Sylvia winced as she drew the sigil-covered obsidian knife across her palm. It was jagged and tore more than it cut. She squeezed her hand into a fist and dribbled several drops of blood into the chalice. When her elixir began to hiss, she put down the knife, then poured hydrogen peroxide over the cut and wrapped it in a handkerchief. It stung like a motherfucker but the knife was borrowed and who knows where a ceremonial blade may have been?
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