Ralasizon was slow and methodical. He was making sure the blade did not do more than what it was intended to do. With the semi-circles complete, making an oval, He carefully and with a steady hand added a line to it, a resting place at the base of the oval to add to the design. It was largely straight until either end, where it grew slightly jagged, like a hook on either side. He took special care to ensure he did not go deep enough for his blade to sever her spinal cord or scratch the bone as it was drug over that area of her back. If Araminia had hoped that it would end there, she was wrong. On the bottom portion of the line, he began again with the semi-circles, adding another oval to the set. This one was slightly smaller than the first, but it had hurt no less. And again, another line was added with those wicked, almost hook like protrusions at the end of them.<br/><br/>Ralasizon took his time, but the Mist did not. With each scream of agony or thought of fear, it grew bolder. More Mist joined in the wound, speeding up the healing slightly. By the time Ralasizon was halfway down her back, the first set was completely healed... And that was when even more torment began. Araminia's scarred flesh began to glow a dull red. And then blood began to seep from it. The Mist was reacting to being inside of her. It was rough and coarse, like sand. And it was moving, brushing itself against her in a pain that was not quite imaginable as it began to claw the wound back to open. Every single space that was healed as soon torn away back to nothingness at the same pace that it had been drawn.<br/><br/>He did not seem to care over this development, as the Mist raised Araminia further into the air, preventing the need for him to bend down to continue this macabre piece of art. It was almost hypnotic, if not for the pain, as Ralasizon continued creating the ovals and adding the lines, steadily moving further and further down her back. It was an unending chain etched into her very flesh. By the time Ralasizon had reached the small of her back, the ovals were small and compact, and the lines did not extend too far out from it. But he kept carving. Even with the Mist healing her, blood was becoming a bit of an issue for the last leg of this carving. Ralasizon stopped the carving and reached up, grabbing on to one of her sleeves and pulling until it was fully pulled out. And with a simple slice, it was reduced to a simple cloth in his hand, leaving her left arm bare.<br/><br/>Ralasizon wiped and dabbed carefully, cleaning up the small of her back and the upper portion of her buttocks. He was almost clinical in his actions, removing the blood from his path, and holding the rag above where he intended to continue so that more would not interfere. Another was added, and then another. But then mercifully, perhaps an inch or two above the part between her cheeks, he ended his artwork, the last bit of mist flowing into the last semi-circle. And no line followed this one. Ralasizon patted and wiped away blood from her back as the Mist slowly lowered her until her feet could feel the ground underneath them. However, the mist still did not let her go. It kept her there, as if she was on display. Ralasizon walked around her until he stood in front of her once more.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"The Enclave lost a daughter to Whitemarsh. And thus Whitemarsh has now lost it's favorite daughter to the Enclave,"</span>Ralasizon said simply, wiping his blade clean on the sleeve-turned-rag before depositing the fabric on the ground at Araminia's feet.<br/><br/>He turned away, just as the entirety of the work healed in unison.... and all of it began to be torn open once more. It was a cycle, and now with his crest emblazoned onto her back in it's entirety, it was acting in full force. The pain was excruciating to say the least, and once they were open completely, she began to heal again. Nothing of the magic being used dulled the pain as her flesh stitched back together. And once she was healed again, the tearing occurred once more. Ralasizon seemed not to care, walking back over to his desk and laying the carving knife back into the box next to it's brethren. He simply rounded his desk and took a seat, returning to business as if he was not in the middle of dealing the worst pain that Araminia had felt.