Yzmir Engraver

393 AC - Through the iridescent haze, I look at the elaborate mixtures that the Sigil engraver is creating. They're made not only of oil and pigments, but also ideas pulled from the Empyrean, all combined, crushed and ground to make the emulsion. If I'm a little distracted, it's not because of his art, his expertise, or even the (rather trivial) nature of his work, but because he's experimenting with Sap. I sense that there's something unnatural in this substance, something dangerous. He carefully introduces the precious fluid into a neutral crucible before incorporating his previous mixture. How many tests has he done before arriving at the right dose? Dozens? Hundreds? With a flourish, he starts to pour the thick liquid into a sort of glass container, somewhere between a compressor and a hookah. The liquid floats inside and turns purple. The substance spurts into the tube and rises up towards the needle…

The man furrows his thick eyebrows and holds his breath, focusing on the precision of his movements. His hand doesn't shake. He takes the needle and starts to engrave directly on his skin, directly on his flesh. Slowly and precisely, occasionally dabbing away a bit of blood, he inscribes a vast array of magical Sigils, from the most mundane to the incredibly elaborate. And the tattoos suddenly take on a blue and phosphorescent tint as they come into contact with his essence, his identity. His eyes light up, and I feel uneasy. The Sap seems to graft onto his very being, unlike traditional Sigils that usually fade over time… I would have loved it if Saskia were here. This process is like osmosis, integration. She would have analyzed it much better than me. Making ideas his own, feeding off concepts… He needs to be careful of the negative spiral this kind of thing could lead to. But that doesn't matter right now. I'm not here for that but for the woman standing on the other side of the room, somewhat obscured by the curtains of smoke.

SYLAS