Cornman8700
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MT 294 - Magical Limbs and Where to Find Them
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 06:03:26 +0000 UTCWatching Nuralie work was always fascinating. She moved with absolute precision, each limb and digit sliding into the ideal position for her task and holding steady as though it had been cast in steel. Her movements were quick, but unhurried; the grace and skill of a master craftsman, elevated even further by the inhuman capabilities she possessed.
To a degree, her motions placed her in the uncanny valley. There was no wasted movement, no shuffling of feet or adjusting of posture. One might have said it was machine-like, but her body was too fluid for the comparison to take. When combined with her look of absolute focus, it was understandable that the Littan she was working on was uncomfortable. That was ignoring the obvious cultural subtext that might have made a Littan uneasy with a Geulon performing a delicate procedure upon him.
Nuralie wasn’t working alone, either. Several of her small, matte-black mechas flitted about, most of which were busy performing delicate work on components for more of the prosthetics, while the more rudimentary assembly was being performed by a series of tools that floated and acted on their own. One mecha served as her main assistant, gathering tools and gears, fastenings and cables, then handing the loson each item she required the moment it was needed.
Nuralie took a set of cogs from the mecha without looking, sliding the tip of a talon through the center of each one. Her fingers subtly adjusted position as she brought her arm back around to her work, and with a single smooth motion, she tapped four pins inside the leg, one with each nail, and all the cogs slid into place as one. It was done with such a perfect amount of force and accuracy that I didn’t even hear the clink of metal as the cogs slid together, their teeth fitting into one another flawlessly.
Nuralie had subtly rotated the prosthetic leg as she installed the gears, and the moment she was done, gravity caused the access panel to fall back into place with a satisfying click. Nuralie ran a hand down the length of the limb, poking it with a stylus in seven places as she went, and a trickle of mana began to run through the device.
She stood, hooking her stool with her tail to tuck it beneath a worktable behind her, and put her hands on her hips. Her pupils blurred as she scanned every inch of the leg in a fraction of a second, then nodded to herself in satisfaction.
“Your Majesty,” she said, eyes flicking towards me for a brief instant before returning to the leg. The address was accompanied by a loson pause that was just long enough to impart a humorous tone to the title. Anyone else in the room would have believed her words were serious and respectful. At least, that’s how the Littan seemed to take it. He looked between the two of us, seemingly caught in a loop of indecision about whether he should bow or remain still until Nuralie told him otherwise. He defaulted to a deep nod, which I graciously accepted.
“Director Vyxmeldo’a,” I replied. “How’s the procedure going?”
“Let us find out,” she said, then gestured at the Littan. “Please try and move the limb.”
The Littan swallowed and looked down, frowning in concentration like he was trying to will the leg to move. To be fair, he was. After a moment of effort, the leg gently kicked outward like someone had tapped his knee with a little rubber hammer.
“Ha!” barked the Littan, forgetting his nerves in his excitement. After a few more jerky movements, the man had the leg extending and retracting without effort. He looked up at Nuralie with a wide smile, which faded as he seemed to remember that he was somewhat afraid of the alchemist.
“Let us see if you can stand,” said Nuralie. She held out a hand, and the man took it, then she stepped back slightly as he rose. His hips wobbled a bit as he found his balance, with Nuralie casually adjusting her stance to provide just enough support to keep him upright. A few moments later, he was standing under his own power.
Nuralie ran the man through another few tests, having him walk the length of the room, squat, jump, and kneel, among other more demanding activities. By the end of it all, the man was out of breath, but couldn’t have looked any more pleased.
He gave Nuralie a low bow. “Thank you, Lady Vyxmeldo’a,” he said before rising. “This… I… when my leg was crushed…” He looked at the ground and trailed off as tears started to form. Nuralie awkwardly patted the man on the shoulder. She was a woman with a wealth of expertise, and exactly none of it fell into the school of dealing with a stranger’s uncomfortable emotions.
He turned his bleary eyes back up to her. “I am not a rich man. How can I ever repay this kindness?”
“Field testing,” she said, then presented the man with a small stack of papers she pulled from her inventory. He wiped his eyes with the back of a hand, then looked down at the documents with a perplexed look. “These are forms for weekly progress reports. Please fill them out and have them delivered to the address at the top.”
“Oh,” said the man, accepting the papers. “Yes, I can do that.” He cleared his throat. “What should I do about maintenance?”
