His eyes gazed over to the caravan that had trickled into Nyx. Merchants quickly pushed pop-up stores, hammering in planks of wood to create stands from empty air. Traders meandered into the secret city to resupply and delegates mingled with what official capacity the city had. Despite being figuratively underground, the above cloud city had surprising functionality.

“The tribes flows in occasionally to restock.” Trini explained, catching the wandering gaze of Nadier.

“I can see that,” he answered in indignation.

“Just worried. Air's thin up here. Oxygen might not get through that dense head of yours.”

“You’re especially cantankerous today, aren’t you?”

“Must be the thin air.”

There was a tailor, which, honestly surprised Nadier.

“Something the matter?” Trini asked, reading him as a book.

“Never expected mercenaries to care much about formal wears.”

“It's not just those on the ground that comes here. We have drug lords and lynchpins. Cult leaders and politicians. People who care more about the appearance of power than the physical description of it. People like my father, for one.”

He looked back towards the arena dome. “I guess physical strength have different roles to play here.”

“Obviously.”

They entered the tailor's building, one of the many single storied architecture that littered the place almost randomly. Steam smoked out of tiny slits within the copper walls and a boiler was visible aside the structure, connected like a jutted pimple. The bronze door was cold to the touch but gave way quickly to the warm interior.

The interior was brightly lit with Aleynonlian's magic-tech cryst lamps, powered by Eltar’s steam generators that also heated the walls, with fabrics hanging neatly in sheets around them of colours that ranged the rainbow, stacked in height by varying materials. In the middle of the store was a large heavy workstation. Needles, mechanical sewing machine, and all the needed strings and cloths cut to pieces. A line of leather bound books created a castled wall between the table's edge and them.

Behind it, a wood elf looked up from a book which he quickly closed. Through rimmed glasses, he scanned them until his gaze passed by Trini twice.

“Ah...” He stood, grabbed an old browning wood cane from somewhere beneath the table, and walked around his desk. “Lady Trini. A pleasure to see you again. Are you here for another dress?” He closed his eyes for a split moment, his head dancing left to right as if sifting through memory, then, almost automatically, he pulled out another book from his wall of them and slotted the one in his hand into its place.

“Not today, Trishtam. I'm here to fit this fine specimen here.” She gestured to Nadier.

“Ah. Very well. A dark elf. Haven't seen one of you around lately. Though it will take me a few days to design a suit for him. I am an artist, after all.” He circled Nadier and waved his hand flamboyantly. “You wouldn't come to me otherwise. Each outfit, tailored for just each individual.”

“It's fine. He's a repeat customer. You can just use the old design.”

Nadier raised a brow at the old elf. “You used a memory technique there. With the book.”

“Punctilious, aren't you? Yes. A mind palace. Helps me keep track of clientèle who would prefer to not be tracked.” He then set a curious thumb and index on his chin. “Which surprises me that I would not remember someone as striking.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Striking?” Nadier raised.

“I mean no offence, my handsome man. People simply dress the way they want to be portrayed. My lady here, elegant, confident, powerful, not a single fur even in the cold. The more they wish for to blend into the role they perform, the more striking they are to me.” He gestured to his topic to which she curtsied, then back to the dark elf. “You, a drab single colour, blended to every shadow, yet functional. I would think... a mercenary.” Trishtam ran a finger down the leather straps of Nadier's vest, then, flipped his coat aside gently to reveal his daggers, hidden under the side.

Trini jabbed, “Do you two need a room?”

The tailor corrected, “An assassin. I've worked many assassins, but none like you.” He turned back to the sea elf. “A repeat customer, you say?”

“Winterwayn,” Trini named. “Arborior Winterwayn.”

Trishtam took a moment, his eyes closed and head bobbed slightly again. Then, he opened both his lids, went to his books, and pulled out one confidently, turning to a page that puffed slight dust from the ruffled paper's edge. He then held the book up to Nadier with the cover facing the latter.

