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w-k-smith · 4 years

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Welcome to “Don’t Go to the Netherworld!” a Beetlejuice the Musical the Musical the Musical AU.

Beetlejuice - half-ghost, half-demon - has spent his entire afterlife in the Netherworld and works as the beleaguered assistant to Juno, his demonic bureaucrat mother. He thinks he’ll be stuck and miserable until doomsday, then a living girl breaks into the Netherworld in search of her dead mom. Beetlejuice promises to help Lydia Deetz, so long as she summons him to the living world once they’re done. Unfortunately, the best-laid plans of goths and ghosts often go downhill toward sandworms, dead boy bands, family drama, and worst of all, introspection.

It’s showtime!

Hey - feel free to check this out on AO3, where I’m w_k_smith. The original version of this post included links, but tumblr hides all my posts that have links in them, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Chapter One: “It’s a Wonderful Afterlife” (6/19/20) Chapter Two: “Worm Welcome” (upcoming) Chapter Three: “Ghost to Ghost” (upcoming) Chapter Four: “To Beetle or not to Beetle?” (upcoming)

Warning: This story contains depictions of, references to, and discussion of topics like suicide, untimely death, abuse, and body horror - you know, like the musical does (though this probably has more). Know your boundaries, and stay safe.

First chapter under keep reading!

He was so relieved when the red alert exploded through the office, making every demon caseworker jump. He’d spent the past few hours cutting up the files Juno had given him into paper dolls, but even yards upon yards of multiheaded creatures got boring after a while. He magicked the dolls into running out of Juno’s office into the caseworker bullpen, and when that got no reaction, he’d made the dolls stand in crude positions and then cannibalize each other, but even that barely got a few snarls of “Get back to your own work, Beetlejuice.”

But red alerts were like fire alarms. Not only did they break up the day, but you also got to look at a fire.

“What asshole let the living person in?” he yelled, walking out of Juno’s office. He got his own too-small desk in a little reception area in front of her inner office. Officially, he was the Assistant to the Director of Netherworld Customs and Processing, but he was a glorified secretary. Most of his days were spent spinning his wheels or making the whiners who came to see Juno sit and wait until they gave up and went away.

He guessed his position as Juno’s half-demon assistant should have felt like a privilege, if he didn’t otherwise hate every aspect of the Netherworld. He got a desk and walls, while the full-demon caseworkers crammed their knife-fingers, pumpkin heads, flippers, and musty burlap bodies filled with bugs into an open-plan workspace. And the dead people who hung around had to make themselves busy wherever they found the space.

Right now everybody, demon and human alike, had scattered

“Out of the way, Beetlejuice!” the receptionist snapped, sprinting by in the high heels she’d died in, making them her only footwear from now until doomsday. She’d had another name once, but the MISS ARGENTINA sash across her torso had become a nametag a long time ago.

“Yeah, Miss A, better get to ’em before Juno does!” he said, yanking up his sagging pants.

“Care to help?” she snapped before rounding the corner.

He didn’t bother to respond. She’d asked knowing the answer would be “no.” Even if he thought it would make a difference, why should he? Sure, the living didn’t know crossing into the Netherworld meant they’d be chased down and probably killed by a screechy demon with a neck slit and horrible fashion sense. But hey. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

He didn’t see Juno around. Not yet, anyway. He was sure he’d hear her, once things went south for the trespasser.

Someone he didn’t recognize crept around the corner Miss Argentina hadn’t turned. The living girl stuck out like a raw steak at a vegan salad bar. Her face was flushed, and sweat glued her bangs to her forehead. Geez, he missed sweating. She walked without the weight of the underworld on her shoulders. And she was goth, with a dyed black bob, a black dress, and chunky black boots – very overdressed. Most of the recently deceased turned up in hospital gowns, sweatpants, Greek life t-shirts, or, best/worst, nothing at all. Few had the right combination of luck and irony to die in funeral garb.

He ducked behind a pillar in the bullpen before the living girl saw him. She licked her lips, looked left and right and left again, obviously no plan in mind…

And she ran into Juno’s office.

Oh. Oh oh oh this was just too good. Today was not going to be boring. Today might be his luckiest day of all.

He strode to Juno’s office door, walked through, and slammed it shut behind him.

“Do you have a death wish?” he asked the kid.

