“Salutations, Sir Clark,” says Lysander, bowing towards me. “I hope thou hath not waited long for mine arrival.”

“No, not at all. It’s good to see you again.”

Something's different about him today. I scan him from head to toe. Might be the color of his armor; is it a little more silver than I remember? Design looks the same, though. Like he hasn't changed it at all.

“Still wearing that bulky old thing, I see?”

“Bulky?” Lysander shakes his head with a smile. “Oh, no no no, thou art mistaken. I have donned a lighter set, for casual outings. Surely thou dost not think of me as a man with only one suit of armor, dost thou?”

Whoa, even the way he talks is different. I guess it’s the audio translator working its magic to be more accurate, now that it knows his language better… but it’s kind of a downgrade for me. I have a feeling he’ll make even less sense after this.

I shrug helplessly. “No, hey, I wouldn’t really know… but surely you’ve got something other than armor to wear?”

A crowd starts to form around us the longer we talk; the passers-by are walking a lot slower, at least. They’re all gawking in our direction, some of the braver ones sneaking a couple photos of Lysander. Weird invasion of privacy aside, I don’t blame them. He’s certainly dazzling. 

“What else didst thou expect me to wear, bedclothes?” Lysander protests. “This is an outing, is it not?”

The more people stare the more I start feeling uneasy. Of course I know they’re not staring at me, they probably don’t even realize I’m standing here with him. But some people in the crowd stare a little too much — glare, even — like they’re trying to burn a hole through him. Maybe that’s why he’s always wearing armor. I know I’d need it, if I were him…

“Of course, different situations call for different armors! Combat against poisonous enemies requires corrosion-resistant armor, so on and so forth—”

Whatever, who cares, we’re getting out of here.

“Come on, let’s go get you something actually casual to wear.”

I grab his forearm. The plate armor’s pretty cold, compared to how warm I remember his skin being, although the metal shouldn’t be much colder than room temperature. Memories of physics class come rushing back; metal feels cold to the touch because of its higher thermal conductivity, so something warm making thermal contact with metal, like human skin, would exchange energy through heat… thus the cold sensation.

“What exactly is so ‘un-casual’ about my manner of dress?” Lysander inquires, making no attempt to escape my grasp. This guy barely knows me, and yet he’s letting me drag him around so obediently…

“Well, over here, your ‘casual-wear’ is more like a museum exhibit than anything a person would wear every day,” I explain, using my free hand to gesture as we walk and talk, “like you just walked off of a fashion show runway. People are gonna wonder what you’re doing, going around looking like a model and dressed in some crazy high-fantasy outfit, you know?”

“Indeed, Sir Clark, thou speakest words of truth. I must avoid suspicion by camouflaging myself…” Lysander inclines his head downwards.

He got the point, that’s good. Let me hammer it in a bit more. “If you wanna blend in with the crowd, you’d better dress just like everyone else.”

Lysander glances around, probably wondering what the hell I’m on about. “And that means…?” 

I make an “X” with my fingers. “No armor.” 

“But—”

“At least, nothing as obvious as you’ve got on right now. The most people here can tolerate is…” I stare blankly at his ostentatious getup. “Hell, I don’t know, a bulletproof vest? Maybe a chainmail vest, but that’d be pushing it.”

“Will I not be at risk of attack?”

“Nah, the Central District’s pretty secure, so nobody’ll try anything against you, long as you’re in a large group. Besides, you’ve got that magic of yours to keep yourself safe, right?”

“Mmm, I suppose so…”

“Then relax and enjoy yourself. This will be your world too, once the merger’s done, so you’d better like it.”

We’ve arrived at one of the many shopping streets of the Central District, the bustling hub of Tailor Street. Like the name implies, the shops here specialize in clothes and related accessories. Even the most discerning fashionista could walk out satisfied if given enough time. I'm not too familiar with this area, but I've heard enough about it to at least put on a good show for Lysander. Waltz into a mid-range store and buy him some stuff… actually, he won't know the difference if I bring him to a thrift shop, will he?

Ignoring all the big-ticket luxury brand places, I swing Lysander over to a more out-of-the-way store I heard about on social media. It's supposed to be a "hidden gem" type place that has nice second-hand clothes for cheap, but I'll be the judge of that.

The interior is warm and welcoming, much different to the cold, cloudy weather outside. Potted plants congest the place, and a set of surround-sound speakers plays upbeat electronic music. A multihued array of clothes hangs on various racks and piles up on display platforms around the place. Great, there's a lot of variety at least. 

Lysander waits in the fitting room while I ransack the store for whatever might look good on him. A paisley-patterned button-up, a sheer black shawl with golden embroidery, some flared jeans and leather boots with spurs… anything goes, and at one point I find myself considering a ten-gallon hat. Hell, I get tempted to buy something for myself, since we're already there. I don't, though. Nothing wrong with my usual wear.

As we go through potential outfit by potential outfit together, I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. What I'm doing is to Lysander is just… weird. I can't tell if it's like I'm dressing up a doll, or if I'm a mother forcing her kid to try everything on. I ended up too much like my mom, didn't I… well, he's not complaining as much as I did when I was younger, so that's a plus.

Alright, now for the finishing touch. A pair of aviator-frame sunglasses, both to give him some privacy and tie the outfit together. Lysander fiddles with the sunglasses, moving them up and down.

"What d'you think? Pretty good, right?"

"Hmm, it's quite a novel configuration," he trails off, a small smile on his lips, "but I do like it."

"If that's it, we'll go to checkout."

As always, I end up paying for Lysander's expenses. "Much obliged," says he. "Shall I deliver thy repayment in gold or silver pieces?"

"Gold would be nice." 

When we walk out the store, I lock eyes with someone I know — who just so happens to be coming off the high of her own shopping spree, decked out in chic clothes and sporting a pastel-pink totebag.

"Mike… and is that who I think it is…" she mumbles, squinting at me.

"Yep, it's who you think it is." I wave at Anis. "Say hi, Lysander."

Lysander copies my movement. "Salutations, Madam Anis."

"Omigosh, is that you, Guil?! You've got some good taste in clothes.” Anis giggles.

“‘Tis nothing.” Lysander bows, accepting the compliment with humility. “Sir Clark was the one who adorned me with these vestments.”

Anis turns to me, eyes a-twinkle. “Seriously, Mike? That was all you? I didn't think you had a single fashionable bone in your body! I mean, the way you dress is just…”

I shrug. “Hey, it’s not hard to make someone look well-dressed if they're already good-looking in the first place. How does that saying go, ‘the clothes make the man’… more like ‘man makes the clothes’.”

Anis ignores my wisdom and goes straight for Lysander's new duds, pinching them and getting her hands all over the fabrics. It gets to the point where she's running her fingers through his hair — does she think it's fake?

"Gosh, Guil, your hair is sooo soft!" Anis coos. "What's your secret?"

"Secret? I do not keep secrets…"

"No, like, how do you get your hair to be so… nice and silky smooth?"

Lysander takes a lock of hair and massages it between his fingertips. “Ah, well… I have never paid much notice to it. Perhaps it is another blessing of the Goddess? She has granted me many other boons in the past.”

“A goddess’s blessing? Gee, aren't you lucky.” Anis is way too obvious, gritting her teeth and everything. I can feel the seething rage simmering beneath those words. “Here I am, still using shampoo and conditioner like the rest of us plebs…”

“Tell me about it! I mean, he doesn’t need protein powder either? No fair.”

“So not fair! We oughta hit up a goddess sometime and get some blessings for ourselves, hey?” She elbows me in the side.

Lysander shakes his head slowly. "Nay, thou mustn’t hit the Goddess… she’s dead."