“Your fuzzy ass is [i]not[/i] measuring him.”

“Embi—“ Here Plundering Fang hesitates, months of arduous training swinging down like a rapidly descending paw. “[i]Miss Ember,[/i] we are clearly in our rights. It’s in the rules the sheep gave us. We are allowed to make measurements for his outfit.”

“Where’s her ruler, then? In her tits?”

“She [i]is[/i] the ruler. Look closer at her scale patterns, if you would. [i]Ma’am.[/i]”

“…well. Huh. I mean. Isn’t that inefficient?”

“baaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

“I am [i]assured[/i] that it’s a classic Azura method of measuring for tailoring.”

Ember taps her foot, crosses her arms, frowns. This would be so much easier if she could just tackle Plundering Fang and have a no-holds-barred wrestling match over Dolce. Have a real brawl of it!

But that would be [i]disqualifying[/i]. That’s in the rules, too. No roughhousing, no howling, and no pouncing. (Goddesses only know whether he just walked right into those coils, then.)

Inspiration strikes the Princess Redana, who’s ready to add seamstressing to her long, long list of talents. “Well, don’t mind me,” she says, clambering onto the coils of the serpentess, situating herself between the sorceress (who’d cast [i]quite[/i] a spell on her a few adventures back) and the hapless Starsong Privateer.

“Heya, Dolce!” She grins, heedless of the interesting bruises still lingering on her neck and shoulders. (Not that bruises were uncommon among the Daughters of Ceron, but practically anyone would have had these heal by now. Toxins have a way of lingering.) “I’m thinking: [i]admiral hat.[/i] Hold still and let me get the circumference?”

Her loyalists are already clambering onto the Azura in order to surround the sheep on all sides. Protectively. Very closely. And Plundering Fang’s remaining friends are doing the same thing, and there’s definitely not enough room for everyone, but they’ll pack in close around the sheep anyway, giving him awkwardly false headpats and complimenting his curls…