THE RITE OF MARKING
The method of passing a mark from one bearer to another is a well-practiced and understood process, and a vital component in the success of any Marked house. The circumstances under which a mark changes hands is different for each house and individual, but the process is the same.
To receive a mark, one must first accurately carve the correct sigil for the Mark they intend to receive into their flesh, normally by copying it from the current bearer, as it changes over time, a feat requiring extreme skill and care. They must then take the blood of the current Mark Bearer and use it to seal the wound. If correctly done, the mark will pass immediately to the new bearer.
If the current bearer is unwilling to relinquish their mark, killing them and taking blood from the corpse is an option to receive the mark. It is also possible to non fatally remove the limb upon which the mark is placed for the same purpose.
If the mark goes unclaimed for one day and one night from a severed body part, it will manifest again somewhere on the original user's body.
Should the user of a Mark die and the Mark go unclaimed for one day and one night, the Mark will pass to the closest living blood relative if the deceased. In this case, children are favoured over siblings, and siblings over parents.
An individual can possess multiple marks, but this invariably places great strain on the body of the bearer. In many cases, individuals are unable to bear the strain of even one mark on the body if they are of insufficient constitution. Hence, Marked houses will allow only their most robust scions to bear a Mark, or induct a new member into the fold for this very purpose.
Dolorem charged headlong at Solomon, ignoring his other opponents, he didn't want to survive, he wanted immediate revenge. Solomon had to die. As soon as he came into throwing range for his chain, his assault was halted by a vicious slash to the shoulder, courtesy of Manus. The coppery smell of blood woke him from his rage. He needed to fight, not attempt suicide. He retreated several steps. Strategising.
He had three targets, two were Marked, all three armed. The closest was 15 feet away, with no obvious long-distance attacks. The Saint's Mark specialised in healing and manipulation, it couldn't harm him. The Masked was equipped to fight at any range within sight, but couldn't handle multiple threats. Solomon was weak, barely factoring in given the monumental challenge his other two opponents presented. He needed to lock down the Masked's abilities, then focus on the Archduke. He had the Mark of Mist, and Five seals.
He weighed up his options and decided on a strategy. He activated his mark, producing a multitude of illusory copies of himself. They were intangible, but certainly a good diversion. His first objective was to place the Masked under an illusion. He'd need eye contact, and to get close, he'd need to be clear of the spikes they used last time. The clones scattered, up into the rafters, across the floor, all in erratic patterns, deliberately misdirecting.
Dolorem mirrored them, taking full advantage of his opponent's disoriented state. He flitted across the floor in the copies' hesitant, jerky pattern. Keeping within a pack of them, he approached the Masked. Then came the second stage. He activated his fire seal, and wove a single hand seal. Combustion. A conflagration of yellow flame erupted behind Manus, further distracting the trio. He was within striking distance. He grabbed the Masked's head, and shattered the fragile mask with a single punch. He found himself face to face with those same cold blue eyes.
To his mild surprise, the Masked was a woman, with a pale, drawn face, and dark rings under her eyes. She seemed somewhat familiar. It didn't matter. He cast his illusion, within a fraction of a second her pupils expanded. She was now trapped in the same illusion he had used on the prison warden, wreathed in snakes, surrounded by oily black vipers. She was stunned, paralysed, even. Dolorem guessed he had two minutes, perhaps three before the illusion broke. He dispelled his copies, they were only draining energy now. He turned to see that Solomon had already weaseled out of the room. No doubt raising the alarm. He had to work fast.
Manus was already bearing down on him. Dolorem slowed his perception of time again to observe. He saw a curious look of panic on his face, his footwork was all over the place. He'd provoked an emotional response, somehow. If he found out how, he could capitalize on it. Right now, he had an opening. He took the chain in both hands and brought it to meet Manus's blade, wrapping it around the crossguard. Manus, seeing he had lost control of his weapon, let go, and brought his free hand down toward Dolorem's wounded shoulder. He had hoped to grab onto it, and exasperate the wound with his gauntlet, but Dolorem was a crucial moment faster. He sidestepped the blow and responded with a deadly knee strike to the kidney, winding the Archduke.
Both Dolorem's hands were occupied, as opposed to his opponent having one. He wrenched Manus's sword-arm back, the force causing the sickening sound of snapping ligament to come from the constricted arm. Manus grunted and dropped his weapon, the blade clattering to the floor. The two exchanged unarmed blows, the Archduke keeping pace with Dolorem, even with a broken arm. Dolorem sustained a nasty kick to the knee, deadening his right leg. In return, he grabbed Manus by the throat, and flung him to the ground across his shoulder.
