Quoted By:
The second clothing stall you hit up was being paced about by an old woman who hobbled about with a cane. A young man snoozed nearby- presumably a grandchild, forced to serve as deterrence against any people looking to pick up free clothes, unused and freshly tailored, from the look of things.
“Agh, it’s one of you biker’s burrs,” the old hag said with a disapproving sniff when you walked under her portion of shaded tables, “Back in my day, even a vain girl knew better than to try for the attention of men who value skin over character. I doubt I have anything for you.”
“Aw, cram it, old bag,” you jeered as you stuck your thumbs in your pockets and looked around at the hanging clothes. “…I ain’t no <span class="mu-i">biker’s burr</span>. My boyfriend’s a <span class="mu-i">knight</span>.”
“If you say so.” The old woman flicked her fingers dismissively at you like shooing a fly. “The sultry imports are elsewhere.”
You clamped down on your tongue and took a breath. “Y’ don’t get it. He doesn’t like <span class="mu-i">this</span>,” you gestured down to your midriff, “But I’m tryin’ to outdo <span class="mu-i">that</span>,” you pointed to Yuliana waiting on the road, glaring after you, surely wondering what your plans were. “Y’ see what I mean?”
The old woman picked up a pair of eyeglasses and squinted to Yuliana. “No, you certainly aren’t much competition.” She took her spectacles off and squinted back at you. “Where are you from? Your accent sounds local, but you look like you’ve been chewed apart in the Cauldron and spat out here.”
The Cauldron was a close guess. “I’m from the Dustlands. Sosaldt.” The Republic of Mittelsosalia these days.
“Hrm. An exile, then.”
“Nah. I was born there.” Many countries had used the wastes as a dump for their undesirables for the last couple of centuries. Whether that would change now wasn’t something you’d bothered to discover.
“Hum. Odd. I pity you, but that you’re still alive shows some favor from above.” Whatever. The Judge Above was a giant asshole when it came right down to it. At least he had an Abyss to dump evildoers into. “Hmmm. Is your man the one with the long black hair?”
“The one with the blue sash,” you said without looking, picking through more shirts.
“That sash…” the hag seemed to reminisce with a sigh. You’d never asked after it, but you’d seen maybe one person besides Magnus with one on. You were about ready to give up and go to another stall, when she spoke up again. “Girl. Hold on a moment, come and see this.”
More out of curiosity than anything else, you stayed.
“Emrean bold-faced brashness has been popular with you young folk,” the crone lamented, “As well as Wasteland devils may care perspective. Competing head on, careless to whatever might oppose it, is the specialty of such fashions…” She rummaged about under a rickety table and took out a flat box.
