He took the comb and appraised it with a look, distracted only for a second by her hair falling down over her shoulders and back. The comb was made out of horn — perfect. Samuel placed it in the middle of the circle. "The flexibility of this means we can throw a few conventions overboard," he explained. "I will use only one hand. My left."
He drew the gateway rune and placed his hand on it. The scar on his palm started tingling and when he called his magic from its resting place, he felt the lines on his palm split open. The red from inside of him mingled with the red already on the floor and the system there merged with his own and set free a deep glow to the circle. The comb smoothly ascended into the air.
He felt it rush up his arm and into his heart and the color drained from his face. His eyes took on a fervent sheen. If the circle of silver connected to one's system of magic in an airy, ethereal way, this might as well be an actual part of his body now. He felt it pulse and he felt the air move across the lines, sending a flurry of signals through his nervous system. He modified the circle with his right hand, to better adapt it to the material of the comb, and to prevent it from drying out.
The levitating comb grew new spines that formed into ribs and articulated into vertebrae and then it stopped and he let it descend to the floor, half-finished.
Themis already held out her hand for the knife. Reluctantly, he dissolved the circle and gave it to her.
"The first time is the most difficult," he warned. He summoned a healing essence and some gauze and just like that, he wiped the gruesomeness and violence away. It was a small circle, and still he felt like he had just finished a physical sort of exercise. The rush that never turned stale, for him. The one he could justify.
He looked at Themis and waited, and looked at the white skin on her arm, innocent of all of this. He was slightly nauseated and full of morbid anticipation.
He drew the gateway rune and placed his hand on it. The scar on his palm started tingling and when he called his magic from its resting place, he felt the lines on his palm split open. The red from inside of him mingled with the red already on the floor and the system there merged with his own and set free a deep glow to the circle. The comb smoothly ascended into the air.
He felt it rush up his arm and into his heart and the color drained from his face. His eyes took on a fervent sheen. If the circle of silver connected to one's system of magic in an airy, ethereal way, this might as well be an actual part of his body now. He felt it pulse and he felt the air move across the lines, sending a flurry of signals through his nervous system. He modified the circle with his right hand, to better adapt it to the material of the comb, and to prevent it from drying out.
The levitating comb grew new spines that formed into ribs and articulated into vertebrae and then it stopped and he let it descend to the floor, half-finished.
Themis already held out her hand for the knife. Reluctantly, he dissolved the circle and gave it to her.
"The first time is the most difficult," he warned. He summoned a healing essence and some gauze and just like that, he wiped the gruesomeness and violence away. It was a small circle, and still he felt like he had just finished a physical sort of exercise. The rush that never turned stale, for him. The one he could justify.
He looked at Themis and waited, and looked at the white skin on her arm, innocent of all of this. He was slightly nauseated and full of morbid anticipation.