He was aware of the effect he had on living people…and a lot of dead people…and anyone and anything with even the memory of a digestive system. Today his hair was a dark green that verged on purple, his moss and stubble blended together nicely, and the caterpillar behind his right ear was busy spinning a cocoon.

The kid didn’t act freaked out or disgusted. She straightened her shoulders and said: “You have to hide me.”

He leaned against the door. “Do my ears deceive me?” He pulled his left ear out to arm’s length, and let it snap back like a rubber band. “Or is the girl running for her life making demands?”

“I came here for my mom. I can’t leave until I find her.”

“She isn’t here, Siouxsie Sioux. You’re the first living person who’s snuck in for the past decade.”

“My mom is dead. She died a few months ago. I have to find her, and bring her home. Well, to Connecticut, because my dad made us move to Connecticut, but then when he sees her, he’ll snap out of it, and we’ll go back to our actual home!” Desperation, denial. Maybe she was prepared to blend in with the newlydeads.

“Lemme get this straight – you, still alive and kicking, jumped into hell to find someone who has been dead for a while and bring them home with you? And you thought you could just do that? That this kind of violation of the natural order wasn’t going to rain down all kinds of shitfire and brimstone?”

“I knew there might be trouble.” She set her jaw. “I just didn’t care.”

He grinned. “Ah. Moxie. You’re pretty luck you decided to hide in my office.” He floated over his desk, crossed his legs, and pressed his fingers together. “I have a proposition. Quid pro quo, if you will.”

The kid gave him an extremely skeptical look. “You want me to make a deal with a demon?”

“Half demon, and what I’m asking for is a favor. Just a little, bitty thing.” He held his fingers a millimeter apart. “I’ll hide you. Keep the heat off. Distract the fuzz and frame your dog for eating your homework and tell the collection agents you aren’t home. And then, when you get back to the world of the living…you’ll say my name. Three times.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I’ll…what?”

“It’ll summon me. So I can be a part of the living world! At least for a while. And not be stuck in this trash fire.” He grimaced. “No, that’s not fair. Sometimes trash fires are fun. I should know; I’ve set a lot of them.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t know…”

“Beetlejuice!” came a familiar roar. “Get out here right now!”

“Under the desk!” he told the kid, jumping to his feet.

“Don’t talk to me like –!”

“UNDER THE DESK!” he roared, drawing himself up a few extra feet, and opening his mouth to show multiple rows of teeth.

That did the trick. The kid dove under the desk, and he was glad her dress was black, because it blended in with the shadows and the dark stone of the floor.

Juno opened the door a second later, smoke and steam trickling from her neck slit. Her beehive quivered. Per usual, her red skirtsuit hung off her like loose skin, and she was pushing the walker she didn’t need ahead of her.

“Lawrence Beetlejuice Shoggoth, do you have anything to do with this?” she growled.

“To do with what?” he asked. “The red alert? It sure brightened up my total lack of morning. I won’t name names, but someone in the bullpen jumped out their skin. Literally, the scales are still on the floor.”

A bony finger was extended his way. “I know about your little obsession with the living world. Why do you think I watch you so closely? You are one more misstep from being banished between life and death, how do ya like that? Do you want to spend eternity watching your precious breathers without anyone able to hear or see you?”

Ah. That old chestnut. “No, Ma,” he said, settling onto the floor.

“If I hear that this was your handiwork…”

“…My entrails will decorate the lobby. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before.”

She flicked her wrist, and knocked him over the desk. He tumbled head over heels, and landed on his face. It goddam hurt, because his mother could always hurt him. He made sure he hit the ground with a comical splat sound so the kid wouldn’t panic and give the game away. When he looked up, the girl’s eyes were wide and fearful.

“How about this?” He stood up, and brushed his sleeves off. “That red alert was because some dumbass living human came into the Netherworld, right? And I can tell you didn’t catch them, because there’s more steam coming out of you than usual. I’ll go looking for the human. I’ll prove to you I didn’t do it.”

She crossed her arms, and drummed her fingers on her elbows. “Hmm…when you put it that way…this would be an excellent way for you to demonstrate the potential for more responsibility, and – I DON’T CARE. Just stay out of the way.”

Coming from Juno, that was a sappy “I love you.” She stormed out of the office, and he waited until the rattling of her heels faded out of earshot before he bent down to check on the kid.

