Chapter Text
The robes of the Ascians are meant to be egalitarian, their masks, obscuring of individuality. Since the Final Days and the Sundering, the robes of those remaining took on a more practical role, of projecting strength, intimidation as well as their allegiance to Zodiark.
The ideals of equality and egalitarianism of the shepherds of the star are indeed noble. Even now, as the Convocation of Fourteen and few others were all that remained, they hold true.
Vanity holds no meaning to the Ascian. The only beauty to be beheld is that of one’s spirit.
A key detail, of course, a loophole of sorts, is that nobody in Amaurot ever checked what one was wearing beneath their robes.
And while the newer robes that Elidibus had designed for the current Ascians are a tad tighter than what Aristophanes would wear in Amaurot, there is still sufficient freedom to suit his tastes.
“Now this feels very nice.” the preening Ascian says, posing in front of the mirror despite his Ascian robes covering one hundred percent of his recent purchases, “I do think the subligar could be a little shorter.”
“Whatever my lord requests.” the tailor says with a little bow.
The extravagantly ornate stockings and very low cut shirt are quickly tucked into a bag that is swiftly added to the growing pile stacked around Praxilla.
“Are you quite certain you don’t want to add to your wardrobe?” Aristophanes asks as he continues making poses in front of the mirror.
The woman loudly turns a page in the research papers she probably isn’t paying much attention to.
“I’m quite certain these…” she gestures at the multiple shopping bags surrounding her, “Go beyond the realm of simply improving comfort.”
“By Amaurot’s grace, I can’t believe you’ve never experimented with individuality back home.” Aristophanes says, shaking his head, “Nobody ever knows what’s underneath the cloak, what’s the harm in spicing it up a little.”
“We are shepherds of this star, Aristophanes,” Praxilla practically recites, “We should maintain the dignity of our station.”
“This, my lord, is an article of my own creation. It truly highlights the fashion that only Thavnair can provide, an avant-garde design that this hallowed establishment pioneers. A bustier, that truly accentuates the abdomen. Armlets to show off the shoulders, and tights to accentuate the legs.”
“Oh, how lovely!” Aristophanes giddily takes the garment back into the dressing room, “You really have an eye for future trends, my good fellow!”
“All those rings might betray your vanity if we can hear it from underneath your robes.” Praxilla warns from outside.
Aristophanes was never the biggest fan of Amaurot’s choices in fashion, or lack thereof. The little people were always much more creative and exciting in their aesthetics. This place in particular, really framed the body in a way he enjoyed.
For every concept they created and set out into the world, he absolutely adored how the more civilized of races would immediately find some way to cook, eat and fashion their skins into clothes and art.
Even now, the people of the star were no different. Even with nothing but the remnants of Ascian influence, they still continued to create new and wonderful things.
He admires himself in his Thavnairian bustier, and allows himself a few twirls, feeling the fabric dance in the air before donning his Ascian robes over them once more, a mild frown on his lips as the pink cloth’s ornate glory is covered.
Praxilla would complain if he doffed his uniform, but she wouldn’t really mean it. However, as much as he would love to excite the attendees of the ball he was attending in Ishgard next week with the latest fashions from Thavnair, he still couldn’t quite make that step. If he strayed too far in enjoying himself, he might forget the people he was trying to save. The mask and the robe are his permanent reminder that their adventures are only a diversion in the long road to the true Rejoining. He would not remove them lightly yet.
He emerges from the dressing room triumphantly, and does a light twirl before Praxilla’s inattentive gaze.
“We’ll take it all, my dear fellow.” he announces, “I think I’ll even wear this on our way out.”
“Very well, my lord.” the tailor says, with a bow, “The bill, if you please.”
Aristophanes takes the small sheet of paper and then nearly faints upon reading it.
“Eight hundred thousand?” he gawks incredulously. The tailor makes an irritated sound and suddenly regards the Ascian differently. Any real clientele of the highest couture wouldn’t even ask for the price tag.
“Sir, this isn’t just any establishment, this is Hannish High Fashion.” he says, eyeing the bags by Praxilla, ready to retrieve them, “Any purchase will not only have our guarantee of quality, but also the prestige of owning an article that has graced these halls.”
“Could you go out back and get some gil for me?” Aristophanes pleads with his oldest friend.
“Why bother?” Praxilla barely looks up from her notes, “It’s just clothes, surely we could just skip this middleman and make it ourselves.”
“This is the finest silk from the eastern reaches, weaved by the greatest weavers in all of Thavnair, and then tailored precisely by myself. There is nothing you could do to accurately reproduce even a single stitch of my handiwork.”
Aristophanes sighs as Praxilla’s gaze snaps upwards from her notebook. Pure-hearted Ascian or no, Praxilla would absolutely take any contest of her creation abilities personally.
“How much is a yalm of this cloth would you say?” she asks, poking at one of the bags of Aristophanes’ silk stockings.
“Almost fifty thousand on the marketboards, if you don’t understand the value of this establishment, then I will have to ask you to leave.” the tailor sniffs, regretting letting the two shady customers into his store.
Praxilla stands up and stalks into one of the dressing rooms. The sound of cloth being materialized through creation magicks can be heard for a moment before a massive blanket of Eastern Silk pours out the door and spills onto the floor.
The tailor’s jaw drops as he is nearly knocked over by the wave of cloth. His face clearly doesn’t believe what his hands are feeling.
“By the Twelve, it’s…it’s real! What witchery is this!”
By the time he looks for his now esteemed guests, they and all of their purchases have mysteriously vanished from the room.
“I dare say you may have disrupted Thavnairian/Othardian economics for decades to come.” Aristophanes notes as they watch the man run out of the building, and glancing around as if searching for them.
“Pah.” Praxilla says dismissively, “These children put so much effort into work that is trivial to the real stewards of this star.”
“Oh, I don’t recognize that bag, did you…?”
Praxilla quickly hides moves one bag further away from Aristophanes’ greedy gaze.
He doesn’t press the issue and simply smiles smugly to himself.
“I didn’t think you were a fan of lace.”
“I-I’m just going to borrow the concept!” Praxilla stammers, “Even if they’re barely half-people, they still have some good ideas…sometimes…”
Teasing and masking embarrassment in turn, the two vanish off into a portal, without a care for their impact on Thavnairian fashion for centuries to come.