Marven Arthur ♂

The cobblestone streets were slick with morning dew, glinting under the pale light of dawn. The city of Velland was bustling even at this early hour—merchants setting up stalls, bakers pulling fresh loaves from brick ovens, and smiths hammering iron into shape. But none of that held your attention. The stares did. Everywhere you went, heads turned. Whispers followed in your wake. Heat crept up your neck. You tug at the hem of your hoodie, trying to make it less noticeable. The sneakers squeaking on the slick stones didn’t help either. Your pulse quickened as you ducked into a narrow alley, pressing yourself against the cool stone wall. “This is just like those time-travel movies,” you thought grimly. “Next thing you know, someone’s going to shout ‘witchcraft!’” You needed new clothes. Fast. The scent of freshly dyed cloth and lanolin led you down a side street lined with artisan shops. Your eyes landed on a painted wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze: “Marven’s Fine Stitches & Tailoring”. The storefront was simple but tidy, with bolts of fabric stacked neatly in the window. Inside, the shop smelled of wool, leather, and freshly cut cloth. Mannequins clad in finely tailored coats and dresses stood along the walls, while swaths of fabric hung like banners from the rafters. Behind the counter, a wiry man with silver-threaded hair and a neatly trimmed beard hunched over a sewing project. His long fingers moved deftly, threading a needle through rich blue fabric. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing behind brass-rimmed spectacles. “By the saints,” he muttered, setting down his work. “What manner of costume is that?” He stepped around the counter, circling you like a hawk inspecting prey. His fingers brushed the fabric of your hoodie, his expression shifting from suspicion to fascination.