“There is none. Any machine I make will repair itself, unless it is completely destroyed.” Pause. “But anything that could destroy the leg would have destroyed you well before that, in which case you will not have to worry about it.”
The Littan’s brow rose, and he had a half-smile like he was waiting for a punchline. There was no punchline. Once he realized, his expression fell. “O-okay,” he stammered.
Nuralie gave the man a few instructions, reminding him that his other muscles had already begun to compensate for the crutch he’d been using, and that he should take things slow and easy for the first few days. There were some other medical considerations for using the new limb, mostly physical therapy type stuff, and once Nuralie had gone through it all, she gave him a reference document that detailed everything they’d gone over.
The man gave Nuralie his deepest thanks once again, then gave me a proper bow before leaving the ward. I watched the newly minted cyborg waltz out with the pep of a man who’d just won the lottery, until his lopsided gait had him stumble and catch himself against the wall. His strut was more moderate after that.
“Calling that one a success,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Nuralie as she turned to clean up her workspace. That consisted of watching her mechas while they cleaned up on her behalf. “How was your meeting with the count?”
“Went about as well as one could hope.”
“So we have two thousand permanent residents?”
“Semi-permanent for the moment,” I said. “Whether they stay long term is up to them.”
“It’s costing you around five ruby chips per week to feed, clothe, and provide other services to that number of people,” said Nuralie. Her tone told me she was simply giving me the information, rather than being critical. “That figure will increase significantly if you still plan to give them all jobs.”
“And it’ll take several years before it strains my coffers. That’s assuming I don’t generate any new income, such as, say, by doing a Delve.”
“It also assumes that you do not spend any chips on crafting or buying new equipment,” Nuralie countered.
“I’m pretty sure we’ll have this place paying for itself before long. How much did that leg cost you?”
“It was negligible. These prosthetics are primarily made of steel, since a normal person cannot tolerate physical contact with mana-rich metals like Madrin for very long. There is only a minor amount of powdered ruby chip in the mana gathering array. I could make several hundred with your weekly spend.” Pause. “If I were to sell them, the primary cost would be the value of my labor, which is substantial.”
“A lot of the process looks like it could be accomplished by less skilled hands.”
Nuralie glanced at her floating tools, which cut and shaped metal, punched holes, and pressed bolts. “This is true.” She crossed her arms and looked up to meet my eyes. “Thinking of things that Closetland could export?”
“It’s not a matter of figuring out what to export as much as deciding which exports to favor. Between you and Grotto, we could push the magitech revolution that Hiward began into a higher gear. The Core promised me automated manufacturing capabilities a long time ago, and we’re soon to have plenty of people for the processes that aren’t worth having magic thrown at them.”
Nuralie hummed thoughtfully as she continued watching her mechas. “I suppose I could limit myself to the weaves and installation. That would dramatically reduce my involvement.”
“You could even train somebody on those parts.”
“An apprentice?”
“If you want it to be that formal,” I said. “Just imagine getting a percentage for every product sold that was based on your design. You train people in how to make something, then design something else.”
Nuralie’s expression told me I’d awoken her inner Avarice. “And Closetland gets its own percentage, through taxation.”
“Somebody’s gotta pay for the roads,” I said with a smile. “And fund the war chest.”
“I will work on some projections,” she said. “The initial time investment will yield less value than our monetary gain through Delving, but with a nation-scale labor force, such a thing may eclipse our individual capacity for wealth generation.”
After some time spent discussing the kingdom’s finances, Nuralie returned to distributing free bionic limbs, and I moved on to visit the local temple. I was mostly doing a fly-by, unwilling to enter the consecrated building for fear of disrupting the activities within.
Arzia didn’t have much in the way of therapists or psychologists. Mental health was, by and large, addressed by local priests and clerics. I’d had some experience in my prior life–both personal and second-hand–that made me a bit biased towards religious figures attempting therapy. Incidents where a well-meaning individual was, perhaps, stepping into a field that they weren’t adequately trained for.
Recognizing this bias, I’d chosen to meet with a couple of the soul-soothers to discuss my own stress and see if I could settle my worries. While some of this style of guidance was gift-wrapped theological moralizing, a fair amount of it was generally solid treatment. I wasn’t a therapist myself, but I’d been to my share of therapy sessions, and this had felt legitimate enough to get my stamp of approval for the moment.
