Page 84 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Honestly, I couldn’t help but notice how much the citizens’ appearances had changed in the month since we’d established the camp. The emergency clothing I’d ordered initially—basicsweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies—had evolved into something uniquely Iferonian.
A group of imp children raced past, wearing what looked like sturdy cargo pants paired with fantasy-inspired tunics. The mash-up shouldn’t have worked, but it did—Earth practicality meets demon realm aesthetic, like cosplay that’s actually functional. Their feet were protected by boots that somehow combined the comfort of sneakers with medieval durability—perfect for the rough terrain of the camp and the inevitable mud puddle jumping that seems universal to all children regardless of species.
“The sewing machines were definitely a good investment,” I said, watching a goblin family dressed in what appeared to be reinforced denim pants with intricately embroidered vests. My innerProject Runwayjudge was impressed. The goblin patriarch’s vest featured what I assumed were tribal symbols but could just as easily have been demonic emojis for all I knew.
“Indeed, my lord,” Azrael replied with his usual butler-who-swallowed-a-dictionary formality. “The Void Fashion Guild has become quite the enterprise. Their main production tent operates continuously now.”
Near the eastern edge of the camp stood what could only be described as a demon sweatshop—except without the exploitation and child labor, so really just a busy garment factory. The massive tent hummed with activity, silhouettes of workers visible through the canvas walls. Some bent over sewing machines while others cut patterns on large tables or dipped fabrics into huge vats of dye outside. The whole operation had the chaotic efficiency of a Black Friday sale, minus the trampling.
As we approached, I got a better look at the division of labor that had naturally developed. A group of cave dwarves, with their precise hands and meticulous attention to detail,operated the more complex machines. Their crafting expertise, normally applied to metalwork and stonecraft, had translated surprisingly well to industrial sewing. One dwarf was modifying a sewing machine with what looked suspiciously like parts from a dismantled clock, muttering about “efficiency ratios” and “optimal stitch velocity.” Typical dwarf behavior—give them a toaster and they’ll turn it into a rocket engine by dinner.
“The dwarven contingent has revolutionized the production process,” Azrael observed, stating the obvious with his trademark gravitas. “Their understanding of mechanical principles has allowed them to modify the machines for greater efficiency.”
Several goblins darted between workstations like caffeinated ferrets, carrying materials and finished products with surprising organization. Their natural agility and speed made them perfect for the logistics side of the operation. One particularly determined goblin was balancing a stack of folded garments nearly twice his height, navigating the busy workspace with the skill of a New York bike messenger.
“The goblins have found their niche as well,” I noted, watching one use a clipboard nearly as big as himself to check off deliveries. “They’re everywhere in the camp now, aren’t they?”
“They have integrated remarkably well,” Azrael agreed, in what was probably the understatement of the century. “Their tribes have divided themselves among various essential services—message delivery, supply distribution, maintenance tasks. Their size allows them access to spaces larger demons cannot navigate, and they work with unexpected diligence.”
A tall demon woman approached us, bowing so deeply I was worried she might tip over. Her outfit was what my fashion-challenged brain could only describe as “hoodie couture”—a simple sweatshirt transformed into an elegant cowled robewith embroidery that seemed to shimmer when she moved, like someone had figured out how to sew with fiber optics.
“My lord,” she said, her voice rich and melodious, the kind of voice that could sell ice to polar bears and make them think they got a bargain. “I am Seamstress342, head of the Void Textile Guild. We wish to express our gratitude for the machines and materials you have provided. Our production capacity has increased tenfold.”
“You’ve done amazing work,” I said, genuinely impressed by the operation. “How many people are working here now?”
“Nearly two hundred, my lord,” she replied proudly. “Mostly women, but our head designers are quite diverse.” She gestured toward a group examining design sketches—among them were several male demons with measuring tapes draped around their necks like fashion victim scarves, a forest elf with intricate leaf patterns tattooed on his hands, and a particularly fashion-forward goblin standing on a stool to reach the table, wearing what appeared to be a miniature version of a runway designer’s all-black ensemble.
“Designer27 has a particular gift for structural innovations,” she explained, indicating a tall male demon with four arms, each holding a different design tool. The guy looked like a one-man design team, simultaneously sketching, measuring, cutting, and pinning. Talk about multitasking.
Inside the tent, demons of all types worked together with the synchronized chaos of a well-rehearsed flash mob. Some operated the sewing machines with practiced precision, while others hand-stitched detailed embellishments. The forest elves, few in number but clearly the artsy types of the group, were applying embroidery that seemed to capture and reflect light in ways that defied the laws of physics.
“We’ve begun creating specialized designs for different professions,” Seamstress342 continued enthusiastically. “Theminers have reinforced coveralls, the healers have garments resistant to fluids, and the farmers have lightweight, breathable attire that protects from the elements.”
A group of children ran by, their outfits both adorable and practical—bright colors, reinforced knees, and clever adaptations for wings, tails, or extra limbs. One little demon girl with butterfly wings had a specially designed backpack with wing slots, allowing her to flutter a few inches off the ground while keeping her school supplies secure. It was the kind of practical innovation that made me wonder why human clothing designers couldn’t figure out decent women’s pockets.
“The children’s clothing has been our greatest success,” Seamstress342 said, watching them with obvious pride. “Durable enough to withstand play, yet comfortable and expressive. The parents report they’ve never worn out a single piece, despite their best efforts.”
“That’s exactly the kind of innovation I was hoping for,” I told her, making a mental note to order more sewing supplies. “Do you need additional materials or equipment?”
Her eyes widened like I’d just offered her the moon on a stick. “You would provide more?”
“Of course. This is exactly what these resources are for—improving life for everyone.”
As we continued our inspection, I noticed how the citizens’ pride in their appearance had transformed their demeanor over the past month. They stood straighter, moved with more confidence, took obvious care of their new garments. It wasn’t just about staying warm or covered anymore—it was about identity, about dignity. It was the same boost I used to get from wearing my one “good” outfit to job interviews, except multiplied across an entire population.
“The simple provision of adequate clothing has had unexpected social effects,” Azrael observed, echoing mythoughts with his usual talent for stating the obvious in fancy language. “The citizens display increased confidence and social cohesion.”
“Clothes make the demon,” I quipped, watching a group of young demons comparing their custom-modified outfits with obvious pride.
It was more than just practical—it was a visible symbol of change, of improvement. Every citizen wearing these durable, comfortable clothes was walking proof that life in Iferona was getting better. And from the way they carried themselves, they knew it. My inner retail therapy addict totally understood—sometimes a new outfit really can make you feel like you can take on the world, or in this case, rebuild a demon realm from the ground up.
As we made our way back toward the center of the camp, I noticed a commotion near the perimeter. A group of nobles had arrived, but unlike their previous visits, they weren’t just observing from a distance. They were actively engaged with the camp administrators, gesturing enthusiastically at what appeared to be architectural drawings.
“What’s happening over there?” I asked, changing direction to investigate.
“I believe those are representatives from House Lumina and House Vortex, my lord,” Azrael replied. “They have been among the more… progressive noble houses since your conversation with Lord Superiore.”
Conversation. Right. That was one way to describe whatever midnight visit Azrael had paid them that had resulted in their sudden enthusiasm for cooperation. I still hadn’t asked for details, figuring some things were better left to the imagination—like whatever happens in a gas station bathroom or the inner workings of hot dogs.
