"It goes pants, naked, dress. Dress is always at the absolute bottom of the hierarchy."
Cherion leaned his shoulder against the carved frame of the dressing room, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched the utter tragedy unfolding in front of the full-length mirror.
Marielle stood stiffly on the small pedestal, her arms held slightly away from her sides as if she were afraid that moving too quickly would cause the fabric to explode. She winced at her own reflection, her nose wrinkling in deep displeasure. For a woman who spent ninety-sicpercent of her life practically living in structured trousers, heavy riding boots, and tailored leather vests, the current situation was clearly equivalent to medieval torture.
