Anuð looked a little shocked at his words, even beneath his mighty beard, which after 29 years Bastard had grown used to. It was an odd name, that he knew. He sometimes wondered what name he would have been given if he hadn't burnt down the whorehouse. What would it have meant? It would have changed now, those who could Name had an infamy for cutting you apart to find it, splitting open your personality and actions to find the perfect title to fit the child, and if it was based on those, Bastard would probably be named Utven, Animal, or Tilmund, Hated-Man. He smiled. Bastard would have to do.
"The girl told me and Fenj your name, but I must admit I didn't fully believe her. My apologies, good Bastard" Aunð spoke finally. "It's a unique one for sure, but you seem to be quite a unique man, given your arms. They took me a while to figure out how to manage with the jacket and shirt. I gave you the cloak to cover it up in case you don't like what I did with it, and I must admit it wasn't my finest work." He frowned. "I'm not used to sewing for someone of your stature. It took the Wyrwoman no small amount of magic to make these boots fit your size, and I believe she added an enchantment of her own to them. You should thank her if you see her. She's in the back cart, it's quieter there, and she's rather old, so she needs her rest. Illum knows the little ones hound her enough." He sighed. "Anyway, get dressed and come sit with me up front when you're ready. I can imagine you want to see the girl, but she's with Fenj at the front right now, so you'll have to wait. And I can't imagine she'd want to see you in only that blanket anyway, even if it would be more clothing than most here have seen you in." He grinned, jumping out of the wagon as Bastard inwardly shrivelled into a ball of hard shame.
Trying to keep his mind off of Anuð's words, Bastard unfolded the pile of clothes the Dwarv had left him. First was a pair of deep brown military styled trousers. They seemed to be worn as baggy as possible at the top before they were tied with bandage around the lower leg, making them quite possibly the most strange fashion choice the Orman military had ever made, in addition to the most frivolous, which wasnt saying much given the famously boring Orman dress sense. He supposed the men had to impress somehow, because it certainly wouldnt be with their fighting skills. Nowadays it was the mages and machines that did all the killing on the front lines. The others provided good cannon fodder for generals and an effective population control. Luckily they had been allowed to go out in style.
He didn't even know what material it could be made of, perhaps the layer on the outside was some kind of oilcloth to keep the water out, but the inside layer was clearly different, and incredibly soft, Bastard couldnt imagine the infantrymen of the army getting this luxury. The shirt was next, another of Anuð's baggy creations, it was a great cream thing with 3 bone buttons at the top that led to a small collar, which he doubted he would get much use out of. Bastard wasn't in the habit of wearing ties. The strangest thing about it, however, was the way it seemed to balloon out at the torso, seemingly allowing room for a large snake to coil itself around his body without being held right by the confines of cotton. At this, Bastard finally had something to smile about. His arms could finally avoid the death strangle that came with the shirts he usually bought. Two new, thick pairs of socks also did wonders for his happiness. His old ones had been getting very worn and holey with all the trudging around the greygrass.
There were now only 3 items left at the very bottom of the pile. One was a brown cloak, thick and weatherproofed, ideal for Orman weather, but covered in a pattern of red prancing stags, that as the warm red light in the caravan hit them, Bastard could've sworn he saw moved merrily, dancing and clashing antlers with one another in some eternal ritual, just like the artwork on the roof of the caravan. The inside of the somehow magical cloak was covered entirely in pockets, all of different sizes ranging from barely the size of a marble to larger than a hound. He wondered what he might fit in that one, and hoped whatever it was would sell for a lot. The second item, and easily the most ordinary looking, were a pair of brown leather boots, dirty and obviously pre-worn. And yet they were huge, big enough to fit him at least, and Bastard was very sure he'd never met a man as big as himself. 'Magic to make boots larger', he pondered. Something new everyday. What could the enchantment be, to tire a Wyrwoman out? Hopefully it would make him less exhausted in his scavenging, as these days he found himself less and less able to walk long distances. Age was a creeping beast to Bastard, and one that he was eager to keep at bay. He wanted to die painlessly and relatively young, not with creaks between your bones with every step you took.
The final item was most strange. A mask of a bird in all patchwork colours, red and green and black, with small eye holes carved in and covered with a strange grey mesh. It's beak drooped downwards steeply and to the left, almost looking less like a bird and more like a mosquito, but the design still seemed distinctly avian somehow. He pulled it against his face and tied the two pieces of string on either side together until it fit his face snugly. To his surprise, it fit well, and the mesh didn't obstruct his eyesight at all. His only problem was that it mostly blocked his mouth and nose, making it stuffy and hot. Safe to say Bastard wouldn't be wearing this often, especially given he didn't even know what it was for. For now, he tied it to the waistband of his new trousers. There was no handy pond or metal plate to see his reflection in that Bastard could see, but he could still tell that these were the finest and most comfortable clothes he had ever worn.
After a few minutes of uncharacteristic preening from Bastard, he took a confident step out the caravan, and was immediately greeted by the mocking swoons of Dwarv women on their caravans.
"I preferred you before!" Shouted a redhead to his left, and the whole Town of Dwarves roared in laughter, hooting and clapping and chanting a famous line from a comedy called The Woodcutters Stump. It would not do to be repeated to such fine company as this. Bastard suddenly found a very good reason to put on the bird mask, and with his head hung in embarrassment, trudged to meet Anuð.