“You have to get the hell out of here,” he told the goth girl curled up under his desk.

“That was your mother?” she asked.

“She’s my boss, too. She’s a demon; she doesn’t get me. I’d take my considerable skills elsewhere, but, y’know, it’s toe the line or get wedged between life and death forever. How did a living twelve-year-old wind up in the Netherworld, anyway?”

“I’m fifteen!” she said, standing up. “And that’s none of your business.”

“It is so my business, if we’re going to get you to the land of the living so you can take me with you. What did you do? Black magic? Séance?”

“I, um…” She gave him a hard look before continuing. “I found a book.”

“A book? Really? Which book?” Most living world books wouldn’t tell you jack about the Netherworld. Concepts like limbo or the bardo came close, but…

“Handbook for the Recently Deceased,” the kid said.

For several seconds, all he could do was stare at her. Her expression became grossly fascinated.

“Your eyeballs are falling out of their sockets,” she said.

He shoved them back in, and shook his head to clear it. “How did you get the Handbook, kid?”

She crossed her arms. “My name is Lydia. And I found it.”

“Found it where?”

“Your sister’s sock drawer.” She glared at him. “Look, it doesn’t matter where I found it, but I found it, and the first chapter said you could get to the land of the dead by drawing a door and knocking three times. So I did that, and I tried to blend in by joining this line of dead people, but we went through a metal detector or something, and all these alarms started going off, so I ran.”

Her story had a gaping hole in it in the shape of the fact that she couldn’t have opened the Handbook unless she was recently deceased, which she wasn’t. A ghost had to have shown her the book and let her through the door, which was a big no-no. Obviously, she wasn’t going to give up her source.

He didn’t care. In fact, he was delighted that they were still teaching living teenagers that snitches got stitches.

“Fine,” he said. “I can get you back, but when you do –”

“I have to say your name three times?”

“You have to say my name three times.”

She sat on his desk. “Which name? That Juno lady called you a lot of things.”

And Juno had cursed him so he couldn’t say it. For the same reason people on house arrest couldn’t unlock their ankle bracelets.

“I’ve got a card somewhere,” he muttered. He reached into his jacket, and handed her the little business card.

“ ‘2nd Street Dermatology – You’ve Got Us Under Your Skin’?” she read.

“Wrong card!” He grabbed it back, and plunged his hands deep in his pants pockets. There was so much junk in the way. “Hold this,” he said, handing Lydia a skull, a xylophone, a planchette – “Here!”

He took his stuff back, and she read the card. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice?”

He nodded.

“If I say this in the living world, it’ll bring you there?”

“In two shakes.”

“So you’re like a demon.”

“Half demon, half ghost.”

“Have you been here a long time?”

He nodded.

“Then you know how to find my mom!” she said. “You can be my guide! And as soon as we’re back in the living world, I promise I’ll say your name. And you won’t have to deal with your terrible mother ever again!”

It was a nice thought.

“You can’t get your mom,” he said. “That’s just a no-go.”

Her expression soured. “No-go with you, you mean,” she said. “You don’t really want to help me? Fine. I’ll manage by myself, I guess. That’s all I’ve been doing since my mom died, anyway.” She went for the door.

He scurried after her. “Lydia, wait! We can make a deal!”

Juno would kill her. That death wouldn’t be clean or fast. And then Juno could spend as long as she wanted punishing the newlydead girl for breaking the rules.

It wasn’t pleasant to discover there were still ideas that could make him want to vomit. Besides, if she went out by herself, he’d be losing his ticket to the living world. Another few centuries slogging around the office until the next stupid, lucky teenager came by. There was no point in not seeing this through as long as he could.

He forced a grin. “OK. I’ll be your guide.”

“You’ll help me find my mom?” she asked. “That’s really possible?”

“It’s really possible.”

It really wasn’t. He could try to argue with her, and eventually, she might listen and just go home. But if he was the one who burst her bubble, she’d be less inclined to do him a favor.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll help you find your mom. And I know exactly where to head. But first – we have to make you blend in.”

He smuggled the tiny goth out the back way, into the empty, rocky fields where the newlydeads lined up to head into the infinite Abyss that awaited them. No poor, unfortunate souls were hanging around just then, though you had to figure that people died about every second in the living room. He had given up trying to figure out the Netherworld’s relationship with time.

