I'm practically bouncing in my seat as Rara and I take a carriage to visit her friend who's interested in making us some new shoes.

"I can't believe you walked everywhere yesterday," she giggles. "Isn't that exhausting?"

"I've sort of gotten used to it, actually," I admit. "When we were surviving on our own we had to walk for almost twenty minutes every time we needed a drink of water."

"Ugh, I can't even imagine, you poor thing."

"Right now it's really just the footwear that's a problem. These ones are falling apart."

It turns out that hand-spun and amateurly woven silk socks with rawhide soles aren't quite the replacement for shoes that I'd hoped. The hide is warped and cracking in places, and the silk is unraveling. They've done a remarkable job since I made them, but I need something better than makeshift slippers.

"Well, that's what we're here for," Rara replies cheerfully. "Speaking of which—we're here!"

We step out of the carriage—a relatively humble box on wheels, drawn by a single "horse"—and Rara tips the driver before approaching Draga, who arrived ahead of us and is waiting nearby.

"Draggy, you could have joined us in the carriage, you know," she says.

"Lady Tara. That would have been improper."

"Bah! Like I give a frick about what's proper," she huffs. "You're always so stuffy! You're never gonna marry my sister with that attitude."

I miss a step and nearly faceplant, catching myself at the last second.

"I'm sorry, what?!"

Draga rolls his eyes and sighs. "I have no intention of courting Lady Talla. Our relationship is purely professional, and Lady Tara knows that. She just enjoys making her sister uncomfortable."

Rara giggles. "We've been in an arms race to embarrass each other since before our horns came in. It's tradition at this point."

"Phew," Maggies sighs in relief. "For a second there I thought we were gonna have to kill him."

She's probably joking about that. I think.

"You didn't have to come with us if you don't want to, Draga," I say for probably at least the third time today.

"As long as my commission is suspended, I've little else to do in the city," he replies with a shrug. "I'm sure whatever you're doing is more interesting than listening to my colleagues gripe about work all day."

That's what he says, but I think he's trying to protect us. If I thought he was doing it because we're potentially a key witness for his tribunal, that would be one thing, but I'm pretty sure he's just doing it out of the goodness of his heart—which is somehow worse. I feel bad about it, but I guess it's his decision to make. I do feel a bit safer with him around.

"So Rara, who is your friend anyway?" I ask.

I've learned my lesson about Fa'aun introductions—it's better to know who they are ahead of time rather than waiting to be introduced.

"We're meeting up with Baira Foren," she says. "But you can let her or me handle the other introductions."

"Others?" I ask, noting the pronunciation of her name—bah-ee-rah.

"She's just an apprentice," Rara explains. "Baira's our in, but it's her master that we actually want."

"Aren't apprentices usually kids?"

"Not always," Draga answers. "Some are retraining, and others remain in a favorite apprenticeship to advance their class more quickly."

"The most popular masters have hundreds of students from all ages," Rara adds. "And focus more of their efforts on teaching their profession than actually working it."

Huh, I guess that makes sense. If apprenticeship is such a critical aspect on how children are raised, it's probably pretty lucrative to specialize in teaching certain classes. A master smith with hundreds of apprentices never has to make anything if they can just get their students to do it.

"I take it we're not seeing one of those today," I suggest.

"Good guess!" Rara replies. "Baira is one of only two apprentices under this master. I told you I'm all about hidden gems, remember?"

I'm starting to believe it, but I'll withhold judgement until we actually meet the person in question.

Rara leads us into a narrow alley and down a set of stairs that looks for all the world like the entrance to some seedy underground gambling den. I don't see any signage or directions or anything that would even hint at the idea that there's a shop here.

"You're sure this is the right place?" I ask nervously.

"He prefers to take clients by reference or recommendation," she says, practically reading my mind. "His work is its own advertisement."

She knocks on the door at the bottom of the dim stairwell, and a few seconds later a young girl answers it, lighting up with a bright smile as soon as she sees us.

"Rara! Come on in!"

The girl—who I assume is Baira—has light brown fur, curly horns like a sheep, and a remarkably slim build for a Fa'aun. I'd think she was underfed with such spindly limbs, but the way she confidently prances inside ahead of us makes it look natural—more like a deer than a goat. I guess there's more variation among Fa'aun than I realized.

