month record rogue 4 2 2

'What's the matter, MudroAAAAHHHHHH!'

'No need to get so worked up, Crownie. Actually, no, there is.'

Of course you're the one who should be worked up, Mudrock's squadmate thinks with a sigh while stepping aside. An ostentatiously-dressed yet famished-looking Sarkaz woman bounds towards Mudrock, scrutinizing and stroking the latter's new-found attire.

This was Crownie Mantel, Elegance Extraordinaire, a neighbor and acquaintance who happened to be an unemployed tailor.

'These edges! These fabrics! What an outdated—no, classic design!

'No matter what they say, this is what Victorian formalwear should look like! Oh, I'm going to cry!

'I will say, though, peak lapels don't suit you, and neither does the length of the sleeves. Hmm... No trace of being hand-sewn. Was this machine-made? Which means they were ready-made, no? Compensation? Pah! Poppycock!'

Mudrock stands silently, waiting for Crownie to finish her commentary, but it never ends. Her squadmates in the house trickle out one by one to see what all the fuss is about.

'...And so, this design, so akin to those rotund bucket-shape Columbian designs, not only has no history, but I must declare it has no future either! Thank you! Thank you everyone!'

The members of the Mudrock Squad jokingly applaud.

'Let's head inside, everyone.' As Mudrock proposes this, fatigue suddenly sets in, and she feels a great need to sit down.

'Mudrock.'

'Hmm?'

'As a fashion designer who also values practicality, I should remind you that these ready-mades will not last long during your daily routine.'

'My work clothes...'

What Crownie doesn't know is that Mudrock is actually already surprised these clothes managed to last the trip home.

After all, they were 'conjured up' by the revenant a few hours ago in the Furnace.

She had no choice but to remove her heavy work clothes before she could arduously crawl out from the miniature mountain of guns.

'Hmm... It's not quite the same as what Tin Man described. It also seems I can't undo the ritual by myself.'

Mudrock does not respond, gasping for breath as she stumbles upon the ritual's focus. She concludes the story. Her surroundings shimmer, and the interior of the pipe slowly comes back into view.

A few guns, recently conjured, continue to lie on the ground where they appeared. However, there is no sign of her cast-off work clothes.

'Aha! There really are a few remaining here! This witchcraft ritual, plus our imagination and narration—and perhaps a little extra something—can make real the unreal!'

'Nymph said they're still illusions. They're a type of hallucination.'

'Yeah, yeah. These guns and the huge insects you guys ran into in the pipes earlier are NO hallucination.

'Okay, so for the next step, you bring—hmm, wait, we can't have you bringing Sankta stuff out there. Okay, we make some clothes, you wear them out, and we'll know if it's a hallucination or not.

'If all goes well, imagine the possibilities! Kazdel's Soul Furnace will become one big wish-granting engine! Sure, it'll raise all sorts of questions about the witchcraft involved, but we can at least make some cupcakes for you and your buddies, yeah? Where's the harm in that?'

Without her work clothes, she could not finish the rest of her tasks. Mudrock accepted her ancestor's proposal, and left the furnace as he hummed a tune to send her off.

I should ask everyone what they think, Mudrock ponders as she emerges from her memories.

'...I have a spare—Ah, now that I mention it... Guys?'

'What?' Everyone speaks in unison.

'If Arts could create food, would you... dare eat it?'