He made the tiny goth sit on a crag so they’d be eye-to-eye, and started rooting around his jacket for supplies. She looked skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her.

“How do I blend in?” Lydia asked.

“You have to look dead,” he said. “If you don’t go through the sensors – nice job, by the way, hopping right in the nearest line, very subtle – no one will automatically be able to tell you’re alive. But! If anyone gets within arm’s length, you’ll get caught. You have to stop flaunting your beating heart and functioning liver.”

“So I have to look recently deceased…” she said, and chewed on her bottom lip. “Should I put fake blood all over my face? Pretend I got poisoned?” She made a choking sound. “Maybe a noose?” She yanked one hand over her shoulder and let her head loll forward.

He tried not to flinch. She didn’t know that she’d just punched below the belt. Especially since he was wearing suspenders.

“Only newlydeads carry their wounds around,” he said. “That’s a good way to tell someone’s inexperienced. Have you seen the receptionist? She acts like she knows everything, but she’s still got those slit wrists, and the carbon monoxide skin.” He snorted. “Suicides.”

“I was going to jump off the roof of our new house,” Lydia said, very quietly. “Just yesterday. I wrote a note and everything.”

“Well, then, congratulations,” he said.

“For what?”

“For outdoing yourself. Running into hell wasn’t the dumbest idea you had this week. Have some grave dirt.” He tossed a handful of mud in her face.

She coughed, and tried to brush the dirt away, but just ended up smearing it across her forehead and cheeks. “What the HELL?”

“You have to make people believe you’ve been in the ground a long time. Get some of that under your fingernails, there you go. Now slouch!” he ordered. Her shoulders sagged. “Lower! Everything in your previous life is gone! No one cried at your funeral! Stoners are making out behind your head stone!”

“I’m deeeeead,” she said, stretching out the word and adding some vocal fry. She slid off the crag, and raised her arms like a zombie. Her eyes were half-closed. “Woe is me. How I long for one more breath.”

“Very nice.” He considered, then reached out and messed up her hair. “There. Dial it back by 30% and you’re golden.”

Her eyes lit up with a fervor only living teenagers had. “Does that mean we can go?”

“Yes. But you have to follow my lead, capeesh?”

“Capeesh,” she said, and he didn’t believe her.

He snapped his suspenders. “It’s showtime! Let’s go to Saturn!”

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice fanfiction #lawrence beetlejuice shoggoth #lydia deetz

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jeanjauthor · 5 years

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Clothes vs. Money: Status and Self Worth in the 18th Century

Writers, this is an EXCELLENT summation of how important the quality & appearance of clothing is in a pre-modern society.

Clothing today is incredibly cheap: a single day’s wages will get you pants or skirt, shirt, socks and underwear, all of it brand new, straight off the rack, in a vast variety of colors and patterns. A week’s wages will get you shoes and coat and a couple changes of underwear, extra shirt, extra pants or skirt (or a dress).

Prior to the 20th century...it could take you more than a month to earn enough money for a new shirt, or underclothes, or trousers, or shoes. Not and, but or. You’d be lucky to get two of those things at average to good wages for the vast majority of people...and since the vast majority still worked on farms prior to the industrial revolution, and with it, the agricultural revolution, you’d only see that kind of money during or shortly after harvest season.

Listen to John Townsend reading from these journals. Take your inspiration from them. Be realistic in what your characters would be wearing, how often they’d get a chance to do laundry, and make sure your characters are clothed appropriately for their situation.

In the movie Ever After, Danielle (Cinderella) borrows a fancy noblewoman’s dress left at the painter’s studio to go rescue her fellow servant. The dress is only available to her because her best friend growing up is the painter’s apprentice, and because painting a portrait can take weeks of work, so it was often just easiest to leave the clothing on a mannekin form while the owner went off in their other clothes to do other things. We might think the dress she normally wears isn’t too bad, but it’s only slightly above what the other servants wear, and it’s definitely not new.

In the modern era, this is also true, though the lines are a bit more blurred. We have Casual Fridays, where you can come to work at some places in jeans and a teeshirt, or a Hawai’ian shirt...and we have formal suits and dresses and skirtsuits. Some situations you can get away with a Casual Friday. Others, you’d never get away with it. Lawyers, for example, are expected to wear suits or the equivalent at all times, to project an air of professionalism & seriousness.