Her clothing is also unusual. Rather than the loose-fitting cloth skirts and shawls that I've gotten used to, she wears a heavy leather frock that covers her front and back but remains open at the sides except for where it's held together in the middle by a leather belt. About the only thing protecting her modesty is a loincloth at her waist—reminding me once again that Fa'aun aren't usually as concerned about showing skin—or fur, I suppose.

Except old women. Almost everyone I've seen fully covered was an old woman. I should ask about that some time.

There's nothing covering her chest from the side, but as rude as it feels to think there really isn't a whole lot to cover. The frock and her own fur are more than enough to prevent any mishaps. The last thing I notice is that her hands are stained. Most Fa'aun have dark-colored fingers, so it's hard to notice, but there are patchy black stains all the way up to her wrists.

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"Baira Foren," I greet her with a bow. "Thank you for meeting us on such short notice."

"Miss Maev!" she chirps happily in reply. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but you are much stranger in person than Rara's description suggested."

"I know," I chuckle. "It's okay, I'm not offended."

"Your accent is strange too!"

"She didn't speak Fa'aun at all a month ago," Draga provides, ducking into the room.

Fa'aun construction is made for very tall people, but this is a pretty humble place, and Draga's above average. He doesn't quite have to duck, but there's not much clearance and he fills up the room just by being here.

"That's impressive!" Baira exclaims. "I mean, probably. I've never tried learning another language, but it sounds impressive!"

"It is," Rara confirms for me. "Allie is very talented."

Baira cocks her head as she leads us into what looks like a cramped waiting room with some simple cushions haphazardly scattered across the floor.

"Allie?" she inquires, gesturing for us to sit.

"Maev Allison," I reintroduce myself, following Vi's example. "Allie for short. I have other names too, but for now you can just call me Allie."

"Hm? A cultural thing? Your names are backwards."

"Something like that," I reply dismissively. It's a pain to explain it to every random person we meet, and I haven't even explained it to Rara yet. Maybe once we're closer.

"Huh, okay!" she says, taking it all in stride. "I guess I should introduce the master. Roro! Get in here!"

A young boy trots in from an adjacent room, wearing a leather apron and scowling severely.

"You're not supposed to talk to me like that," he grumbles.

It's hard for me to determine Fa'aun ages sometimes since they are so tall, but this one is unmistakably a child. Maybe a teenager. His horns are stubby and his fur is reddish brown.

"If we meet outside, I'll give you all the respect you're due, your lordship," Baira says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she enunciates the title. "But here, I'm the senior apprentice. Now go fetch Master Iro, we have guests!"

The boy complies, muttering darkly as he leaves.

"Sorry!" Baira says, her cheerful demeanor returning as her attention shifts back to us. "That's Young Lord Roro Dou Baanu, my fellow apprentice. He thinks he's supposed to assert himself because he's a noble—you know how boys are."

I actually don't. Like, at all. This is an entirely new dynamic to me, but as much as I'd like to spend the afternoon picking it apart, our host doesn't take long to arrive. Baira jumps to her hooves as her master enters the room.

"This is master-"

"I can introduce myself, girl," he interrupts. "Don't waste your time. Iro Clanless. Leatherworker, or something like it. Tier nine."

The man crosses his arms and glares down at me. He wears a leather frock of his own, on top of a rare pair of pants—also leather—covering his legs, and what I want to call a cuirass over his chest—once again made of, you guessed it, leather. Finally, a pair of gloves cover his hands.

What little fur I can see is very dark brown—almost black—and his horns sweep back along his skull before recurving upwards at the ends.

It's hard to get a read on him. He's very deliberately breaking the formal code of introduction, but I don't get the feeling he's doing it to be rude. Or not just to be rude, anyway. This feels like a test, but I don't know what exactly he's trying to judge us on.

Disdain for etiquette, specifically introducing himself as clanless, only giving a vague description of his class, and the fact that he's a man in the first place—all offset by giving away his tier, which is impressively high. The highest of anybody whose level I've been actually told, though probably not the highest I've met.

