>>5634613>>5634616>>5634681>>5634706>>5634720>>5635138>>5635143You decide to make the most of this necessary indignity, and to command the human servants on the construction of a rather exotic attire. You are masquerading as a foreign agent, after all, not as a local nobleman. The attire must be dignified, stately, commanding… But also alluring, the sort of cut of cloth which draws a female’s eyes to your musculature, your masculinity.
The lesser males set to the task of clothing your seem to struggle with your vague instructions and critiques, but you are a king, not a tailor. This is their JOB! You place your trust in them, as servants must trust their masters in turn. I due time, should they survive the conquest of Hawksong, they will learn the ways of your give-and-take.
When all is said and done, you are attired in a sort of martial tunic and robe, hands clad in fine silken gloves in lieu of gauntlets. Your shoggoth-cuirass becomes mere belt and leggings—rather tight, red leather leggings, their blemished and pocked contours hidden by the folded, vaguely ‘Eassstern’ breeches you ordered the servants to craft you. A black-and-gold construction of fabric a-and-leather- forms a decorative chest-plate and shoudlerguards for you, implying armour even now, and exaggerating your silhouette. You admire Long Wang’s reflection in the mirror somewhat—a foreign face, an alien body, but clad in a style which is distinctly ‘Theral’.
Satisfied, you go to meet your mate.
While you have ‘dressed up’, Princess Ekaterine has dressed DOWN, if anything. This isn’t to say she isn’t still impressive—her attire, custom-crafted for her own form as yours was for Long Wang’s, is still likely worth more gold than most of her subjects would see in a month, perhaps a year. Her garb is rather loser and more conservative than yours, even than her palace-wear: a gauzy cowl of black, spangled with small pearls and white gems—zirconia, or genuine diamonds?—hide a higher-than-usual neckline, though you note a sort of… Girdle or corset has pushed her most-mammalian of assets up and together, to accentuate her own sexual dimorphism. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and placed under a too-small, slightly-askew hat of some sort. Her dress is not especially clinging, but it is short, and she is wearing some sort of especially-impractical footwear with a raised heel, coming to a deadly-looking point.
She totters slightly, and you rush to catch her. Her male guardians—escorting you on this ‘date’ as they so often do—regard you with brazen suspicion, but Eka just looks embarrassed, and murmurs her thanks.
The two of you linger for a moment longer than necessary, regarding one another.
