Owner	Pose
Monet St. Croix	It had been a long day in shopping. Somehow, M and Illyana had been going out together. Said trip had involved mostly snarking at those passing by. Young children, crying, people with hideous taste in fashion, and a large number of seriously deficient life choices. A few hours of snarking that had turned into 'I can totally teleport back when this loaded' and the duo were waking up or revivifying htemselves some time later..     Monet is slowly, slowly staring up at the ceiling, her head throbbing in agony. Gazing up at it..     No, wait, things were reversed. It otok her a few moments to realize she was looking down.. At the floor.     ... Why was her bed up on hte ceiling? Mor importantly, how was she still in it?
Illyana Rasputina	Shopping is a necessity for a woman who owns mostly black pants, black boots, black shirts, and black... ensembles to go with a tortured, starving artist or server. The Demon Queen of Limbo is neither of these things, save tortured. "I need a formal dress" necessitates finding someone who is not Emma Frost otherwise the dress from Jumbo Carnation or /someone/ will no doubt be four gold pins, three scraps of mesh, and the best neurosurgeon in the city or country passing out. Enter, one Monet. Enter, way too many deficient sartorial shopping bags that cannot be black or white alone. Oh, Monet comes from Money with an M (TM) but the Slavic woman isn't hurting either. Helps to have favours and souls to stare into when she needs to apply filthy lucre. Bags, clothes waiting to be tried on. Too many of them. Illyana clutching a bottle, scowling at the mirror. Her hair is a mess, buns fallen out, the fringe of her bangs over her shadowed eyes. "Bah! Why does James get to drink a cellar, no hangover. I lose my /soul/, rule countless legions, have /headache/? Piotr does not either," she hisses. Up. Down. Where is M? There, and not having to worry about the dreaded Hell Lord in her evil form, but peering at the latest mistake she bought. A JUMPSUIT. It's evil. Stylishly evil. Awful.
Monet St. Croix	It takes Monet a few momenst to realize over where Magik is. And that the other woman does not seem to have a hangover. Stupid infernal powers of damnation. Of all the useful things that come from possibly having had one's soul bartered away by demons. That's probably one of the most useful things. Unfortunately, even hellfire and damnation do not come with those possible good things! One should sue. She looks down, trying to figure out why she's looking down rather than up. She finally settles on the 'I don't want to know' routine of it and moves to slowly pull her way out and over. She looks over at Magik in horror. A jumpsuit. A /jumpsuit/. Hideous (to her). Garish. "With everything I offered up to you you have to go with something so gauche. It's not even trendy. You could have just gotten a set of jogging sweats and it would have accomplished the same thing." Priorities. How can she, the great Monet Yvette Clarisse Maria Therese St. Croix have failed at such a task of ensuring that her charge had selected something so inappropriate? "... We have to go back. Did you save the receipt?" Monet's brain is slowly chugging. She'll need to find out whom they had at the store that gave them such a travesty. Then she'll buy the store. So she can have them fired.
Illyana Rasputina	Oh, she has something of a hangover processed in the wrong ways. Illyana's hangover happens to be a magnitude less than the average American in her situation and utterly nothing compared to 'man made of organic metal' and 'Apache hero.' So unfair, which has something to do with her grimacing at herself in the mirror. Her reflection does not apologise. "You," she points a finger accusingly, bottle already going to her lips, "are a <ruthless jerk>." Flipping to Russian makes it sound so much better, utterly spooky to go with the vicissitudes and cruelty deserved from reflective Illyana. She swigs from the open mouth of the bottle. No spilling, that is an art and regally demonic. The rest will come from stained red lips. A jumpsuit is a terrible crime, but not quite as bad as some. "It's Valentino. They say 'Oh, very fashionable, so Paris.'" Her statement comes as the metallic silver garment shifts around her. "Off rack is so terrible. I did not buy the gem-embellished, leopard-print one. We could still." A threat? A barbed word? A promise? Let it be either. "Look like the fashionable, angry babas from Betty White Girls."
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would look down over at Illyana, finally managing to float her way down to the ground, eyes wide over with shock. It's worse than she thought. "We're going to need to stage an intervention. I'm so sorry, I didn't realize it was this bad." There's a twitch in her eyes. The poor thing. She would look over at Illyana, "First, we're going to need to have you take that and burn it. We don't want to risk it being associated with you for the purposes of allowing you to retain the power of inflicting terror and suffering on all those whom encounter you." Illyana might not necessarily have the gravitas for clothes and the drive for fashion that others might.. But bringing up the 'take away your ability to be scary' is hopefully a solid enough counter-argument for the Russian that clearly had far too much blood over in her alcohol stream.
