Dodge and the Tragedy of Tailoring: Measure twice, Cut Once. Replace weekly!

The bell above the door of Nimbleman’s Fine Clothiers jingled with practiced exasperation, more of a weary sigh than a welcoming chime, signaling the latest return of Dodge, serial destroyer of fine tailoring & a familiar figure of destruction and poor textile preservation.. He strode in, his satchel brimming with the unmistakable scent of charred leather and singed fabric. Wisps of smoke still curled lazily from his coat. His hat—poor, tragic thing—had several large, jagged holes burned straight through it, as though it had tried and failed to reason with a particularly aggressive bonfire and bore the unmistakable marks of a blade’s enthusiastic attempt to perforate it beyond recognition.

Master Bardon Nimbleman froze in place, his needle poised over a nearly finished waistcoat, eyes narrowing with deep-seated offense as he rose dramatically from behind the polished oak counter, hands already placed on his hips in anticipatory disappointment. Slowly, deliberately, he set the garment aside and looked Dodge up and down with all the measured patience of a man counting to ten in several different languages, arms crossed so tightly it seemed his fine waistcoat might burst at the seams.

“You know, Mr. Tanner,” Bardon began, voice thick with indignation, “I do believe that when I first made that coat for you, it was a masterpiece. A triumph of craftsmanship. A testament to what tailoring could be. And now,” He flicked a finger at the sodden, half-minced, sleeve hanging limply from Dodge’s satchel. “I wouldn't use it to wrap day old fish!”

Dodge grinned, utterly unbothered. “You should see the fish that tried to wrap me!”

Bardon closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess. It was enchanted. Had fangs. Summoned by an ancient curse. Probably wearing silk, which, by the way, I do not recommend for deep-sea combat.”

Dodge clapped a hand on the counter, his usual brand of roguish enthusiasm undimmed. “You’re close, Bardon! It was actually Water Lions,”

The tailor threw up his hands. “Of course! How foolish of me not to assume you picked a fight with Water Lions. Such a normal activity. Happens all the time. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“I didn't pick the fight, Master Nimbleman, but I sure ended it!”, Dodge replied, carefully leaving out that he ended it more by bladder releasing panic than any skill at arms. He lifted the shredded remains of his boots, as a few final seams gave up and the boot sole fell to splat on the shop floor. "So, Bardon... Turns out you were correct after all. I DID want to wait the extra time for true 'waterproof', not 'water resistant' footwear. Who could have foreseen that? My mistake!"

Master Bardon paused, closing his eyes, and taking in a deep, deep breath, as if trying to summon the patience of every tailor ancestor before him. Then he fixed Dodge with a long, measured stare, one that could surely press wrinkles into freshly ironed fabric.

"Ah. Ah! Imagine my surprise. So you did want waterproof footwear, not water resistant. What a stunning revelation, Dodge. You know, I recall mentioning precisely this while I was reinforcing those boots—and yet, here we are, with what I can only describe as terminally waterlogged leather confetti on my counter.", Bardon replied with well earned sarcasm.

Then, with an exaggerated gesture toward the ruined boots, Bardon continued. "Tell me, do you plan to actually listen to my professional opinions this time? Or should I simply preemptively order a lifetime supply of replacements and start delivering them directly to whichever catastrophe you wander into next?"

Dodge grinned wildly, "Oh. Now we're talking, Bardon. Excellent! Like an Outfit of the Month club? Can you make those express deliveries? Might save us both some trouble. Oh, and we should probably make it Outfit of the Week because.... well... Yeah.", he gestures to the full sack of gear to be repaired or replaced.

Bardon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something inaudible that nonetheless delivered his opinion precisely, then grabbed the satchel, tilting its contents onto the counter with a practiced flick. Shreds of barely identifiable shirts, pants, burnt leather, and what might once have been well-tailored vests draped over the surface like the ruins of a battlefield. He studied the wreckage in silence, the familiar war between outrage and opportunity playing across his face.

He holds up the burnt and shredded hat. "Magma Basilisk." , declares Dodge.

A blackened set of clothes, with oddly interesting burn patterns. "Um... Lightning Goats?"

Leathers covered in spiral lines of thorn ripped tears that were colored by a noxious, and definitely poisonous residue. Dodge coughed. "Free Gem's aren't free! Leave it at that."

A pair of boots, half melted and still smoking. "Fire Goblins."

Shredded shirt and doublet. "Ah, yes. Air Boar... With a side of Silverthorn. Not my proudest moment."

A set of pants that are nothing but tatters below the knees. "Oof. Wotters!", he says with a full body Shiver.

A set of travel leathers shredded to near nothingness around the edges with the center torso and thighs still mostly pristine. "Ah, yes. You know the signs deep in the Crystal Caverns that say "Do not travel beyond this point? Well.... Don't!"

Yet another set of clothes, more flakes of ash than cloth. "Deer, if you can believe it. Thunder Deer!"

"I am genuinely curious how you are still standing here in one piece when your wardrobe clearly does not survive your encounters.", the Tailor commented.

Dodge looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know. It's startling how often I get asked that."

Bardon dropped the ruined pants onto the growing pile of textile tragedy and dragged both hands down his face. "Mister Tanner, I have a radical thought. Would it kill you to let your clothes survive one adventure? Just one?"

Dodge leaned against the counter, grinning. "Why, Bardon, my dear friend... What would we talk about if I did?"

Finally, Master Bardon looked Dodge squarely in the eye across the mound of unsalvageables. “This, Mr. Tanner,” he said, voice tight, “is a crime against fine tailoring.”

Dodge nodded solemnly. “And yet you keep taking me back..”

“Only because your complete and utter disregard for self-preservation is the most lucrative partnership I’ve ever had.”

The two men held their gaze for a long moment, rakish smile versus professional glower, before Bardon sighed and pulled out his measuring tape.

“Fine. New commission. Again. But this time, I’m doubling the enchantments... and tripling the cost!” He gestured toward the hat, which had more gaps than fabric. “I will, as ever, coordinate your Armor and Hat replacements with Masters Wooden and Timberfell as well. And, for the love of all things stylish, please... could you just once try keeping your hat out of sword, or fire, fights?”

Dodge smirked, plucking the tattered, still smoldering, hardly identifiable hat off the pile and setting it on his head at a rakish angle. “My lucky Hat? Not a chance.”, he said and strolled out the door with what little remained of the burnt, blasted, sliced to within an inch of its life, hat tilted at a jaunty angle.