Pyotr stands before the open wardrobe for a long moment, appearing to give his choice of clothing some serious, deep thought.
Not having the first idea of what a chamberlain would wear, and not being too sure what kind of outfits adventurers prefer, either, he eventually settles on a mix of practical and... well, expensive. He's never seen this many clothes in one place.
Dress myself in a sufficiently dashing outfit that includes at least enough pockets to contain the potions and dagger I found.
Try and dress like, I don't know, some sort of adventurer-hero. Maybe I saw someone claiming to be one of those once. Otherwise just try and remember what they supposedly dressed like in the countless tales of deeds and daring I've no doubt heard over the years.
[5] Dress self unsupervised. You dig through the wardrobe, searching for the perfect outfit. Through the strange lense of your mild black lotus buzz, everything seems more vivid. The scarlet capes wind and twist crazily around you like a waterfall of blood, the polished brass buttons on some of the clothes glint like the sun on a black sky. You move feverishly, donning the most ruggedly expensive, exotic clothing you can find. A pair of jade-colored cowboy boots with twisting teal snakedragons embossed on them. Rugged pantaloons with fine buttons and buckles and an almost indeterminate number of pockets, both concealed and obvious. A fine linen shirt. A leather bandolier into which you slip your dagger and potions. An elaborate coat, festooned with panels and buttons, strongly reminiscent of the kind of thing a fancy pirate captain would wear. A large floppy scarlet hat with a feather of indescribable color in the brim. You snatch a tiny bottle of cologne from a shelf and spritz it on your neck, inhaling the scent of glory. You grab a flowing cape and throw it over your shoulder dashingly. And finally, you reach back into the wardrobe and withdraw from it a jeweled sword, which you tuck into a crimson sash tied around your waist, formed from one of the capes.
You look in the mirror. You look amazing. An angelic choir sings. Behind you, a hideous black mass of writhing and whirling chitin the size of a man oozes out from the wall, its face a polished human skull. You blink and it disappears. You feel like you are probably coming down from the black lotus. In the other room, you hear a dramatic anthem being whistled. The kind of thing that would play in your head if you were a hero about to make a dramatic entrance. You question whether you are really coming down or not.
Gained:
- outrageously fancy adventuring outfit
- bejeweled sword
Whistle.
[4] Whistle. You whistle an upbeat tune that quickly turns into a rollicking adventurous anthem. The kind of thing fit for the entrance of a hero.
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Topic: Turaco's Sellswords RTD: Turn 17: I Guess This Counts As Taking Casualties (Read 29130 times)