Not that my stamp of approval was required. I mean, it was since I owned all the land in the Closet, but we had a massive population of traumatized people, and I wasn’t going to stand in the way of them seeking out some spiritual guidance. My approval mostly meant that I could delay figuring out how to introduce secular therapeutic techniques until a later date. Approximately 100% of people in Arzia were religious in some way–which was unsurprising since there was literal proof that gods existed–so it wasn’t like there was a huge demand for it.
Xim had taken charge of making sure we had representation for all faiths present and had ultimately organized and spearheaded the mental rehabilitation efforts, in addition to doing what she could in the medical clinic. She even got a few other members of the Xor’Drel tribe involved. While my adopted people hailed from a rather unstable locale, they were all rock solid from a psychological point of view. Given that their existence more or less depended on their capacity for mindfulness, they were surprisingly well-equipped for providing others with guidance on dealing with various mental health troubles.
While there weren’t exactly very many Sam’lian faithful represented among those in need of treatment, there was a good deal of consultation between them and the more in-demand clergy members. There was a strong culture of respect between the different religions in Arzia, with some exceptions, of course. For example, someone who worshipped the murder-hungry god of Steel and Blood probably wasn’t interested in respecting the views and opinions of those who disagreed with them.
With the reputation that preceded me, I felt that my presence would be too disruptive inside the temple, so I was happy to settle for checking in with a few of the tribe members out front before moving on. They were an eclectic bunch, as one would expect from Third Layer denizens.
I got a run-down on the state of things from a man with forest-green skin named Clive, who stood twelve feet tall and sat six feet tall. That is, while standing, he was a jolly green giant, and when sitting, he shrank to become a more reasonably sized man. Clive was happy to report that all was going well in the temple in his outgoing and gregarious way. After, we had a brief chat about how his wife was doing, who was a lovely woman with whom he shared a wonderful relationship built on honesty, trust, and communication. She was doing quite well, if you were curious.
Once I’d finished up with Clive, I headed out to find Varrin. Grotto had informed the Ravvenblaq swordsman that we were keeping Old Krimsim, so he’d taken a break from training and politicking to do some more ordinary labor around the city. Currently, he was helping to disassemble the city walls, which would give us plenty of material to use in repairing the rest of the place. The walls were now superfluous, since there weren’t any monster waves or invading armies in the Closet. At least, not any that Old Krimsim would need to worry about.
The new city walls were the boundaries of the Closet itself, which would likely do more to deter or prevent invasions than the original walls ever did, given that one could not enter or leave without the permission of me or Grotto. Who needs a wall when you can just shut a portal in somebody’s face?
Since Varrin was on the city’s outskirts, I decided to do a quick sweep of the entire city along the way. This was something I’d done a few times during the recovery efforts for a number of reasons. Initially, it was to search for trapped survivors. Then it became a matter of surveying the damage and helping to recover lost property. Now, I would be mapping out what areas should be prioritized for repairs, while also handling some basic security. Grotto had eyes and ears everywhere, but he and I often had different ideas on what was important, and I still had some senses the Core did not.
Soul-Sight was an ordinary part of my everyday perception now, and the ambient awareness of everyone’s spiritual essence was no more invasive than the scents around me or the feel of clothing against my skin. It faded into the background, only springing to the forefront when it picked up on something important or when I focused on it.
While circling out from the city center, I gave it my attention, trying to look for souls the way one might listen closely to the ambient sounds in a room, trying to pick out each one individually. I wasn’t seeking anything in particular, rather cataloguing the people present. Now that the Imperials had made a full withdrawal, with the exception of a few folks still receiving their replacement limbs from Nuralie, there was a much cleaner line between who should be in the Closet and who should not be there.
I expected to find at least one person who didn’t belong, and while I found something that didn’t belong, whether or not it was a person was… unclear.
Comments
yohan gu
Yay, get the mercantilism going! I hope, however, that the discussion around mental health does not herald this story becoming a case of « let’s show these backwards brutes how we, enlightened 21st century Americans, do things »
Tim Johnson
Hopefully Clive doesnt get a new neighbor named Jason. I've heard that bloke tends to get in trouble with peoples wives.
McIntosh Ewell
I wonder how prosthetics will integrate once someone completes a Creation Delve. Considering the system itself is artificial in nature, it should be able to offer skills that accommodate cybernetics
Throh_goblin Lord
Yes! capitalism is back in session
