Emma woke up to a package being dropped on her head. Her hand flew up, swatting the offending object away and against the wall with a dull thud; all while Emma reached for her sword, before realising she was still in her homunculus. A note fluttered down from the ceiling, one she just barely caught before it reached the floor; a torn piece of scrap paper covered with a ssy, barely legible scrawl she knew all too well.
"Got you sothing better than that battered old space suit, from the first run from our new production line."
The package itself wasn’t too eye-catching, being a standard cardboard box, every gap covered thanks to heavy application of brown tape. Trying to tear it off proved an exercise in futility, and after a few monts she switched to her armoured form, using the sharp tips of her gauntlets to rip the box open instead.
[It’s about ti you got so proper clothes.]
Switching seamlessly back to the homunculus, Emma left the space suit in storage this ti, as she tried Felix’s surprise gift on for size. She’d never worn a tunic before, but it was close enough in size and function to a dress, so she managed to pull it on after a bit of experinting; the long purple garnt going from her shoulders down all the way, coming to a stop just above her ankles. The accompanying sandals were more familiar, being little different to those she’d worn on previous holidays; the sole difference being a slight heel that added a bit of lift while stopping short of being unwieldy. She could already see a few issues with fighting in such clothes, mostly to do with the limited mobility for her legs, but the homunculus was never intended to be the main body for that, making the point largely moot. Experience tales at empire
"Not bad," Emma admitted. "Not what I would have picked, given the choice, but there was always sothing more important to do than go scavenging for clothes. I wonder what Felix ant about a production line?"
[He’s been busy expanding his dungeon to accommodate the increasing number of survivors to find their way inside. The main focus is still on the colosseum and the associated gas, but not everyone is willing or capable of fighting at the required standard, so he’s been finding other ways for them to contribute. Not the most glamorous of roles, admittedly, but still much better than being eaten by demons.]
"That’s a pretty low bar," Emma pointed out. "Is this a regular thing in the Empire? I know there’s craftsn and such, but I always thought that was just for magical items, and anything mundane would just be conjured up sohow, rather than needing a production line."
[You’d think so, but having magic by itself doesn’t change the underlying reality of labour; nobody wants to do it unless there’s a genuine incentive or need. Take that tunic as an example; I could conjure it in seconds, while most Masters would be able to do sothing similar by brute force, basically burning enough magic to directly manifest it in reality. Magi could achieve the sa result within a few days of study to dust up on their spell models, as could Practitioners skilled in the relevant area of magic.
Of course, none of us have done anything like that in centuries, because it’s generally much less effort to just buy one, as has been the case since industrialisation really kicked off in the mid-eighteenth century. In modern tis, the rank and file of Empire society shopped on Amazon, while the more important ones might send their servants over to Harrods or Fortnum and Marson, you get the picture. With the recent, massive reduction in population, the Empire is getting directly involved in the supply chain again, but that’s very much a work in progress.]
"Couldn’t you automate the process with magic instead? Set up an ongoing spell to make X amount of shoes every hour, like the replicators in Star Trek?"
[That’s been done before, mostly during warti to quickly replenish supplies of consumables and ammunition. It works well to begin with, but the problem with magic is that it has a will of its own, to an extent, one that gets more and more leeway the longer a spell is kept active. That’s not an issue if there’s a trained Practitioner monitoring the situation the entire ti, but that runs into the sa issue of dignity ntioned prior. Leave the spell to its own devices, on the other hand, and you end up with an entire town’s worth of people being reprocessed and turned into salt pork. Admittedly, both magical and scientific understanding have co a long way since the 1400s, so maybe a renewed attempt at automation would work better in the present day, but there’s never been much appetite to test it out; and on that lovely note, it’s ti for dinner.]
"You tid that on purpose to gross out," Emma accused, her appetite not particularly impressed by the thought of long pork; though it wasn’t enough to keep her in the bedroom as opposed to heading outside.
The mont Emma opened the door, the sharp scent of onions and garlic filled the air, undercut with a blend of herbs and spices that she quite couldn’t put a na to. Heading into the kitchen, she found Noah hard at work at the hob, a large pot of green curry simring gently as he stirred, adding a handful of lentils at regular intervals.
"You’re cooking today?" Emma asked, looking around for Elizabeth but finding no sign of her.
"I was supposed to attend a eting of regional mayors, but Liz volunteered to go instead; no complaints here, that’s for sure. I much prefer cooking to governing, and I still don’t know why anybody thought I was the right choice for the job…"
[Most of them were directly appointed by the Empire, so they’re part of the old crowd Elizabeth is already familiar with.]
"Say, can you chop the vegetables while I prepare the chicken? Save us all a bit of ti."
Emma humd in acknowledgent, heading over to the counters where potatoes, carrots and mushrooms all awaited their turn under the knife. She was far from the best cook, but chopping things up was well within her wheelhouse these days.
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