"Oh! Goodness! It's rather a rough place, though?" Abrahil inquires. His voice quavers bravely there at the end, and he waddles along beside Myrana. He'd found a pie, at one of the stands, and a waggle of fingers ensures it floats along beside them both. It weaves and bobs a bit, its tray alit with bright and colorful motes of light. The pie is definitely not rough--it's gooey and soft, pungent and light.

A cart seemingly full of rocks for how it creaks and groans behind the horses that strain against their harnesses rumbles by, nearly missing toes and offending any number of pedestrians. A flood of colourful language follows it. Myrana waits up on the sidelines with Abrahil as it passes slowly by, nodding to his assessment. "Don't you come through here very often, master Abrahil?" She asks him, stepping down back into the renewed flow of traffic. Its slower now, kept at a much safer pace for the rather good jam of carts and horses some ways up. "It is hectic; but even in winter, people can come to buy fresh vegetables. Thanks to the greenhouses, I mean."

"Oh! Well, yes, I do. I was by just the other day--we're working on another production, you know. I'm working on a special set of props...great tears," he confides to her after they scramble out of the way. He reaches down to brush at his jerkin--covered in mud, mud! over the bright orange, and softly-woven surface. Looks up at her with a smile, "I really wasn't quite sure how to illustrate a dark...moon," he coughs, and blinks rapidly a few times after that before straightening.

"I see!" Myrana leads them to a stall full of fabric. It is an expansive affair; cottons and wools and linens lay displayed in every colour imaginable, and further from the front a smaller, more decadent array of silks and velvets can be seen. Myra smiles politely at the shopkeep in greeting as they step inside. Then, with an expression of barely contained glee she looks over the fabrics. Gloves are tugged off and she somewhat indulgently runs clean hands over a forest-green velvet. "A dark moon?" She asks. "That sounds... it sounds very odd. A little frightening."

"Oh! Well, it is...you've seen the sky?" Abrahil looks up at her through his lenses, his bushy brows quivering over their caverns, and the gnome-brow all but furrows in worry and concern. He minces around Myrana, brushing past a bolt of fabric or two. The pie settles to the ground just nearby, much like a left-behind pet. Einstein's there in a moment or instant, his fat little self landing on its edge, and him fluffing his feathers in anticipation.

<OOC> Myrana says, "..."

<OOC> Myrana facepalm. Right. XD

<OOC> Myrana says, "The moon is still gone?"

<OOC> Abrahil says, "Tis!"

<OOC> Abrahil says, "I think. X)"

<OOC> Myrana says, "Doh! XD"

<OOC> Abrahil says, "Yes, it is. :3"

<OOC> Abrahil says, "His theatre troupe is making a tragedy of it. :3"

Myrana looks at Abrahil blankly. "Well yes-- what about it?" Then pauses.... Then leans her head out of the stall. But it is daytime, and she looks back at Abrahil expectantly.

<OOC> Myrana rolls with it. Monumental perception fail. X)

"Why--oh, oh, my dear," Abrahil pauses, and then reaches over to squeeze her hand. "Well, it's been a little different lately, is all. I tell you what! I'll come over this evening to help with this project of yours--I know quite a bit of carpentry, you know!--and we can talk all about it?" he lets go, and looks up in earnest. The DO NOT WORRY sign over his head is probably an epic fail. He looks a little pale, but perhaps, he always does. He pats her hand again, and points towards one of the crimson velvets.

Myrana gives the thespian a queer look, as though he's quite confused her. But, she has been tired lately, and most of her time has been spent in the Ox or associated court rooms, or (very literally) buried in paperwork. The latter having required some help in excavating the poor young woman, in fact, and the supressed sniffles of several papercuts. It has been a rather terrible week. "If you like... I mean, you are of course welcome." Myrana peers one last time at Abrahil, lips pursed quizzically, then puts it from her mind from now. She holds a length of vividly purple material against herself and does a half twirl. "What do you think? Gauvain says its important to appear professional, and all the girls I saw going up to mister Oxley's office were wearing these fantastic bustles! And detachable sleeves!" And detachable other things, but the young woman seems utterly oblivious to such things.

Abrahil beams upwards, perhaps at being asked his opinion. Or at being asked his opinion! He clasps his hands together. "The color of royalty! Bold! Vibrant!" The color of Ladies of the Evening! But Abrahil doesn't get that. Probably, neither does Myrana. He lowers his hands to his paunch, still clasped, and smiles up at her. He /is/ sweating a little. Still a little pale. "I...oh, goodness. Well, what would you match with it? Tassels? Brocade?" he steps towards one of the piles of fabric, bumps into it a little bit. And begins to tug free a--green? in a less-fuzzy-finish.

"Tassles?" Myrana gasps, in the tone of one who has never before seriously considered the sort of decadence normally only allowed to curtains. Those saucy hangings! "Ohhhh great big ones!" She agrees "To hang from the corner of sleeves!" A pause. "Only-- maybe that would get into soup and things-- but brocade! Yes indeed!" She inspects the green brocade that Abrahil pulls out. "It would need purple lacing-- No. Buttons!" But mostly they have to be purple. Oh yes. Purple and green together. "And maybe black trim?" Not that she's likely to have considered the correlation between her chosen colour combinations and those of every respectable evil sorceress everywhere. Its not as if she's ever met any, or read through Maleficent's Catalogue for the Discerning Arcanist.

"Oh, the very thing!" Abrahil applauds, getting into it. "I saw a few things just over this way...ORANGE!" he has NO taste. No idea of clashing or unclashing, of colors that sit well together or roar against one another. The gnomeling beams and plunges hand into brocade, to seek out buried treasure! And then his smaller (haha) form squirms into it. He vanishes in a swirl of decadent fabric.

