—at least, that’s my rudimentary interpretation of the symbols. It’s hard to tell sizing, but there are shadowed stamps of different cultures on the packaging and dots underneath them.

I find the elf shelf and it goes from one dot to six. I assume that’s sizing and take a guess based on what I would be back home as well as mental comparisons to some of the few other elves I’ve seen around Oosal, and I settled on the two dots version: I’m slender, but people, especially elves, can definitely get more slender than I am. Hopefully I chose correctly.

Shirts are problematic, but more because of personal preference than cultural translation errors. I like things to be a little more fitted, and few of the options are, typically boasting billowing sleeves or boxy tent-like structures. I frown as I hold one up to myself and stare into the mirror by the changing rooms. I suppose my vest could help make it fit a little better, like a corset over an old-school chemise. My bracers, too, would hold the sleeves in. But wouldn’t that be uncomfortable with all that fabric bunched under it? Why can’t there be just nicely fitted shirts?

“Do you have anything more like what I’m wearing now?” I ask as I hear the stairs creak behind me, but I turn to find Meg, carrying two mugs with her. “Not who I expected. Welcome to the most frustrating shopping experience of my life. It’s worse than prom shopping with my mom.” She quirks an eyebrow at that, and I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry, it’s a rite of passage where I come from. I hated it…” I turn back to the top in question and shake my head. “Everything’s too big. I can’t imagine shooting with this hanging from my wrist. I’m not Arwen.”

“Arwen?”

“Hm,” I mutter still frowning at the mirror as I hold the shirt up to myself and flounce the sleeves around. “A girl I knew growing up… can you help me? I’ll cover more ground that way and I’m a little confused about the sizing.”

Meg sighs with sympathy, setting the mugs down. “Shops like this are always going to be a little confusing. It’s part of their… charm.”

“That’s a word for it,” I agree, putting the shirt back where I found it before sliding the garments around. They’re displayed on something like hangers: dual hooks that have the garment pinned to them with what looks like antique clothespins. They make the same satisfying whisking noise as they slide against the metal rod.

“Do you want to stay in the same color pallette or branch out?” Meg asks.

“Branching out, I think. Forest-y colors, maybe? I found that belt over there that I like… so things to complement that. Browns. Blacks. Maybe some dark blues. I like purple, too.”

“Purple is a little more difficult. Usually specialty, but sometimes you get lucky. Not that you don’t have the money for it right now. We are quite comfortable as it as stands.”

“I am getting that impression, looking at some of the pricing here. It’s strange.” I frown at a mustard yellow tunic that I like the style of and consider for half a second but then discard because I might need a workable stealth stat at some point.

“What about this?” She holds up a dark blue linen looking shirt that’s a little boxy but at least has fitted sleeves. “Looks good for an archer.”

“Works for me. Put it in the pile.” I nod my head over to the side.

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We continue to peruse for a while, occasionally finding options, and occasionally finding horrific pieces that neither of us can quite believe anyone would buy the first time much less purchase for resale. A giant yellow cloak trimmed in orange and green embroidery stands out as especially garish, reminding me a little of an ancient couch that my grandmother had from the 70s.

After a little while, though, I clear my throat. “So, what did you come up here to talk about?”

“Maybe I just wanted an escape from the men folk. They’re starting to get a little messy.”

“Even Flynt?”

“He’s actually laughing. It’s disconcerting.”

“He laughs. I know I’ve heard him laugh.”

“He chuckles,” she corrects. “Sometimes he scoffs. He’s full on laughing down there right now.”

“Huh.” I pause and cock my head to the side as I think. “Now that you mention it, he does have a little bit of a serious streak.” More around them than me, but I don’t add that.

“I figured you liked them that way.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“You and he seem close.”

“We barely know each other.”

“Right, but sometimes it doesn’t take long.”

“He’s not my usual type.”

“What is your usual type?”

“Emotionally unavailable control freaks, if we’re being honest.”

She’s sitting on a stool now, nursing the mug she brought with her. I’ve consumed about half of mine. It’s not ale, it’s definitely closer to some kind of rum, and Flynt definitely has a heavy pour. My head is floaty and, it’s the weirdest sensation, but the tips of my ears feel fuzzy.

“How do you know that he’s not?” she asks. “He seems to like calling the shots.”

“Yeah, but he also listens to what other people say. Especially you. He seems to respect you a lot.”

Meg quiets at that and looks down into her mug. “I talk like I know what I’m doing, but recent evidence would suggest otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought I was on the right track with all of this. Then, something happened that just put me, essentially, right back at the start. I feel like I have a lot of knowledge but not much to show for it.”

