He winced in pain, or so he wished. He knew how delicate the process he undertook was, so he must not move.
"MMFFFHMMPHHH!" he screamed into the rag in his mouth.
The pain was unbearable: as if he were being devoured by ants, except to a magnitude where the long-deceased neurons throughout his body came back to life to scream at him, demanding he cut away the site of pain along with all the tissue that surrounded it.
But he could not move. His head, joints, and limbs were fastened by iron chains with such resistance that movement was impossible.
The dark ichor seeped rapidly into his skin where he painted—its advancement into the blood stopped only by the most precise calculations he had worked out for hours.
"The procedure will induce severe physiological distress." A staggering miscalculation of agony, Vigo.
Exhausted, he set the thick brush onto the silver platter to his right and painfully pulled loose the chain that held his left arm—pale in complexion except for a series of black markings and perfect circles—and shoulder.
This weakened limb climbed to its right counterpart—it, too, held circles and a distinct mark.
Dutifully, it pulled and clasped. Reaching down to the left side, it grabbed an identical brush and soaked it into a pot that held this volatile substance. His wet, bloodshot eyes watched the viscous liquid drip carefully, and as the last drop fell, his arm moved swiftly.
His arm bent backward, pointing the brush toward himself—his eyes watching the operation through two opposing mirrors.
The brush touched the skin, tilted at the slightest downward angle as it made a curved line—a reflection of the semi-circle made on the side across the groove of his back. Only the tip made contact; if the brush were ever pressed too deep, the cursed liquor would harden his blood.
At last, the third and final circle of the sixth blessing was drawn.
Arthur stared blankly at the ill reflection of Cedric in the mirror. His face was too numb to smile now, but he knew he had succeeded.
Discovery of my physical state is a statistical inevitability. The operational risks associated with exposure are now negligible.
Petrifying Ichor.
An abhorrent synthesis detailed in the fifth volume of the Speculum Alchemiae—the apex of hazardous recipes legally permitted by the Mage Association.
The ichor forcefully concentrates and fortifies mana, calcifying any organic tissue it touches. Allowing it to infiltrate the bloodstream guarantees permanent physiological impairment. However, this localized, hyper-dense mana pool perfectly mimics the residual signature of an Elemental Blessing.
The visual deception is complete.
He relaxed his fingers, dropping the brush, and spat out the rag.
…