Giddy, Myra gathers up the brocade-- and then when Abrahil has dissapeared into the fabric, takes up the fuzzy, rich velvet again. So sneaky. But it's Soooofft! Somewhat guiltily, she puts the black and green velvet onto the counter, where the shopkeep happily begins looking up prices. And buttons! Trim! FUR. It is a terrible thing, but the young woman seems more interested in the tactile than the price and touches everything in the stall. Everything (except of course the shopkeep. That would be rude!). Rooting around, she finds rich lambswool, then comes back to check on Abrahil. He has utterly dissapeared! But oh! There's a /star pattern!/ And there! Blue rose brocade! Covetously, Myrana roots through the fabrics, ending up with a growing collection of decadent materials terribly suited to her sorcerous nature, and rather less to that of an upstanding business woman.

 But that is not the worst.

 FRILLS.

 Myrana's dark blue eyes grow round as dinner plates as she stumbles upon the glory of forbidden glories. Crochet! Lace trim! /RUFFLES/! Her hands settle upon a roll of spear-head shaped pointed lace trim as wide as her arm is long. WANT. "But... it's so girly..." She murmurs to herself, conflicted. "But it's /pretty/! But... so girly. But--!"

"Oh...goodness!" Abrahil's eyes dance and he's NO HELP. He adds frills to frills, patting Myrana's hand and complimenting her. He glances at the shopkeep, though, and leans up to whisper, "My dear! Do be careful...oh, goodness. These are lovely, but might the price be a little much?" he pats his hands nervously together. And looks on the fabric again. And gets excited all over again. And, but--they're lovely! So lovely!

"Buncha colors!" Einstein says, and preens his fat little belly. Abrahil just beams.

Myrana has a manic look in her eye. This is the true basis of freedom. Blowing the money you earned by being very nearly torn asunder by Bludgun forces on PRETTIES! A tear nearly goes to her cheek. She sighs, a heartfelt, deeply happy sigh. A sigh that says; I will be the best dressed proprieter of a dangerously violent, depraved, bloodstained, windowless hole in Alexandria. Clutching a spider's teatime-web of cotton ruffles and laces to her chest, she looks at Abrahil. "How expensive could it be? I mean... I mean, you see nice gentlemen in this sort of thing all the time, right? And they look like sensible folks! And the ladies who worked part-time at the Ox, they had nice lacy ruffles all over the place! And they were /very/ careful with their money." Blithely, she carries her treasures to the counter. Abrahil's choice of the brilliant orange is among them of course, because it is bright and prettiful and Myrana is powerless before it.

"Oh...well...oh!" Abrahil fishes about for his pockets, and beams upwards at her, blinking brightly. "Well! I...oh, dear. I--oh, dear! It's all so lovely, I can't think!" his hands flush and he scurries up to the counter, piling orange upon ORANGE in its BRILLIANT HUES and sparkling wonder. "It goes with the brocade!" he cries, and it does not! The gnome's eyes cheer with that maddening, creative glee, the sparkling sparkle of things.

The shopkeep adds it all up, and one can tell that the numbers climb for the merry, unbelieving twinkle in her eye as she is given measurements to cut and buttons and tassles and spools of colourful thread to count.

Abrahil gently pets the brocade and silver threads. His fingers tremble, the tips break out in sweat! So lovely! And the Lace! The trembling doubles, and the smile's almost beatific. He lets loose a quiet sigh, and, lets them slip through his fingers lest he get unsightly gnome sweat-stains on the lovely colors. "Goodness...oh. These will do wonders for the interior...tell me. Have you thought of oh! Uniforms? Just a touch of color for the waitresses? To set off the place?"

Myrana beams. "Oh yes! I was thinking that black courderouy waist-aprons with a bright green trim and deep purple corsets, or bodices would be lovely!" She pats the green twill. "With a green cat stitched onto the pocket of each apron! See, I've been thinking of what to name it, and I thought that 'The Green Cat Inn' has a certain quality! What do you think?"

Meanwhile, numbers continue to add up, up uuuup...

"Oh! I do like the idea," Abrahil beams upwards. Upwards! Myrana is rather tall, from his perspective, and he folds his hands over his sizable paunch, that rolling thing that proceeds him here and there. "...it's quite lovely. And one--oh! You--you should get one for Gauvain! For the opening ceremony!" With a feather in it!

That does give Myrana a moment of clarity and pause. "Oh dear--- you know, I still haven't told him about the Inn," she says, as if just realizing it. "I haven't been able to find him in days. I do hope he won't be upset-- he never did like the place, or mister Oxley." Then she brightens. "But yes! A lovely orange cravaut will be just the thing to warm him to the idea." That is a bit diabolical. "And a feathered brooch! Yes in-deed-!"

"That will be one-hundred gold, miss," Chirps the shopkeep.

"He did look good in green," Abrahil says after a moment, sizing the matter up. And--clasps his hands together. Silent. ONE HUNDRED! He blinks behind his spectacles, and looks towards the shopkeep. "I could...pick something out?" the voice falters.

Myrana stiffens. Draws herself up. "It's...it's...." She falters, then rallies. "It's for -the future!-" Yes! Yes indeed! Reaching deep, DEEP into her pockets, she counts... then puts down a few platinum, as delicately as though they were robin's eggs. "A-a-and something in green! With gold trimming!" A bit of a quaver there. Oh gods, so much money. But she stiffens her lip in the manner of soldiers everywhere. "I think we better had. Before I think twice about it. And turquoise! Yes, yes indeed!" The shopkeep is just beside herself with joy.

"Oh! Well...yes, yes--let me have a look," says the gnome, bravely, and wades in. WADES IN, for GAUVAIN'S DOOM! He does it, of course, theatrically, just as one would striding before the world's hungriest, most toothsome lion.