We have a variety of uniforms that we have to wear for certain jobs or industries, too. Not just UPS or Military or Post Office or Law Enforcement. Have you noticed the variety of uniforms in the restaurant industry? Some places (McDonalds, etc), issue you your uniform. It isn’t yours to keep, however; once you’re done working for them, you have to hand it back in. You also have to keep it clean and neat at your own expense. Housekeeping staff for hotels have to do this, too.

Other places simply say “wear black pants (or skirt, but no yoga pants or jeans) and white shirt, no teeshirts or logos (not even a lil alligator or polo pony)”...and that’s all you have to wear. You have to supply your own “uniform.” It could be almost any style of trousers or non-logo non-tee shirt. Others allow you to wear a serious, sober, law-office-worthy tie...while some allow you to wear “an amusing tie of publicly acceptable subject material”...aka no naked-lady ties, or ties covered in swearwords...but you could wear Loony Tunes characters like Bugs Bunny, or a Transformers tie if you wanted.

However, clothing is incredibly cheap; if you’re used to having money in your pocket for clothes every few months in real life, you probably haven’t thought about having to repair your clothes. Shirt gets ripped? Go buy a new one! No big deal! ...Right?

You cannot take that attitude, that mindset, into a pre-20th-century tech-level world.

Just to give you an example, making the cloth to make clothes took HUGE amounts of effort before the advent of industrialization, from the farm machines to automatically pick the cotton through to the carding and spinning and weaving machines. Prior to all of that (and yes, the mechanized industrialization of agriculture is PART of why clothes are so cheap...and why wool, which still has to be sheared by professional shearers working one sheep at a time, is so much more expensive!)...it took 12 full time spinners to keep 1 full time weaver working at the loom.

What does that mean? It means that the 12 spinners listed above did nothing but spin all day long. Aside from maybe making their meals, they didn’t plough (plow) the fields, they didn’t feed the livestock, they didn’t shepherd the sheep, they didn’t mend the fences, they didn’t craft the furniture or repair the roof thatching... A lot of families grew flax specifically for turning it into linen thread, and spend every spare moment they had spinning thread, to either hopefully get them enough thread to set up a loom in the winter months when there was’t a lot of outdoor activity going on, or to sell to professional weavers, in hopefully good enough quality to fetch the best price for their balls of thread.

Ploughmen (whatever gender) would be outside all day long, plowing, weeding, harvesting, mending things around the farm and would only spin if there was time. Housekeepers and child tenders would spin while food was cooking (which could take hours), or while laundry was drying...but it would still probably take roughly 30 part-time spinners to keep 1 weaver in constant production.

Also, consider the fact that it takes literal days to set up a loom...and god help you if you got it wrong and didn’t discover the mistake right away, because you’d spend hours more undoing and redoing it right. Dependind on the width of the fabric, the tightness of the weave, the type of fabric and the kind of loom (Navajo vertical looms are different beasts from European treadle looms...and a lightweight linen suitable for handkerchiefs and veils isn’t going to be at all like a heavy canvas, never mind a rug weight material), the swiftness of making the cloth means that your progress might be measured in inches per day, feet per day, or if you’re very lucky, yards per day...and that’s assuming you have enough thread on hand for both warp and weft.

...Think that’s a lot? I haven’t even gotten into all the effort required for finding and making dyes, madders (fixing agents to help keep the colors from fading too fast in sunlight) and getting the consistencies right. (Contrary to popular belief you could get some bright colors out of natural dyes; black was the absolute most difficult to dye, not purple. The materials for making black dye were far cheaper to acquire than for purple, but still, difficult to dye and keep it actually black in sunlight.)

Nor have I gotten into sumptuary laws, which tried to dictate what a person of a certain social rank could wear, including furs and silks. (Anyone could wear squirrel fur, for example, but to wear mink or ermine, you had to be waaay up high on the social ladder.) ...People still wanted to wear things “above their station” and sumptuary laws were difficult to enforce at times...but sometimes they were enforced ruthlessly. So it was risky at times.

