What a mess. Iclyn sighs as she settles onto a stool in her personal studio to begin to braid her hair into a long thick braid while surveying the room. Fabric rolls everywhere, scraps littering the floor, patterns littering a table, mannequins in disarray and she could have sworn she spotted one of her sketchbooks on top of a shelf. She runs her claws down her dress, shaking head at how she had gotten into a craze trying to make this dress; having seen it only once in a magazine. What...