Though she was not actively working during her short stay, she was in uniform; the green fabrics a nice contrast to blue eyes and platinum-blonde hair. Today was her first day back in Brunnhold, and though she knew she should just go on to her parents' place as intended, she planned on spending the day looking at all the new things in town. She'd heard of plenty of shops and taverns that had opened since her last visit, years ago.
The mid-Dentis morning was overcast, a warning of rain soon to come, but now and then the early sun still shone through cracks in the clouds. It was her favorite type of weather, save for maybe snow, and the Seventen was in a chipper mood for her stroll through the Stacks.
The first place she'd explored had been some sort of eatery; a little place run by a human and his mother. They offered cheap foods and served equally as cheap tastes. Monica wasn't exactly a frequent of fine-dining, not caring to spend her money on expensive food, but she definitely ate a bit... higher class. Garmon nibbles and chocolate sludgecake weren't her idea of a good meal.
Thoroughly disappointed by her first venture, the officer exited the establishment with a few derogatory comments under her breath, but left the owners and patrons alone beyond that. She wasn't in the mood for human conversation.
A shop in front of an alley caught her eye next, mainly due to the clearly-new sign swinging above the shop and the interesting glass of the window. She strolled over, curious about what little wonders could be hiding inside. A tailoring shop wasn't where she expected to end up, but it caught her interest nonetheless, and the galdor opened the front door to walk inside the older building.
It had clearly been cleaned and fixed up, despite the old structure, and the shop had a warm, almost pleasant vibe. She was quite impressed until she looked to the counter.
What was this? A wick sewing clothes for galdori? That was just... eugh. Did the garments not reek of whatever land the wick came from, and bear example to the tribal... nature, of them? She couldn't imagine wearing something so brightly-colored and loose as many wick tribes did.
"You own this shop?" questioned Monica, disdain and disbelief clear in her tone, "I'd like to see your Writ, wick."
As she approached the counter, the woman leaned against it, resting her elbows on the surface as she stared across at the tailor. Her field displayed her irritation with having walked into such an establishment, like heavy air around her form.