Illyana Rasputina	"Why sorry? The universe has reason to be sorry." Now, when mildly inebriated or hungover, apparently that Russian accent wraps around literary-grade English with absolutely no issues involving syntax. Nonetheless, she remains a total blank void to a psychic. Must be nice not to share the headache or sense anything like the emotional milieu of a Nutribullet filled by post-teen emotional highs and lows. In fairness, the teenaged angst years for Monet may have been brutal. Illyana's were spent overcoming Limbo. Only equal. She looks down at her clothes and shrugs, shoulders lifting. "You want to return this for a proper credit or shall we lay waste to the Valentino Spring '23 collection?" Standing up comes too fast; her knees lock against the wobble, threatening to flatten some innocent bag. Maybe Monet's table. Is there a table? Her posture, formed by a decade of ruling by the blade or dying by it, hardens. "You would say I present insufficient edges to pull this off?" Yes, she literally needs it pulled off. She plucks at the glittery silver fabric angling along her shoulder. "I will be seen as soft? Arm-candy? We have the American Medical Association bother." This horror that she must attend, there can be no escape from it. The AMA's delegates will gather and... "A... a... summit."
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix is not even trying to read Illyana's mind. That's a black hole on the best of days. On the worst of days, Illyana might decide to let it work, after all. She would look over at the girl over and just shake her head. "You poor, poor thing. We're going to have to do this properly. I just think that most of it can be burnt. Alternatively you can save some of it to dress a prisoner that you want to make feel humiliated and terrified." Monet goes to fold her hands over together. "For a lady of your pedigree we can find far more fitting attire. Far, far more fitting to help you inspire the edge of style, fear, and terror that a girl such as you should inflict upon the world. Just.. Let me." She would click her tongue. "There is no offense meant, just.. You can clealry do so much better."
Illyana Rasputina	On the worst of days, maybe Monet doesn't get out of the oubliette of Illyana. "Properly? What is proper by your definition?" Up goes her chin, but her education at the hands of Jean Grey hasn't entirely stripped her of manners, meaning, or mesmerizing pauses. Jean does those so well. She puts her hands on her hips, contrapposto, one part Dua Lipa and one part Sir Edmund Hilary conquering Everest. Maybe for a photo, anyway. "Make that the prize of a failing student and not someone worthy of us. Someone who does not control their powers. Better than cone hats they used to endure, da?" The $8,000 dunce cap is a low bar to live by, but Monet's withering opinion and scathing fashionista reviews could inflict terrible damage on a large swathe of the student body. Especially if Xavier's student body can't fit into it. "You are European, you understand better than those people who make nets and duct tape into clothes. They delight too much in coffee filters." Tim Gunn would understand. She nods. It is a necessity, what Monet says. "Into the brink." Or brinkmanship, unleashed. God save their souls.
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would nod over and then considers. There's a twist of her head to the side. She's having a moment of analysis. Thoughts. Provocations. "... Wait, I have the perfect thing for you for formal affairs that will maintain your decorum and inspire the proper obedience." Monet goes flying out of the room at high speed. A few minutes later she is back, frazzled. She passes over an outfit not -quite- Illyana's size but that's clearly a black dress made for a funeral that's cut more like a school uniform. Black dress shoes. Stockings. "You'll have to od your hair up in pigtails to complete the look but if anyone can do it perfectly it would be you."