“I felt that way after grad school,” I mutter, pulling out a cream-colored top a lot like the one I’m currently wearing. Yeah, it will show dirt and blood really easily, but it is comfortable.

Meg quirks an eyebrow. “Grad school?”

“What?”

“You said you felt that way after grad school.”

“Oh.” Damnit. Too much alcohol. It felt so natural, just a normal conversation. But no, I can’t have those because I’ve found myself in the middle of a frickin’ fantasy world playing a game I can’t log out of. “It’s… slang for an advanced academy.”

“What did you study?”

“Nothing useful,” I reply. “Politics.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so at the time.”

“Not anymore?”

I shrug. “It wasn’t where I was meant to be.” I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to incorporate my real backstory into a false one just in case Meg has some kind of advanced insight skills. I don’t like lying to her, but it feels like the only option. “It’s part of what brought me to Qeth.”

It’s kind of true. If I hadn’t burned out in DC, I wouldn’t have ended up working in LA, which means I wouldn’t have ended up at my current firm and would never have even considered going to the Experience in the first place. Hell, my whole geeky reality would probably be heavily buried under layers of Ann Taylor Loft. I’d be miserable. But I probably would still be in the real world.

She nods thoughtfully. “That’s how I ended up on this path too. The one I was on just didn’t seem right for me.”

“What path was that?”

“I was a teacher.”

“Really? Like, of children?”

“Yes,” she says, a little testily. “Of children. But then, one day, I’m staring into their round, chubby little faces, and I found myself just thinking, this isn’t me. I wanted it to be, but it just… wasn’t. So I decided to follow my passion. That brought me here.”

“Your passion being adventuring?”

She scoffs softly. “Something like that. You going to try these on or just assume they’re going to work?”

“Never, ever assume it is going to work. That’s rule one. That’s how you end up with a trunk full of forgotten returns.”

I try the garments on one after the other, ending up with four shirts and three pairs of trousers that are really more like leggings than anything else: two made of soft suede like my current pair and one that’s a heavyweight cloth that remind me of skinny jeans, but with less elasticity.

As I’m trying on the last pair, though, the decibel level climbs and male voices echo throughout the space. I poke my head out and almost laugh as the guys try to pull Meg into a drinking song. She finally gives up, takes a long drink to finish her mug, and picks up the tune, and wow she really has an amazing voice. I have no idea what they’re saying, but it’s big and joyful and reminds me of some of the Welsh pub songs I heard during study abroad.

Flynt’s cheeks are flushed a dark green, and his eyes gleam as he sings. Jonas has one arm draped around him while the other hand clutches Tyrus’s shoulder. Meg abstains from the group sway. When the song is done, the guys all drink, and I toast toward them, taking a couple gulps myself—it feels like I should catch up.

“Before we get too deep in the cups,” I say, “what do I owe you for this?” I point to the pile of clothes.

“That’s not all you’re getting, is it?” Flynt asks. His accent is thicker with the alcohol, making him sound a little bit cowboy as he shakes his head. “No. Let me.”

In a flurry he swings through the whole level, finding things that Meg and I missed, as well as stuff I hadn’t been thinking of even though they were on my list. Pairs of socks, a new pair of boots—these below the knee—and a pair of normal looking shoes, a leather protective shoulder mantle that’s accented with the elusive purple, a few ties for my hair, a scarf, a hairbrush, and then he replaces the two dots with a three.

“Trust me,” he says.

“Ouch,” I reply.

“Why ouch?”

“Wearing a bigger size tends to be considered a painful experience where I come from.”

“Oh. That’s odd.” He shrugs. “They’re elvish sized. They get real small. You look good. It’s all fine.”

I laugh at the series of clipped statements.

“Oh! We have some special arrows, too.” He swings himself over the countertop and pulls a quiver off the wall with six arrows stacked neatly in it. “These are true adventurer’s arrows. They are extra sharp and have enchanted tips. These create a magical fire effect. Typically, they only last for one shot, but then they’re just regular arrows that you can use again.”

I raise an eyebrow as I lean on the counter. “How much?”

“For you, special friends-and-family discount. I can give you everything for a gold piece and ten silver.”

I look around at the others who are nodding thoughtfully and approvingly, though I doubt any of them could count to ten right now if they tried. I’m the most sober of all of us, and I feel like I’m about ready to go all-in on some country music karaoke.

“Well, now I want to see the curiosities level and find out what more that discount can do for me.”

He points at me meaningfully. “No. Because Da will kill me. But I can get you more to drink.”