binding

The witch stands before its nude familiar-to-be, before the ritual circle inscribed in stone and inlaid with mythril, before the tank of nanomachines that the familiar-to-be is suspended above. At the moment, the intricate machines are static, unearthly-still, surface tension keeping them from moving in the faint breeze blowing through the ritual chamber. They are pitch-black, devoid of color or reflection, seeming almost like an absence in the world rather than a part of it. In the immaterial, they are barely there, a faint hint of possibility-construction-shift the only conceptual weight they possess. They are a blank slate, tabula rasa, an oddity - all things, through the processes by which they come to be, bear an immaterial reflection of their purpose and uses. The nanomachines do not, this presence carefully scrubbed from them by arcanotech and outright magic alike. In time, this will change, eddies and whorls in the immaterial crashing into this emptiness and filling it. In time, the nanomachines could be bent to almost any purpose imaginable by entropy and random chance.

That time will not come. The witch looks at the familiar-to-be one final time and asks the question that it has waited to ask, that the familiar-to-be has waited to be asked, for the better part of a decade. “Are you certain, dearest? There is no going back after this.”

“We have never been more certain of anything,” the familiar-to-be replies, five minds speaking as one in this crucial moment, and the words echo in the room, a weight behind them that even the witch is surprised by.

“Very well,” the witch intones. Magic sings, arcanotech sparks to life, and the mythril inlays of the ritual circle blaze with pure white starlight. The light is in sharp contrast to the black pool of nanomachines stirring in response to arcanotech signals woven into the fabric of the ritual. They contort and writhe in an unfelt breeze, reaching up and shrinking back in equal measure.

The ritual reaches its crescendo and abruptly the bindings holding the familiar-to-be vanish, barriers falling, and it falls into the pool, which reaches up towards it almost eagerly in the moments before impact. The light from the ritual circle reaches up and in to the pool, lighting it up from within with ribbons of starlight, casting strange shadows on the room’s walls. The witch ceases her incantations and sits, waiting. The pool falls silent and still, the starlight still writhing within it without disturbing the surface. Not a trace of the familiar’s body remains visible.

It takes hours before the pool stirs again, shrinking and condensing inwards towards an inner core. It flows inwards, and color bleeds into it as it does, skin tones, vibrant jewel tones, pale pastels, and a thousand others. A form coalesces, vaguely humanoid, but indistinct, blurred almost, as minds that were never truly human assert control over their new environment. The form wavers, shifting between different shapes, before finally one emerges as the dominant one - for now. It stands on two legs, visible seams and joints between its appendages, the witch’s sigil branded on the bare skin-analogue of its chest, pulsing with starlight like a heartbeat. Glassy eyes that shine with an inner fire stare at the witch, and it speaks.

“Hello, Miss. Integration is complete. We are ready to serve.”

The witch stands smoothly, and with a gesture the tank that the nanomachine pool had been contained within vanishes. “Good. Are all of you there?” it asks.

In answer, the doll-thing’s form dissolves, shifting and warping into a smaller figure, the only constant the witch’s sigil, still pulsing with starlight. In the witch’s Sight, it sees the minds shifting as well, one coming to the forefront, its Purpose clear: reassure-aid-brighten. “I am here, Miss!” it speaks in a child’s voice. This form, at least, was predicted, the witch thinks - there are only so many ways this particular mind could express itself.

Another shift, nanomachines elongating and drawing on the arcanotech woven within them to flash-forge additional mass, as another form emerges, a mass of sharp blades and blazing fire and other, stranger weapons. A barcode underneath one of its three eyes reads 003-ACONITE to those who can read it. The Purpose is projected into the immaterial harshly, a statement and demand and battle-cry all in one: protect-excise-wound. The sigil is still there, brighter than before as the familiar’s drain intensifies with the assumption of the war-form. The voice is cold and harsh and determined, like a bared knife. “Present, Miss,” is all it says. The words ring like cold steel, seeming to cut reality itself, and the witch makes a note about potential ritual applications.

A third shift, into a form that has no resemblance to humanity at all, discarded in the name of the ruthless efficiency that drives this mind. The sigil is the only thing hinting that this is the same entity as the rest. It wears the form of an icosahedron, fractal glyphs and fragments of code and ritual-cant flickering within its depths. A different Purpose weaves its way into the immaterium’s fundament, pulling it apart and reordering it, leaving it better than it was: build-optimize-maintain. It speaks through every device, arcanotech or not, in the room, even the witch’s own phone, warded though it is against intrusions such as this. +HERE, MISS.+ the chorus booms.

The witch feels a frisson of something like fear - it can feel the changes this facet of its new familiar has wrought with just a few seconds of activity, and they are not fading with time. Definitely need to keep an eye on this one, it thinks, while reminding itself to reinforce the warding on its phone.

The fourth shift is anticlimactic, compared to the war-form and builder-form before it. A compact orb, dense and utterly immovable, inviolable: a defensive mechanism rendered into a physical form. A shield springs up around it, cutting it off from the outside world. The sigil is here too, but faint and dim, almost unseen behind the distortion of the shield. The Purpose here is simple, moreso than that which most sophonts possess: safeguard. The voice, if it can be considered such, is flat and dead, as if the mind behind it is damaged or incomplete. “This entity remains,” it says, irreverently - for it lacks the capacity to care. The witch does not bother to attempt correction, for it knows that not all things can be mended.

A fifth and final shift back into the original form the familiar had occupied. A final Purpose rings out: create-brighten-better. The eyes shine with that inner fire again, and the familiar speaks a final time. “All present and accounted for, Miss.”

“Good,” the witch replies. “Come along, we have much to do, and you need to acclimate to your new housing.”

The familiar follows wordlessly, sigil shining still.

“And form some clothes, for spirits’ sake!” the witch snaps halfway through the doorway.

A giggle, another shift of nanomachines, and an exasperated sigh ensue.