Manus rolled back, and stood up, and his wrist snapping once more into position. Bone and tendon melding into place. A wicked grin appeared on his face. He drew his dagger and continued fighting. Dolorem needed to change tactics. Every second he spent fighting expended energy he couldn't waste, and once the illusion broke, he was as good as dead. He'd need to kill the Masked, then find a counter to Manus's healing. He unleashed a thick cloud of mist, obscuring himself. He noticed Manus dart in the direction of the Masked. He was protecting her. He had her by the shoulders, frantically trying to dispel the illusion before Dolorem could attack. It all made sense. The Masked was his wife, Lady Priscilla Cranswell. He felt a faint spark of guilt, somehow.
He was fighting two living people, a reality he had long since learned to shut out. He steeled himself. He activated his Wood Seal. Placing his hands on the ground, he wrapped the pair of them in a cage of elastic vines, once they asserted themselves as effective bonds, he hardened them into oily, iron-like wood. Priscilla began to form her stone shell, but her husband had no such luxury. He was going to immolate him, split skin from bone, and bypass his healing entirely. He felt toxic, acidic rage fuel him. He snapped his fingers, consuming him in a vermillion inferno. As soon as the flames subsided, he formed more restraints, and set him alight again, this time the flames blue, cracking the flagstone floor.
He wasn't done. He kept going, binding, lighting, over and over. Soon, the Archduke was little more than a charred husk, lying 9n the ground, smouldering. The stench of flesh and wood fused was unbearable. Did he survive? Possibly, but it didn't matter. He still had a score to settle. Blood for blood.
He activated his metal seal, learning from before. Her stone armour was starting to recede, she was preparing her own assault. The ground began to rumble beneath him. He leapt into the air, fists hardened. The rumbling stopped as soon as his feet left the ground. Before he could react, a deadly sharp stake of granite pierced his side. It had been a diversion!
His thin shirt blossomed red, his flesh torn to ribbons. Priscilla withdrew the stake, coated in thread-like viscera. She looked at Dolorem with cold disgust. Dolorem's vision was distorted by black spots dancing before him. He had a few minutes before blood loss would end him. He needed to end the fight now. Dolorem stumbled back, forming seals with his bloodied hands. Priscilla watched with a sort of perverse amusement, like staring into the fire as its last embers fade away. He looked up, his eyes burning with furious resolve. He finished the seals. "Kagusuchi!" He growled.
Black sand formed around Priscilla, condensing, growing in mass. It swirled about her, the iron grains eroding away her stoneplate armour, tearing it apart, little by little. The quicksilver maelstrom pressed in on her, forming an iron sand coffin, he clenched his outstretched hand. The sand compressed, the sound of grinding iron unable to drown out the gradual crushing of bone. The wet, visceral sound of tearing muscle and sinew. He could tell that he needed only clench his fist a little more to finish the act. He'd have his swift, grotesque revenge. He hesitated. Why? He didn't know himself. He felt sickened by his own rage. He couldn't bring himself to do it. In his moment of intoxicated fury, he didn't notice Solomon's approach.
Solomon had returned from his chambers with a pearlescent white blade in hand. A sealing-blade. Once within the body, it left some of itself behind, placing a curse on the victim, preventing them from using magic, marks or otherwise. He grabbed Dolorem from behind and slid the blade into his liver. Priscilla dropped to the ground, unconscious. Dolorem turned to face his quarry. He was already exhausted and shaking, worse, unarmed. Solomon was fresh, armed and uninjured. Dolorem could only use hand-to-hand tactics.
The two circled one another. Dolorem struggling to control his desperate, rasping breaths. Solomon sheathed his dagger and drew his sword, taking a range advantage. Dolorem stepped in, fist homing in on Solomon's face.
It took him a moment to realise his arm was cleaved off at the elbow right after that.
Dolorem's body was numb, he felt nothing. He lashed at Solomon with kicks, pathetic, panicked swings. Solomon sidestepped, and drove his blade into Dolorem's thigh, twisting it once it gained purchase. He withdrew it, stepping back. He was a cat, toying with a wounded bird. Dolorem staggered forth, falling onto Solomon, one hand clasped on his collar. He tried to pull himself up, to bite, to headbutt, some sign of defiance. Solomon tore his hand away, and slashed open Dolorem's face, destroying his right eye entirely. Dolorem fell face down, upon a growing crimson pool.
Solomon grabbed his hair and yanked it up, looking him in his remaining eye. "Don't worry, Dolorem, you won't die here. You'll hang for all to see. I'm sorry that there was no other way." Solomon dropped his head. He called for his guards to take him to the dungeon. That was the last, muddled sound Dolorem heard.