I'm out of time to think about it. I have to say something.

"Maev," I introduce myself simply, leaving out my own name. "Tier two. Mostly just trying to stay alive."

Baira's eyes widen slightly at that, but she quickly schools her expression. Iro is less circumspect, visibly relaxing upon hearing my introduction.

"Aren't we all, little miss?" he sighs. "What can I do for a guest of house Goa?"

He takes a seat next to Baira, who quickly kneels down on a cushion next to him, sitting on her hooves.

"Uh, I thought that Rara had already described the request," I hedge.

Iro pulls what looks like a pipe out of the front pocket of his apron and holds it between his teeth as he replies. "Uh huh. But she's not the client—you are."

I take a moment to formulate a reply as he lights the pipe and takes a long drag from it. The smoke has a woody, incense-like quality to it.

"I need footwear," I answer simply. "I don't have fur or hooves to protect the skin and flesh of my feet. I can manage without them, but it's uncomfortable and dangerous."

"Footwear isn't a word," he comments, blowing out a mouthful of aromatic smoke. "It sounds like a word, but you made it up."

"It's based on a word from my own language," I say. "I'm still learning Fa'aun, but it's flexible. Did I make a mistake?"

"No. It's clumsy, but it gets the point across," he answers. "I'm just pointing out that you're asking me to invent something entirely novel just for you. There are no existing designs for what you're asking. Nothing to work off of."

"Is that a problem?"

He grins. "Quite the opposite. Let me see them."

I blink. "See what?"

"Your feet—and the covers you've got on them now," he clarifies. "They look shoddy as hell, but it'll be a start."

"W-why do you need to see my feet?" I ask, blushing.

"You stupid?" he grunts. "How am I supposed to make your false hooves without knowing what I'm fitting them to?"

"Oh, right."

I do feel a bit stupid about that, but back in my world some people could get really creepy about feet. I used to make a habit of keeping them covered in public. Not that there's anything wrong with being into them or whatever, I just don't like it when people sexualize parts of me that I'm not trying to sexualize.

Trying to put those thoughts out of my mind, I slip out of my makeshift sandals and let Iro inspect them. Thankfully, he's very clinical about it, taking out a bit of marked string and measuring their dimensions as he mutters to himself.

"Flat heel, split toes like the lizards, no claws—that's good—the nails, how fast do they grow?"

It takes me a second to realize that he's addressing me.

"That's about a month without trimming," I reply awkwardly. "I've been too afraid to ask about clippers."

"Get some from the lizards," he suggests. "They have tools for trimming their claws that should do the trick. You'll need to keep these down if you're wearing hard covers, or they'll curl in."

"I know that already, thank you."

He grunts in acknowledgement, then moves on to inspecting my sandal-slippers while I tuck my feet under my legs self-consciously.

"Who the hell made these?" he scoffs.

Even though I know it's the first-time effort of a rank amateur, being that amateur is still slightly embarrassing.

"I did," I admit.

"With no class?"

"Yeah."

"Not bad, then," he says, surprising me. "I'd throw out any apprentice who made something like this, but as a first effort with no guidance—passable. What are these materials?"

"The hide is from embergaze basilisks," Draga provides. "The silk is likewise sourced from a convergence point."

"Huh, rich materials, but I suppose a ranger like yourself gets them first-hand," Iro's eyes slide over to me briefly. "Doesn't explain how she got them, but it's not my job to pry. Do you have more like this?"

"Yes," Draga says. "Several hides. Not tanned, but preserved. Only about a month old."

"And the silk?"

Draga glances at me and I gently coax Nipper down from his usual perch, shrugging my shoulders and holding out my arm so that he can slither down along it.

It's weird, I never liked snakes before—much less weird lamprey monsters—but as Nipper coils his way up my arm, it's oddly comforting. His weight on my shoulders has become second nature, and I kinda see the appeal of pet snakes now.

"This is our supplier right here," I explain. "Say hello, Nipper!"

The worm does not respond to my prompting, but his teeth articulate in a fascinating wave pattern that I've come to interpret as a sort of yawn.

To his credit, Iro doesn't miss a beat. "Alright, that's materials covered. Let's talk designs."

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