Danielle in Ever After would’ve been whipped & imprisoned/indentured for wearing that fancy dress, if people had realized she was a peasant, not a noblewoman. But for her, the risk was worth it, to save a man from being sold off to the colonies for indentured servitude, to bring him back to his wife and his family & friends.

So John’s not kidding when he says that people in the late 1700s/early 1800s invested money in their clothes as a sign of their social status. You want people to treat you with more respect, you have to look like you have the social status, and that preceived social status is often dependent on wealth.

Buying new is not the only option, either. We have places like the Rack where they sell off for cheap the odds and ends, remnants of garments that just didn’t sell at listed price in the big department stores, or they might have a few flaws that the big stores reject (missing button, wonky stitching, etc), but otherwise the garment is in good shape and still basically brand new, so it’s sold for maybe $20 instead of $80

We also have the true thrift stores, such as Goodwill, Salvation Army, St. Vincent de Paul, Value Village, and those are just the local charity/donated goods shops in my area. You can visit these places and get that same dress at $80 for just $4-$8, but it’ll have been worn by someone else, laundered (well, one hopes), and put up for sale.

The same sort of system existed in pre-industrial societies. Mercedes Lackey has a beautiful scene in her first Bardic Voices, The Lark & the Wren novel, wherein the main character, the Wren, is taken to various used clothing sellers in the market places of the city she’s in, and given advice on what to buy, which includes torn and stained clothing, and how to hide the stains, using ribbon trim and embroidery and applique patches, or even just wearing a vest over a shirt that’s stained on the chest area.

Since Wren is trying to make a living as a bard/minstrel, it’s considered appropriate for her to have clothing that has fancy, eye-catching trim on it, as part of her entertainer persona. When she’s busking in the street (performing for passers-by to hopefully get pennies...or pins...in payment), the more eye-catching, the better, since it goes with her ear-catching music.

And when she gets a job providing polite, soothing music in an upper-class bordello/brothel style establishment, she wears more subdued clothes. Why? To help her blend into the background, since the focus is to provide soothing, pleasant music while the rich patrons wait for their chosen paid companions to be available. They’re not going to put up with someone wearing screaming shades of red and yellow and green with ribbon-strung bells dangling off their elbows...but neither will they put up with someone wearing the cheapest, crappiest woven fabrics visibly stained and ragged, badly patched or torn.

Since the adage “the clothes make (the social status) of the man” has been around for ages and ages...I can only imagine that clothing--and the kind of high-tech gear you can afford--far into the future will also still continue to be a mark of unspoken social status for humankind.

...I mention gear because aliens might or might not have any need for clothing, but they’ll certainly have a need for gear, and the higher the quality the gear, or the more functional it is, the more likely they’ll be considered higher quality in social status, too.

Also, functionality is a key factor, because social status isn’t just about kings and queens at the top and peasants and slaves at the bottom. It’s also about what kinds of society your characters move around in. You wear clothes appropriate to being a sailor while on a ship, but you will want different outfits when you’re a blacksmith apprentice, versus a clockmaker’s helper, versus a farm laborer, versus a nobleman’s son.

A nobleman’s son wouldn’t want to wear the leather apron or smock that a blacksmith would, but if you walked into a smithy and asked for a job while wearing fine silks, you’d get turned down (and laughed at behind your back), but if you walked in wearing wool (which doesn’t catch on fire; it just scorches and smolders and goes out) and leather (ditto), you’ll be taken seriously.

Your gear is the same. The Millenium Falcon was a rusted bucket of bolts and patch jobs compared to Queen Amidala’s personal, sleek, silvery interstellar transport, but it was still a fantastically swift, maneuverable ship. The Queen’s personal yacht would get her respect from port authorities. The Falcon’s capabilities would get it respect from other smugglers and crime bosses, because it looks like it can’t go very fast and should fall apart at any minute...but it won’t fall apart. It’ll blast past everything else & keep going...provided you can keep it patched together.

Anyway, long speech short, watch this video, and think about how your stories and your characters protray their social status, their wealth, via their clothes & gear...and remember, pre-20th-century, clothing is expensive. You and I have each probably have so many different outfits on our shelves and in our dresser drawers and wardrobe cupboards and closets that we’d be considered damn near royalty in terms of pure clothing-wealth, compared to just about anywhere in the 11th Century.

Clothing makes the character, and the story.

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