(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Fall-From-Grace's coy glance at Annah sealed the deal.
Goncalves glanced up and seemed to see Annah for the first time. Tutting
softly, he shook his head. "Lass, what in the maddening winds of
Pandemonium has possessed you to dress in such a way?"
Annah looks surprised. "Eh?" Her surprise quickly fell into a frown. "What
d'yeh mean?"
He gestured at Annah's outfit. "The leather, miss. The sheer impracticality of
it. The emphasis on the bust-line, especially the oh-so-convenient
cross-slash across the bodice. Your outfit was obviously designed to placate
someone's hormonal urges rather than to keep you comfortable. Even if you
are trying to make a statement against authority and decorum like you
tieflings tend to do, the message is really harming you in the long run..."
Morte floated close and whispered, "Not me. I can deal. Eh, Chief?
Wink-wink, nudge-nudge..."
Goncalves continued to scold Annah. "I mean really, you look more ready for
a session at the Festhall than..." He frowned. "By the way, you aren't a
Sensate, are you?"
Annah seemed confused. "Nay. Nay, I'm not a Sensate..."
The tailor nodded. "I didn't think so. Not at all. Why don't you let me attire
you in something else a little more modest..."
Horrified, Morte leapt into the fray. "No!!! Man, are you mad?! That's barmy
talk!"
"Nay, I like these. I donnae need ta worry about th'cold or heat, it's me
blood, I think. An' watch th' talk about th' tieflings, aye?"
"As you wish, then, my lady," he shrugged.
Again Grace gave me one of those soft looks, lips slightly pursed, as if
expecting a little more.
"Could you perhaps make something for Annah then? In her own style, that
is."
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