“Yes. The design does suit him. Except the eyes. Something off and different, but definitely the same man physically. Very well. A slight design change will be needed. I'll measure you and have my laddies send it to you in a few hours. Stand over here.” The tailor gestured to an empty spot next to the door as he picked us his measuring tape, his eyes glazing over an old oxidizing brown metal box sitting underneath others in the corner of the room. “I'm remembering now of you having a great wolf with you. Still alive, I hope?” He began stretching the tape across Nadier's shoulders.

“She's fine.”

“Good, good.” The tailor moved on to his arms. “Beautiful creatures. Extremely loyal, and lives almost as long as us elves. We wood elves value them as hunting partners. For you to have one of shadow is fortuitous indeed. You must have terrific luck.”

“That's not the exact phrase I'd use.”

“Well, luck's got nothing to do with it,” Arborior Winterwayn's voice echoed in his head. “We were born together, and we'll die together.”

The tailor replied, “Guess life had different plans for you two.” He placed a hand on Nadier's shoulder. “Now turn around.”

Arbor joked, “Don't touch anything back there.”

Trini added, “Don't worry, he doesn't bite.”

Nadier closed his eyes as his body turned around. His memory and present were mixing. He was sure the conversation had not happened the same way, but there were enough similarities that his mind was being dragged through the echoes.

Arbor's voice broke through the sludge. “I do. I bite.” He could feel his past self winking at Trini.

“Urgh,” Nadier muttered. “Seriously?”

“It's just a joke,” Trini answered, almost offended, breaking her persona.

“It's not you,” Nadier assured. “I'm Just not used to being prodded.”

Trishtam tapped his shoulder. “Alright, we're done.”

Nadier turned back and watched as a memory of Zen prowled across the shop floor. Trishtam returned to his desk and began jotting down his measurements as the wolf sniffed at the brown box in the corner.

“What's up, girl?” Arbor said to Zen.

Nadier asked, “What's inside?” he gestured his head to the container.

“Oh, actually...” The man dropped his work and went to the corner to pull the box out. He must have kept his store spotless, for not a single hair of dust was picked up from the move. From within, he pulled out a dark length of metallic gleaming cloth that flowed like a wave of onyx, greyed lines of magic circuits running its face. “It's a scarf of shadeweave silk. Extremely rare, but wonderful conductor for dark magic. Specially enhanced to amplify shadow spells.”

Trishtam continued, “If I remember correctly now, you were the one who commissioned it, but never came back to collect.”

“It was...” Nadier thought back. “For a girl.”

Trini cooed. “Was it for me?”

“You looking for something too, girl?” Arbor quipped.

“No...” Nadier knew she was egging him on, but he's having too much trouble catching up to Arbor's memories to take the bait. “It's for Zen.”

He held out his hand subconsciously and within it was a hand full of gold pieces. Feeling dizzy, he closed his eyes to regain some of his mental fortitude before reopening, only to find the gleaming currency vanished from his sight.

Trishtam looked at him quizzically. “Well, it was paid in full. So I guess it's yours.” The tailor placed the scarf into his palm. “Glad to finally rid the space of it.”

The tailor went back to his bench and began his work. The moment his quill touched paper, his eyes glazed over in the way craftsmen do when they are enraptured by their work. It was then that Nadier realised Trini had been focusing her gaze on him.

“What?” he asked.

Arbor added, “You want to get with this?”

She replied, “Is something wrong with your head?” Her tone was confusingly both caring and insulting at the same time, the voice of the past spiralling with that of the present. “There's a tavern near here. We could get you a drink.”

“Are you asking me out?” Arbor asked.

Nadier groaned. “Am I allowed to decline?”

She smiled gently. “I'm afraid not. Maybe next time.”

“I assure you,” Nadier shook his head clear and, for that short moment after, he had a semblance of clarity. “I don't think next time will be any different.”

Arbor scoffed. “Oh baby, there's always a next time.”