1340, and Italy was in a state of relative strife. The past year's famine continued, and the last century had seen the fall of the longbow in favour of the, far more ruinous, crossbow. War became increasingly professional as vast companies of contracted soldiers marched across the peninsula. The economy suffered, and Venice wiped at his nose.

Such things, however, were never wont to impede the course of fashion. Alter it, tug at its strings and veer it off course, perhaps yes, but never would anything halt the coursing torrent in its path. So, in the summer of 1340, as children died at mothers breasts and the earth subjected to the feet of hoards, young men across all states and communes of Italy donned their short, tight, tunics, and went about their business.

Elders scoffed and holy men condemned. The new trend, ever at odds with the flowing drapery of yore, screamed scandal wherever it went. And yet travel it did, gallivanting through the courts of Europe and eliciting much the same reaction.

So it came to be that the Republic of Venice, having donned one of the formerly discussed tunics (in blue), was strolling along one of his paved walkways on a particularly chilly day. The wind tossed his fine, open-sided mantle about, the deep red folds revealing the dropped waist and slashed sleeves of a garment barely covering his buttocks, allowing full view of legs shrouded in periwinkle hose. He adjusted his hood, bringing it down to further cover his fringe as auburn locks, as though possessed by wind, lashed at his eyes.

The quality of the day was questionable, though unavoidable.

Venice had expected, after a mildly interesting day's work, to make his way along the paths, watery or otherwise, of his city, and find himself curling up in the warmth of his humble abode.

Venice did not expect, however, for his path to be interrupted by three, largely unrelated, nations of Europe. France stood cross armed in his path, face only just beginning to banish the roundness of youth. Draped from head to toe in green, the brown collar of his undershirt reaching to just below his chin. Golden locks fell softly about his ears in sharp contrast to the accusatory glare in his blue blue eyes.

He was flanked on both sides by Spain and the Teutonic Knights, respectively. Spain in his broad-sleeved, knee-length tunic, skirt split to reveal finer fabrics beneath. The Teutonic order having donned a yellow hood and loose overtunic that dropped three quarters of the way down his legs.

He wore a somewhat conflicted expression - as if guilty about harming a friend, and yet feeling the need to do so, because the said friend was making sharp conflict with his beliefs. As he picked at the buttons on the sleeves of his undershirt, Venice noted that he had grown quite substantially since their last encounter, though was by no means near achieving the set requirements for adulthood. Perha-

"Ehem," his train of though was rather rudely interrupted by France, who it seemed had taken to wildly bashing his foot about on the pavement.

"Yes?" was Venice's sickeningly innocent reply, though it remained that he had no idea what on earth he had done.

"What-" a dramatic pause, classic France, "is the reasoning behind these abhorrently short, clingy tunics"

"They're scandalous!"

Cheers Spain.

"Unholy!"

Wow Teutonic Knights, never would've expected that one from you!

Beyond his slight irritation at the word's France's companions had chosen to rediscover their mouths for, Venice was beyond mildly annoyed at the subject of his interrogation. The mere fact that people all over the peninsula were dying of famine and these three had chosen to come complain about the latest fashion trend. And why they had come to him, of all the countless states of Italy, fell beyond his grasp. It was rigorously infuriating.

Venice resolved to make them go away.

"It wasn't me! I have nothing to with this! It was Spain," he informed them, or rather, exclaimed with extreme vigour, hands gesturing wildly in front of his chest.

Spain seemed a good choice to pin blame upon, he was Mediterranean, had been having Muslim problems -

"It wasn't me," Spain had stretched his face into a broad picture of betrayal, as his two companions swivelled their heads in surprise, a hint of accusation marking their faces, "why would you blame me?!"

–except for the fact that he was here.

Oh.

Venice panicked, grew flustered, and blamed the next person on his extensive list of scapegoats.

"Did I say Spain, terrible misunderstanding, it was Greece, definitely Greece"

Greece wasn't here.

The sound "ah," passed France's lips, partnered with a sceptical frown, whilst Spain's jaded expression faded somewhat.

Then, in an abrupt change of tone, Venice found himself struggling to breath amongst a sea of green.

"Well, I'm glad that's sorted then," said a voice the texture of warm milk - France

Venice, entrepreneuring empire though he was, could not deny his love for hugs, and returned the embrace, enjoying the warmth France provided on a cold day. Spain was quick to join the gathering, jovially announcing forgiveness for Venice's earlier misdirection of blame, and introducing a flurry of well-worn endearments to the situation. The Teutonic Order shuffled awkwardly.

"It may be that it was Greece"

Here we go

"But that doesn't change the fact that he's wearing one"

Teutonic Knights was rather steadfast on the matter then, unsurprising, given his nature. However, making enemies of an old friend, least to say a militant state, was not on the list of things Venice wanted to do. Compromise would have to be offered.

"I'm very sorry, I'll stop wearing it if you'd like?"

At least while he was around.

The Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem seemed satisfied with this, or at least one would assume so given the large grin plastered over his face. A sudden advance on Venice led to an uproarious tickle fight, the larger of the two dominating, and making sure it was well know that he was the bigger one now. Venice pointed out that it didn't change the fact that he was older, and that the Teutonic Knights should stop deluding himself. The Order replied with another playful jab at his height.