Illyana Rasputina	As long as Monet doesn't fully twist her head around, all is well. Let there be significant consideration for the consequences if she can. The provocative spell of silence out of Illyana acknowledges the process of thinking, the way that a woman needs time to come to a proper conclusion. If the conclusion is coffee filters or barrels, even a gifted psychic might not outrun her flinging the Soulsword. She watches the blur of motion and remains silent, her messy hair falling into place in a way that utterly defies 'bedhead' and goes straight to 'stylishly mussed.' The bottle put down, she scrunches up the tangles to make the texture better, and can be found in a vaguely more presentable state upon return. Her gaze goes to the stockings, then the dress shoes. "No," she points to them. "Buckles, round toes, so very... fifteen. They are surgeons, doctors, the very best of a haughty profession that chews up and spits out its young residents. Narcissistic and sociopathic tendencies coupled to a high degree of ambition, most of them self-assured of their perfection to a point they make hedge fund managers bashful. These are the peers, the sharks, I move among. Mine is one of the few who did not succumb in his totality to the corruption on account of providence and circumstance." She pinches the black dress, sketching a line. "You must think -- medical Davos. Luminaries of a G20 meeting. The cutthroat admixture of the mafiya with men, mostly, who commend themselves as saints and higher than gods." Her eyes narrow, flashing ultra-hot ice blue, levelling that impassive look on her fellow. "They see schoolgirl, they will have stupid fantasies in their head and no appreciation for the position that my partner holds. No moment of assessment, and dawning horror of what alliance is made. Between shots of whisky and self-congratulations, their blood should run cold and their thoughts too fast for even that Charles to catch. This, this is for play at Hellfire extravaganzas. No, think settings for diamonds. Winston. Lagerfeld, unsheathing a famed sword. You have a name of the most famous watercolour painter, da? Be Delacroix, Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Duchamp. Break what went before. If I am art, then let me be art. Not... quite so childish. I have been Saint Lilith. I have been Goth queen. Make Nathaniel Essex /quiver/ in rage or fear and jealousy. He needs to occasionally be reminded even his splendid cloak is not the epitome of it all." A pause. "Also punched in the face."
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would glance over at Illyana, "Oh, this is not childish. To the Americans, it is the refined elegance of gothic splendor and terror merged into one. Proper things for a funeral and the one that will be the cause of it." She would go to fold her fingers together over in thought over then nad go to consider as Illyana would elaborate on. Listening. Fascinating. Filing things away over. "Fashion is about the call to one's core. Their way of defining themself." She does not say 'soul'. She is not that gauche. "So let us ready to prepare you then to inflict you upon the world. And.. May I?" She goes to wait for permission from Illyana. She means by 'may I' if she could go to telepathically offer something. Illyana's mind was impossible for her to do so in any case, wtihout the woman's permission; even if she could. But still.. It's just a passing fancy. And not a necessary one. "So come. Failing this, we can start with something.. Suitably inspiring over of malevolence that you should inspire in all those around you." She's honest. And sincere. In her own way being -very- M in her attempts at helping. For the best or not? But the intent is clearly there and she's giving all that she can and offer. "There may be some places in town where we could go.. We're just i time for the European fashion houses to be opening so we can do this -properly-."
Illyana Rasputina	Skeptical as she is, she at least is willing to listen to the suggestions made to her. Illyana isn't going to be the type to flounce out looking like a sullen twelve-year-old, though she isn't afraid of fashion. See also, bird-cage dresses and more. "Not too gloom-ridden or heavy, da? I want them to be cut, stopped, and asked to reassess. What is the point, to recede into the background? Let all those very opinionated doctors and surgeons fall off their high horses. Glamour is helpful for this, and I am not allowed to punch people, am I?" No, punching is hardly allowed. She will have to do instead with something else, other than pairing a coat-dress and high boots with essentially nothing. Hands spread, the silence of waiting on 'may I?' something that draws a blank. It actually draws it for a while, Monet's patience probably tested, since the upnod of offer doesn't immediately alight on telepathy. She probably expects the dark-haired woman to whip out a measuring tape or shove her into a closet the size of an apartment in Yonkers. Cracking open the door takes a while, as the seventeenth guess of what Monet wants. It's not pleasant passing through the barrier, like being assaulted by very angry barbs of Siberian blackberry and one the size of a child. Limbo /knows/ when someone wants in that pretty head, and so does the demon who masquerades as a charming young lady. They are not one and the same. "Where to? London, Milan, Paris? Bratislava?"
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would consider, "Milan. We'll start there. Paris can be rather pretentious if one doesn't have the correct contacts." Is she admitting that she doesn't? "It will take too long to establish appointments. We need appropriate efforts prepared for you immedaitely." She's in consideration over. "London can be dreary. It's a last resort or if we want some alternate outfits. Teh tailors there are good but they can be rather uninspired. Not everything must be traditional after all." Not that traditional attire can be a bad thing. Monet does not mind the company, which by her standards is rather pleasant. The passage-way through the nether-gates of Limbo using it as fast transit gets a bit of a shiver, but a minimized one. Moreso out of the uniqueness of the transit than anything else. She's helping a friend that desperately needs appropriate clothes and relatable fashions. That thought a leoporad print jumpsuit was appropriate. Remedying this takes priority over any sort of discomfort she feels. "Milan has a fresh network, is not as overpopulated and dreary and is -far- from pretentious as any of the more imbecillic fashion houses in Paris." Why is she acting like the two of them are friends? Are they friends?
