Three days had long passed since Elías had last glimpsed at the fog-shrouded riverbed, and its mountain of clay.
Every waking moment since then Elías's mind had been cluttered by thoughts of the scroll; its secrets, and its hidden potential.
As he walked home, the empty potato sack he'd purchased from the inn was clenched tightly in his hands, and his mind lost in his plans. He imagined the weight of the clay, the feel of it between his fingers as he shaped it, and the satisfaction of seeing his creation come to life.
That day, the streets of Eddervosté seemed quieter than most as he traversed through the fading light, the village's narrow alleys casting long shadows beside him. Like most days, Elías walked with his head down, barely noticing the handful of villagers still out at this hour.
Because of this, he didn't see the treacherous trio on the upper floor of a nearby building, their whispers carrying on the wind.
"Oi, Look at him walkin' aroun' wit dat smug look on his face!" sneered Jonas, his broad frame leaning out the window.
"I bet ys he's lost in his own little world again.
He looks ripe for a little wake-up call, whaddaya' think guys!"
Darris, lounging beside him, grinned wickedly. "How about we douse him with something. My family's pissin' pot, that oughta' do the trick!" He said with a laugh.
…But Lallia, her eyes glinting with something far colder, shook her head In response. "Ohh, c'mon boy's, we can do better than that, that's too simple!" she said, a cruel smile curling at the corners of her lips. "I've got something better in mind." She snickered as she reached her hand around her blouse and down her skirt, before holding up a bundle of bloodied rags, remnants of her own time of the month. "Let's see how he handles this one!"
Before the others could say a word, she hurled the rags out the window. They fluttered through the air, a macabre banner, before landing with a sickening slap across Elias's face. Startled, he staggered back, the scent of blood and iron, sharp and overwhelming. The rags clung to him, smearing crimson across his cheek as the trio erupted in laughter from above.
"Hey, you like my smell, You Pervert!" Lallia shouted down at him, her voice dripping with contempt. "You better wash those for me before showing up to work tomorrow or I'm going to have Jonas and Darris beat your ass again… Just like last month!"
The other two roared with laughter as they rolled across the floo, before standing up and gazing out the window again, just to sling more insults his way.
"yeah and you better be quick about it too!.. You're lucky she even gave a loser like you something to touch!" Darris taunted.
For a moment Elías stood frozen, the fresh blood chilling on his face. At first, he said nothing, did nothing..
A few seconds later, he pulled the rags from his face, and clutched them in his hand before running home in embarrassment.
When alias returned home he swore that he could still feel their laughter echoing in the back of his mind, ..but at least he couldn't actually hear them anymore, for now his mind was elsewhere, already miles away from the daunting acts of others. When he finally reached the confines of his room, he closed the door silently behind him, the wooden latch clicking softly as it shut.
For a while Elías stood in the dim light crying, the damp rags still in his hand, and his breath shallow.
It wasn't until he looked at them, and really looked, that realization dawned on him.
The blood..; The blood on the rags he was holding was exactly what he needed for part of the homunculi recipe. It was that, **the blood of a woman, or which.. Given Willingly.**
The scroll had been specific, though he hadn't understood it fully at the time. Nor had he expected to acquire it so soon..,
or so easily.
A bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat as he spoke, "well Lallia may not be an actual witch, but she sure as f*** does act like one."
They had given him part of what he needed without even knowing it.
Their cruelty, their mockery..,
it had brought him a gift, and in doing so brought him one step closer to his goal.
He set the rags carefully on the small table by his bed, his hands shaking. The weight of their significance pressed down on him. Each insult, each bruise, each humiliation; they had all led to this moment. They had all been fuel for the fire yet to come.
"Soon," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the bloodied cloth. "Soon, they'll understand.. just how much I hate them."
The room felt heavier than before, the air thick with something unspoken.
The scroll lay beneath the floorboard, waiting. The sack lay empty, waiting. And now, so was he.
Before the night fell to an end, Elías snuck himself down the stairs and outside where the water spout was and began to wash his hands and face.
It was thin when he noticed the empty milk jugs sitting in the wooden cart, just waiting to be picked up in the morning.
Without a second thought Elías grabbed one of the empty milk jugs and proceeded to wash it out, making sure it was fully clean before he put the cork back on top.
When he finally got back to the small quarters of his room,he tore the sleeve off of one of his old shirts and then used it to dry the inside of the bottle before meticulously squeezing every ounce of blood he could get out of the rags that lay upon his desk.
As he did so he thought to himself, *"Well.., this may be morbid, and grotesque. But at least it serves a purpose, at least I'll get something out of it."*