Like wholly completed

At least the writing of it

And brain just say no

Why Square:

There is a 4th-rank spell called “Fabricate”. With it, you telekinetically and roughly instantaneously complete an item that you would otherwise have to make; you can only make an item with this spell as complex as you could make with your actual hands (re: you have to have the skill to do it) and the new creation must fit in a 10-foot cube. The Oreos are made from their base components in a specially made 10-foot square baking sheet, which is then placed under a cutting press fitted with a 1.5-inch square grid. This makes roughly 6400 Oreos (120in/1.5inPerO=80O, 80x80=6400) at a given time.

Why in Frontier Fantasy Era:

Real Oreos created in 1918. Fondant (the filling) was a relatively much earlier creation that, to be created in a given world, would require an excess of rich folks in “Renaissance Fantasy” era throwing parties for cake development, which this world had and has. While the FF era is technically around 1800s aesthetically and non-magical technologically, the introduction of Tentaoan hyper-magic research has catapulted tech in some surprising ways.

More fun math:

Assuming D&D5e rules, that the original baker (“Baker”) is optimized for Oreo production, and that they aren’t making anything else (less plausible for a bakery but bear with me), the Baker must be a “Clockwork Soul” Sorcerer, as Sorcerers are the only casters that can convert spell slots into a more malleable form, letting them cast more 4th-level slots per day than any other caster, and Clockwork Soul is the only kind of Sorcerer that could get access to Fabricate.

At a minimum level of 7, the Baker could cast Fabricate a total of 7 times, making a total of 44,800 Oreos in a single day, or roughly 995 familiar packages. For a single popular bakery, this is more than enough IMHO, and level 7 is about the level of “professional”, so I call this plausible.

But let’s go ridiculous.

A max-level adventurer is level 20. Again optimizing for Oreo creation over a single day, our Baker takes a heavy dip into Warlock (the only casting class that gets spells back via nap instead of just full sleep) in addition to Sorcerer. CS Sorc 9, Celestial Warlock 11.

Our Baker now gets a total of 13 Fabs immediately before taking a break. Assuming an 8-hour work day, with necessary hour-long breaks, Baker getting 3 Fabs/brk, and with Fabricate having a casting time of 10 minutes, Baker gets a total of 24 Fabs/day, and can spend 1 5th-rank slot on whatever they want (probably a Greater Restoration to relieve them of Exhaustion, but that costs 100g in overhead). This is 153,600 Oreos, or 3,413 packs.

Ellis Hodgery

A Mini for Boss #4 in my Frontier Fantasy Mini-Series

I haven’t talked about this thing I’m doing nearly enough. Hells, I haven’t posted my own content here nearly enough. But yeah: I got into mini-painting, and I’ve been REALLY going ham lately (I got access to a resin printer and now the world cannot stop me). My friend that follows me: if you see this… well, you can see this, just pretend you didn’t for everyone else mmkay?

This is Ellis Hodgery, shitty first wife of Paghorimrodezzo (or just Dezzo), Orc Gunsmith of the little town of Nogul. She still uses the gun he made him; he’d made her leave not because they’d fallen out of love, but because she couldn’t bring herself onboard the trans care for their daughter.

Like I said: shitty.

Nogul is a small, sleepy town. Clay family houses, workshops, stores, and the community house lie mostly silent beside the packed dirt roads in the chill SouthSpring morning. Plants of many types—all low-water, this is a desert after all—line the lanes and alleyways, their leaves, spikes, and fronds offering a bit more color to the otherwise sepia landscape.

A sign swings above the doorway to the only bar in town: Yokgaguro. The door swings open as a young man pushes through: he’s a Tiefling, made apparent by the black horns jutting out from his forehead that curve perfectly around his wide-brimmed hat. He has cobalt skin and eyes that smolder like embers in a dying fire; he wears a bright red shirt tucked into denim and leather riding pants, which are in turn tucked into brown leather boots. He wears three gun belts around his waist: two holsters hang on his left and one on his right. His entire getup is impeccably clean. He jangles as he walks in, and the floorboard creaks underneath, prompting a synchronized gasp, then a look toward the newcomer, then a groan from the few patrons sitting at the various round wooden tables around the Feystone-chandelier-lit room. The newcomer pauses as everyone looks toward him, but quickly shakes it off and sidles up to the bar—clearly uncomfortable in these new pants—beside a goblin woman that promptly leaves, grumbling something about “those damned wannabes” under her breath.

The newcomer leans on the bar. “I’ll get uhhhhh…”

The bartender, a stocky Orc woman with beautifully braided dark curly hair and green eyes to complement her grey-green skin, wearing a Gaz firing-arm pauldron and gauntlet in the colors of Clan Sulgha over her tube top and apron as she cleans a set of glasses left overnight, smirks at his indecision.

The young man continues. “Uh… Whisky. Neeeeat?”

The bartender—Yokgagu is her name, but most just call her Yok or Yokga—snorts. He’s gonna hate this. “Coming right up.”

Yokgagu sets down her glasses and extracts a shot glass from a cabinet and a bottle from the bottom shelf without looking, pouring perfectly before sliding the glass across to the new patron. “Three gold.”

The young man doesn’t balk at the price—as he should—instead extracting three coins from his pocket, setting them on the counter with a clink. Yokga breathes a quiet chuckle and shakes her head, scooping them into her hand as the kid stares at his drink, which he ordered, with absolute fear and disgust.

Yokga speaks up as she goes back to cleaning. “So… what’s your name, kid?”

Gulp. “Valor.”

“Alright Valor, what brings you into town?”

“Looking for work. Any jobs that need a—an adventurer?”

“Well, you’ve just missed ‘em. Had a crew come into town a couple days ago and knock out everything we needed done and then some.

Valor’s face falls. He slumps in his seat.

Arguing sounds from the stairwell.

”Speak a devil’s name…” Yokga mutters.