Illyana Rasputina	Illyana probably doesn't have those contacts -- who knows a Strange? Too bad for her. She nods again, precise and crisp, to the tactical explanation of a general in fashion or fashionably cultured things. Like Cyclops, sometimes you accept that someone will point you and set you free to do your thing. Student of war and conflict, the warlord smiles sharply. "Is it appropriate to be off-the-rack?" This sin would never do for a Frost, a Braddock or that Wonder Woman lady. Will it suffice for them? Tradition earns a sniff. Hardly. "I would not recommend St. Petersburg. They are absent something. The Lebanese have sharp eyes. French and Arabic inspirations. I am not a hatrack, it is also helpful for shaping something." She knows a little of those climes, but it's again a case of trying to dress a sword up. It takes an eye. So then the simple gesture of stepping from A to B, where Italians rule in their northern citadel and she gets looks for her outfit. BAD outfit. Prada, Gabbana, so many would be rolling in horror. Not that she's exactly runway-esque, not at the moment, until M chooses to darken their doorways or stalk the halls of fashion. Ateliers await. "You speak my language. No pretensions. No gloom. I want to look." Dare she say it? Dare M hear it? "Good. Sharp is easy. Good? That is not so easy."
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would nod over at Illyana and walk along as she would scan along. "Off the rack is a last, desperate resort. However, one can find excellent outfits there. And in a pinch when one does not have the time to have a new one made, or there's some sort of crisis.." Your mansion sized closet on fire, your only things left intact are what Rogue calls 'casual wear'. One makes do wiht what they have available. She would nod over at Illyana, "I don't presume to be fluent with Russian fashions, though they only target one class." The oligarchs, after all. Older men and their trophy wives. "And yes. Effective, unique things for those realms, blending.. We can further go to Beinjing on the way back. They have some truly amazing things there." Yay for being internationalists! Illyana is given a thoughtful nod as Monet considers. "you will be a challenge." That's honesty. "I will do all that I can to help you feel amazing. Also I can think of some locations that would have outfits that you could include your sword in."
Illyana Rasputina	Off the rack, desperate? A last resort? Not things Illyana tolerates. "The event is in weeks. I can wait," she answers, begrudging about the fact. Her shoulders twitch back as she steels herself to somethig lesser of a kind. "I have the time." Or she can condemn a premier or a designer into the abyss of Limbo where time is no issue, right? Okay, maybe the better angels haven't rubbed off as well as they ought to have. She has chin up, back straight, and the intent to storm some poor doorway with a less impressive credit card than perhaps she ought to have. Alas it's not like being Sorcerer Anything is particularly valued in these halls. Hungry Russian blonde models are a ruble a dozen. Not a good exchange rate, is it? "Beijing? I haven't been there in a while. Could be fun." She'll give Monet that, following the lead.
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would nod distractedly, "Good. We'll want options. We can go through here in Milan, then over to Beijing. You'll want to have variety. Eastern outfits are amazing and not properly appreciated in the West." Monet is going to cover the outfits. This is a charity case for a friend. And what is daddy's money for if not binging? It's only going to be a hundred thousand dollars or so. The two arrive out on a busy street. "What are your colors? What patterns call to you? I want to establish a baseline for our initial forays so that I can find some things to use as possibilities to get your input on and expand from there." Getting dresses is a campaign. First to skirmish. Then to assault. Then to invasion.
Illyana Rasputina	A few moments to partition space and drop a friend through might be a violation of consent, though not entirely if Illyana positions the portal slightly ahead and to the left of Tabitha Smith, Esquire! Right? The will to overlap space and time manifests an instant later, evoking a snapshot of Milan's fine kerbs and paved streets. Roman mores are higgledy-piggledy square and quagmire streets designed in the 15th century. Milan is orderly, gridded, and industrious. Even in its back alleys where gardens show among graffiti, and the punctual brutalism of apartment blocks or elegant balconies somehow conveys Italian skill. "I wear anything. Yellow is not as desirable. I would match too well." She pinches her hair to make the point to Monet, though the icy fairness in her could pull off the right shade. Never dayglo, nothing leaning too hard to pale green. Chartreuse is meant for people with pigment to pull it off, not the walking incarnation of a snowstorm. "I wear black. The art is not the same." Her palm opens, and a flash of light comes spilling out; gold, then burning all the way down to sapphire. How they mingle isn't a mystery but the active presence of mana matches her portal's deadly limned light. "You see? Silver, gold, metal." A frightened pedestrian skitters off, because a woman has light or fire or whatever in her hand. Too bad for them.
