His brush moved slowly, surely, painting a thick line on the page, his hand stead and confident in its motions. This one remained small, a curve here and there, strait lines added in around the arcs, pin wheeling in towards the center, a circle filled with innumerable pinpricks of ink. Lines complemented lines, parallel, or just about so, following the curve of the outward edge, the straightness of inner boarders, the roundness of the center. The tiny little painting drew to an end, a flower present on the long roll of paper where, previously, no flower had existed. His brush returned to the ink well, wetting itself once more in preparation for a new work.
This one also small, simple, tight and compact, but different. Where the flower, small and delicate, simple lay as a flower, this possessed power, brimming with it in fact. One stroke followed another, then another, strait lines forming a permitted, a square encapsulating a tiny formula. This small set of instructions, so simple and basic, yet unimaginably complex in nature, filled with tiny circuits of continually running energy, circling endlessly around the boxy perimeter and into the formula proper. There, next to the flower, rested the freshly painted marking of power, beautiful in its own right, but set apart from the plant next to which it rested.
The brush dipped into the ink once more, brown bristles bleeding black blood back into the small pot, a tiny dripping sound accompanying the slight action. Drip. Drip. Drip. The brush moved, its head finding flesh now, pale and soft, but certainly not like the paper with whom it had previously communed. Ink flowed freely, a collection of lines appearing on the pale body, a spider web of darkness flowing about, here and there. The same square sigil appeared, a stopping force in the intricate network of seals, a line of code halting all forward continuation. It appeared here and there, painted carefully by the ever moving brush.
The brush paused, refreshing its collection of black ink before resuming its sacred task, returning to the paper once more. One image presented itself, forming under the careful attention of the bristles of the brush. The same as before, the harsh edges and softer innards. Another arose and another, repeating endlessly down the scroll, drowning the little flower from before in a litany of black squares and harsh lines, crafting a cage for the tiny blossom of ink. With each passing stroke of the brush the plant struggled, its roots growing, its stem extending, its very being searching for purchase among the growing swarm of darkness that surrounded it.
Ink again. More brushstrokes. Additional ink. Additional growth from the plant. And endless cycle occurring again and again until, finally, something broke. The plant stopped moving, stopped growing, the brush and its ink no longer capable of adding to the depiction of the flower. The brush continued to move, more images surrounding the flower, caging and trapping and suffocating it, locking it in time and trapping it forever. The brush moved to flesh once more, correcting a few errors previously crafted, fixing the collection of stop codons placed on flesh. A couple on the neck required fixing, the five on either arm needed additional rigidity, the dozen on the stomach required further fluidity, and the dozen from the back were simply wrong entirely. Tiny fixes, little changes. Perfection overtook the inky pattern.
The inkwell once more, the dripping repeating, the sound of the running black blood falling back into its tiny stone heart. A bit remained, clinging to the horse hair, desperate for something more, something different than a stagnant life. The brush touched flesh once more, spilling a coating of ink about the pearly surface, coloring in extra lines, shading in boarders, making whole the image, though a new one than before. This one had a different code, a different formula. No box presented itself, rather a collection tendrils, reaching outward, grasping for the lines of power present within the flesh and connecting them back into the center, the heart.
The flesh stopped, the brush choosing the scroll once more, at least for a time. Huge lines appeared, a magnified image previously chosen by the brush. The wooden handles wavered, flicking back and forth, back and forth and sending a cascade of ink droplets about the workplace, raining down messy flecks of black onto every available surface, from table to skin to paper to floor and wall. The instrument of painted stilled, remained frozen, and examined the image before it. The tendrils appeared correct, rested properly, wound about the veins in the correct manner, but did not connect to the center in the right way. The joint was too gummy.
Ink lifted once more from the well, clinging to the bristles of the brush. It moved, carried by the instrument back once more to the large expanse of flesh upon which it had elected to paint. The wiggling lines adjusted under the hand of the brush, their connection to the ascent center piece altering and repairing, becoming clearing and more defined. Where previously the flow was off and the energy would never correctly move, now the situation had been rectified, the energy flowing about freely, ready for the image that would, eventually, be set into the empty middle between the ending points of the long tendrils.
The brush continued its trend, its cycle, as it dipped into the pool of ink once more. The page, fully of previously drawn images and characters, was swept aside, a new length of scroll taking its place. The brush moved, filling in the oversized gap between the previously repaired and perfected tendrils left in their midst. The white void soon filled with darkness, ink filling in the nooks and crannies of the long lines of ink, a hundred thousand kanji moving in and about, crowding one another and fighting for the limited space available in the twisting mess of darkness. Soon, all was sorted out, the pictures and images complete and appropriate and the duplication ready.
Inking itself once more for what seemed to be the millionth time, the brush went to work, painting and creating, placing in the space between the tendrils the appropriate marking and incantations, charging them with a youthful energy, imparting strength and magic into the words and symbols. The pictures took from easily, the result of years of training and a mind naturally inclined towards unrivaled meticulous thoughts. The instrument continued its work, masterfully fitting together the thick ends of the tendrils to the thinner network of black veins, running about the inner working of the image, feeding the formula with a constant, free flowing flow of power. It the rush and influx of power was immediate and verified the previous decision to slightly alter the original design.
The flesh had taken form now, the black tattoo fitting onto the chest easily, though it still had much more work to undergo. The roots of the image had been planted, their grasp extending deep underground into the recesses of an underground reservoir of hidden, life giving water, but that was the extent of what they had achieved. They needed yet to bloom, to flower and turn their blinding heads towards the blinding sun and to finally realize their true purpose. The seeds had been planted, sure, but they plant still needed to grow and flower and, of course, it needed to bear fruit. Fruit ripe and bright and useful to instrument that had made life from so little, from such a simple mixture of water and dye.
A ripple appeared in the dark pool, created and propagated by the intrusion of the collection of brown hairs. They stirred, swirling about in the darkness and sucking up as much ink as could be held on the small, fine tip of the brush. Then it moved, gliding through the air and coming to rest just above a patch of skin stretched taut over a strong, dense sternum. A small pattern began, starting slowly and tentatively, flowing about in the small, confined space left amidst the myriad of other images and marking. This one was special, different, and astoundingly unique. This was the flower which would bear the fruit, the vessel through which the water would be channeled and changed into something greater and more powerful. From this small collection of making would rise a beautiful berry, crisp and bright and painfully gorgeous to look upon. The symbol rested as a filter and conversion factory, the heart of the formula, and had been preplanned and pre-perfected. All that remained was to tie the whole thing together and make complete the plant that had so long been growing in the small workshop.
The brush returned to the ink for a final refill, brushing a few final strokes onto the model drawn out and enlarged on the scroll before ultimately returning to the fleshy tapestry upon which it worked. It paused briefly, hovering above the marking it had made, calculating and re-calculating the marks that needed making. After a brief moment the brush steeled itself, preparing to complete the insignia, the trademark of one who will have little to do with silly afflictions of the blood, and made the markings, working seamlessly together the central filter and the inner circulatory network, the outer roots and the inner stabilizing agents. The marking completed, the brush returned to its resting home, clean and dried and ready for a new day.
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