It took Andrew a little while, but she finally found a clothier on one of the back streets of the village. She chuckled when she saw the sign, a square board with a crude painting of a shirt on it; not only was it historically accurate (to the limited extent that this was history, anyway,) it was also entirely like something one would find in an RPG. The limited capabilities of 8-bit game systems and illiterate tradesmen had resulted in the same thing, and she found this hilarious. After she had finished laughing, Andrew straightened up and entered the shop.
It wasn't much to look at; the main room was strewn with bolts of cloth, carded wool, and half-finished sewing projects, and there appeared to be only one other room, which served as living quarters. But it was obvious that a lot of care went into the clothes sold here, even though the end products were mostly the kinds of simple clothes farmers and tradesmen would buy; some of the items were even died bright, cheery colors. Andrew was just about to call for the proprietor when she popped her head up from behind the loom that stood in one corner of the room.
She was a stout woman of about forty, a smiling, matronly sort. "Good day, Miss," she said. "And what can I do for you?"
Andrew thought for a minute about how to phrase it before deciding to just cut to the chase. "I need a bra," she said, dropping the coin pouch from her mouth and catching with one claw. Then, seeing the woman's confused look, "You know, a thing to hold the breasts?"
The proprietor looked thoughtful. "You mean a bracer, I expect?"
"Bracer?" Wasn't that British slang for suspenders? This whole language thing kept getting stranger. But that wasn't the main concern right now, so Andrew just shrugged and nodded. "Right, a bracer. I need one I can wear; these things aren't very comfortable without one."
The woman nodded. "I'm sure of that. Let me see what I can figure." She began to prod and measure Andrew, lifting and moving her wings and measuring her bust (which Andrew found quite awkward and discomforting.) She stood up and went to a desk in one corner of the room, and shocked Andrew by pulling out a mechanical calculator.
It shouldn't have been as surprising as it was; after all, technology jumbling was a common thing in RPGs, where characters could pilot propeller-driven airships but still be using swords. But with the setting having been mostly late-medeival until now, the sight of an Arithmometer-era computing device was quite a shock. Noticing Andrew staring at her, the woman smiled. "This was my grandfather's," she said. "He taught me to work figures, a bit."
Andrew nodded, and the woman returned to her work. After a few minutes of tinny clattering, she looked up, frowning. "Well," she said, "I can make one to fit a girl your size, no trouble, but...well, I can't figure how to make it fit one of you harpy-folk."
Andrew almost swore, but she worried she might offend the woman, so she calmed herself and tried to see if she could figure it out. Unfortunately, she knew much less about making clothes than this woman, and she couldn't come up with anything that both provided support and was doable with what was available here. "Well, I'm sorry, Miss," the seamstress said, "but I can't think of how to make it work unless you know some way to make the cloth stretch."
Andrew cursed her luck. If only these people had elastic! But it wasn't going to do any good getting mad at the woman about it; it wasn't her fault they didn't have rubber products around here, after all. "Well," she said,"do you have some kind of bag I could buy?"
The woman brightened, and five minutes later Andrew walked out with a new leather satchel slung over one shoulder and no coinpurse between her teeth. She wasn't looking forward to having her breasts stay uncovered and unrestrained, but hopefully she'd find someone who knew what elastic was in the cities. Right now, she needed to figure out how this whole "flight" thing worked.