It was bound to happen.
I wasn't keeping up with the clothing needs of my fortress. I knew it would come to a head, but I wasn't sure when. My clothing pipeline was lackluster. I had undyed cloth backed up into two stockpiles. Something had to give.
My illustrious vampire book-keeper had been cooling her heels in the dungeon for a few years, now. After being placed on careful burrow restrictions after six exsanguinations, she had, in a fit of desperation, finally drained someone in front of no less than THREE witnesses, in the great dining hall. Well, this simply wouldn't stand.
When at last she was free from her chains, she dutifully returned to her desk, behind heavy lock and key. The dwarves knew that she could not be trusted.
And then, she grew upset.
It wasn't the confinement that bothered her, oh no. It wasn't the lack of contact with society. It was her clothes. Never keep a vampire from good clothes.
I carefully restructured her special burrow, so that she could reach the clothing stockpile. But there was nothing to wear, but stuff as worn as hers, and oversized junk from invaders. I frantically lit a fire under the clothiers, trying to get them to do their work, but as soon as they made anything, it was claimed by someone. Some dwarves stashed their old clothes in their cabinets. But, some of them put them in the clothing stockpile. So, the clothing stockpile became this sad little flea-market, where dwarves traded their worn clothes for less-worn hand-me-downs.
And yet...
My legendary vampire managed to find just enough slightly-better hand-me-downs to avert a major vampire hissy fit.
And so, a vampire found her pants, and went back to her books, and my clothiers were given no vacation or sick-leave, because it would only be a matter of time before the dangerous vampire came forth, hunting for clothes again.