Monet St. Croix	The presence of the street urchin will help them have a basis. Of course it's moreso that Monet will take anything that Tabitha likes as a baseline for 'avoid at all costs' but that's still useful to have when one is looking for posisbilities. "Of course. Black." Good to confirm even if what is expected of her. Monet muses over in thought. "We're wanting to tell a story here. OF you. Of how you present yourself to the world at this event." She would smile over at silver and gold. "Excellent. This gives me much to work with, thank you." She's tapping her head over in contemplation now. Workign on ideas. "How about something almost looking like armor?"
Tabitha Smith	Getting trashed is way more common among X-Men than it should. Somewhere in New York there was a girl stumbling out of a popup rave in the Meat Packing District heading for the back alley to head down and towards maybe a subway station to head north and home. She never did since the girl winds up stepping through a portal and ending up in... Well she doesn't know. But she does see friends. It's usually an idea to avoid anything she picks out for herself. The current look could probably descibed somewhat as Bondage Biker Punk Barbie. She's actually wearing some of those yellow jeans she tends to aim for a lot. Clingy and way too tight on her lower half while her jacket, actual practical motorcycling with padding built in is in mostly red with yellow paddding at the back and shoulders. A black tank cropped to show abs along with cleavage sits on shoulders with a hollow outline of Hellow Kitty in yellow. Accessorising and matching she keeps a red spiky leather belt at her waist, looped through one single loop on her waistband while a matching collar and wrist straps on her neck and forwarms catch the light on the blunted spikes of stainless steel. Boots in lace up knee high wedgeheels on her feet keep her from looking short while her glasses are actually just brass oval wirerims with yellow lenses for glare. "Heyyyy, the fuuuuuu... Yana, Monet? The crap? Where the hell?" she asks curiously, head swivelling and flicking that wild mass of blonde aout her shoulders. "Did I hear you say you can't pull off yellow and black? Pffft. Girl you like gorgeous. You can wear anything!" she points out and grins over at Monet. "I get ex-girlfriend bias on her style!" she points out. She may be rather high and drunk herself. "Wow, I so can't read any of the signs here." she says and takes her glasses off to squint and not realise it's all written in Italian.
Illyana Rasputina	Black is Illyana's flag, though hardly necessary. Demon Queen, ra ra ra. The 'Rasputin' in the name should warn that the family line doesn't exactly go hard for being fashionable, but almost counter-culture to the point of decimating a centuries-old imperial or religious system. Grandpa Grigori was trouble, mkay? Yellow in the sickly shade for pants or a school-bus inspired coat is not happening. For all those hoping for her to toss her jumpsuit into an Italian dumpster and stroll around in her skivvies, there remains hope. Monet doesn't like it, after all. "Your opinion is required." Precise Russian, never mind the remnant hangover, afflicts English with a punch. "I told her she could dress me in anything but yellow." The fire dies out, gold smothered, a bit of blue decorating her polished nails. As if it belongs there instead of an active enchantment serving some manner of purpose, probably assuring no hangers or racks fall on them in stores with all of four items for sale. Sell one and they might just pay the rent for a month. "You get girlfriend bias, da. Your shoes are good. This, this is fun." She gestures to Tabitha's knees to feet. "Imagine heels in wire. Hollow or outlined, transgression on solid form to elicit a reaction of vicious function. I could work with that." She's talking in tongues or that is Fashion-Speak for 'Donatella sold her soul to me and all I got was this pair of straps they call a dress.' "Armour? Could do this. A long-sleeved top cropped off here," rather high, "in overlapped scales. Gold? Blue? Very shiny. Rounded off, rather than points, so I am not mistaken for a lizard."
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would nod over then and glance over at Tabitha, "Fine, you're along as a confidant. Don't speak unless you're spoken to or asked a direct question by either of us." They still have to what M will not call 'the trailer park trash' in the presence of the other girl. That's not polite even if she might honestly consider Tabitha that! Monet goes to after a few moments somehow get out a sketchpad and pencil. she goes to quickly sketch out a drawing of Illyana wearing something that seems like armor made over as a dress, with quick marks over to match the coloration pattern that the girl had given of her preference. "Ms. Smith, even if one can wear something, they do not necessarily want to. Clothes define you. They are a personal thing that you assemble. Fashionc omes from the heart. How youd efine and present yourself to the world. How you assemble something that has meaning to yourself." She goes to secondarily make out another sketch over of the heels to try and match what Illyana is speaking of, then a very quick one combining the heels and the outfit.
