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>extra sets of clothing
It is tempting to stuff myself with the toughest fabrics and to carry the dagger as to better defend myself should I get waylaid, but that would not look well legally; to carry one could be explained away as someone cautious. To carry both would mark someone as exceptionally paranoid — or looking for a fight. Avoiding trouble entirely would be best - to that end, having spare sets of clothing in my breeches would do finely. It will not stop a cut or thrust as effectively, no, but the shirts and hoses could blunten a handful of strikes.
Ah. Scavenging the depths of my closet did unearth a few memories. Looking at my midnight blue dresses now, I can recall the days when I took gunplay more seriously. All manner of folks took part in the shooting club’s little excursion to the city outskirts, and I had lively times talking to them.
It did not last.
We all… had our own obligations: work, family, friends, or other matters - they leave little room for ourselves. Out of the five of us, I believe only Aeg still follows gunnery. Such is life, I suppose.
A bittersweet feeling - mostly bitter - lingers in my throat as I finish dressing up. While the sword sits comfortably on my waist, and its components are excellent - the blued finish still firmly remains on the pommel and the bits of metal which wrap around the hilt, the sharkskin grip clings to the hand, and the blade can turn quickly enough - I can still —vividly— recall the time I drew it in defense of others. It was a woman whom I had no acquaintance with.
Getting sued for harming that rotten thing she calls her paramour was very endearing of her. I did not inconvenience my parents enough in my younger years, anyway. Being interrogated by those mages while partly deafened was lots of laughs too.
… tch.
After choosing my plainest, most worn out, broad-brimmed hat and a secret to go underneath it, I leave the house - and any more rumination - behind.
The foot traffic was not substantially more than the morning hours; returning to the restaurant took little over thirty minutes.
Standing in front of the eating place is an Aeg that looks partly more presentable: his hair is less wayward and curled, and the hose he now wears - both of it - tightly cling to his legs. With a couple waves of my hat, I got his attention. And so we depart.
Sunlight grows scarce as we enter the textile-selling side of the market; sprouting from many stalls and storefronts on each side of the street are strips of fabrics, hanging above us as if they were blankets. The path is a little condensed - owing to the less established vendors forgoing carts or tables in favor of mats. Only the occasional group wonders through here at this time of day, but I still keep my pace quick and my hands at waist-height - as defense against cutpurses more than anything.