Tabitha Smith	The dismissal of Yellow gets a pout. It's one of Tabitha's colors. But she also leans into neon herself. The command to shut up gets a pout and a what the shrug of her shoulders and sweep of her hands, showing off the spiky wrist cuffs. At least she's mostly complying and takes a peek out and around at some of the stuff around to be had. Somethings people often forget. Tabby is actually a capable designer when she's not picking for herself. The compliment aboutr her boots does get some bright smiles and an almost squee. But it's kept top a whisper. "Thanks!" gotta at least acknowledge when complimented. "Burgundies and Maroons. Darker reds. Brass for anything metal." she does suggest at least something. It is a challenge to keep that mouth shut but some ideas do work. This is where the blonde redneck girl starts peeking over Monet's shhoulder to see what she's sketching and hmmms like she's prepping a critique. Maybe she is. Or could just be being wasted Tabby and running with annoying Monet a little for fun. Payback for being summoned, she might as well get her money's worth.
Illyana Rasputina	"My way is easier. My fashion changes to suit the needs of the moment. You have claws, now I have metal in the way of claws. Why it wants to be one-sided, asymmetric, though?" Another shrug. Illyana's armour sometimes does have a mind of its own, no telling why. Like her brother, the stuff is reflexive. Unlike him, she can choose to be partly metal clad instead of /actually/ heavy metal. Them's the breaks. "Yellow like a bus does not suit me, da? Different blonde." No need for psychic powers here to distinguish the pout. Illyana's well and strongly aware of feelings in others, even when she chooses not to experience them directly herself. Compartmentalization does not extend to others. "You see, wine? Wine is good. Something I like to drink." Too much of. Her mouth is still vaguely stained a reddish hue. The bottle caused the jumpsuit, so it ought to be burned. Tabitha, you're up. "I need fancy clothes for a fancy event full of sadistic madmen -- surgeons, da? Doctors, people like that. I want to make them question their life choices." Why? Does it matter why?
Monet St. Croix	Monet St. Croix would nod over then, holding up a rough sketch of the outfit. A dress seemingly made out of interlocking segments of cloth in Illyana's colors that was like panels of armor going down her body. With those very high heels. "I'm unsure as to whether you would like it or not, but a set of pauldrons and gloves would accessorize quite well. All the better to draw more attention to you. The pauldrons might be excessive, however you are going for the motif of a warrior. You are dangerous. High class. Exotic. They are but mere men. This reinforces that they are prey and inferior." And M was real good when it cames to calling other people inferior! It's held out for inspection of Illyana and for Tabitha. "You could have the dress in something Amazon style, perhaps to help add to the effect?" She would muse, considering while going to work on another sketch.
Tabitha Smith	There's an event, and a group of people to impress. "So you know you married one right? I mean last I checked Stephen wasn't actually a shitty doctor. Or an asshole. I mean if he is and you separated I can help hold him down while you punch him in the dick till he passes out!" Tabby's always had both women's backs. Even Monet's despite the dark skinned woman's tendency to think down at Tabby. "Well I dunno about pauldrons. That's a bit too... No. That's shoulderpads. Tabby shudders and makes a sour face at Monet. There's something positively cosmic about how the concept instills a rsense of revulsion. "Okay. So an amazon style dress is the right path. Something that can easily go off the shoulder, short loose sleeves. The hem lopsides, knee length one siode, mid thigh the other so you can fight. Use brass or at least something that color to accessorise. two belts, plated and wirehinged, criss-cross like gun belts. Add wrest braces and a collar in the same.!" she shows off her own. "No bondage attachments like these. You aren't there for that. I'm not here for that. " she chucckles. "Then kinda sandal type shoes. Spike heels, the brass in a kind of spat look for protection!" she suggests and offers the image to Monet while she has the sketch pad. "Kicking ass in all your finery Yana hon! The Soul Sword, does it have to be a sword. I mean In knpw iot can be different swords. Maybe hide it as something along with the brass as a little contrast before you bust it out and get your hack and slash on!" she adds with a solem and sagascious if stoned nod.