As Priscilla had begun with her chanting, the phylactery had lifted off of the ground to levitate in mid air above the center of the glyph. Throughout the adjunct ritual, the object had shook, spun, and glowed, but now that the spell had ended, it rested almost peacefully on the stone floor, aside from a sputtering, sizzling noise that came from the tile beneath it. Although it didn't look that way, Priscilla could tell that the object was hot, mostly from the smell of charring.. something.. that rose from it.
Her suspicions were confirmed when Morax entered the room brandishing a pair of long tongs, gloves, and thick safety goggles. With an expression that almost seemed something other than passive, he lifted the goggles from his eyes and into his hair.
"Huh," he mused. "I was expecting more light intensity."
With a shrug, he grabbed the item with his tongs. Another sizzling sound arose, and the ends of the tongs quickly grew red hot. Carefully, Morax toddled away with the phylactery in tow.
"Help me," Priscilla said to Morraigne. "I wish to observe the procedure."
Morraigne followed orders silently, taking Priscilla by the arm and leading her, step by arduous step to the lab she'd organized. When she arrived, Morax was already at work, measuring out cups of a dull, gray powder onto his scale. The phylactery was propped up against the bench, where it smoldered patiently.
When Morax was satisfied with his measurements, he transferred the measured amount into a larger basin and mixed it with the other contents.
"Carbon, sulfur, magnesium, potassium, phosphorous, calcium," he muttered, almost chanting. He uncapped a small vial and tapped another fine, gray powder into the mix. "And a trace of iron."
Priscilla watched quietly as Morax removed his gloves and pricked one of his fingers with a sharp instrument. He squeezed out a drop of his blood that fell into the powdery mix and mumbled something about 'auxiliary elements.' After this, he stooped down in front of the basin and appeared to do.. nothing. Only after a few minutes of careful observation did Priscilla realize that he had begun to glow. Soon, the whole lab was cast in a strange, crimson pallor that didn't appear to agree with the servants but suited her just fine.
What didn't suit her was the awful crunching, gurgling sound arising from the basin. She was thankful that Morax's broad shoulders were blocking the view of the process taking place before him. Then, something occurred that made her wonder if she'd silently jinxed herself--with a thick, popping noise, a quivering, gelatinous mass was expelled from the basin and landed at her feet. Priscilla, a veteran of many gruesome rituals, was not particularly unsettled by the mass, which closely resembled a hunk of human fat, but her stomach turned as it began to inch along the floor like a worm back to the basin, leaving a slimy trail behind it.
When Morax finally stepped aside, Priscilla wasn't surprised to see nothing more than a pulsating blob of matter resting in the basin, but she was still disgusted by it. Bones and hairy growths seemed to jut from it at every angle. As she turned away from the sight, she could have sworn she even caught sight of a row of teeth. Leaning heavily against her servant, she tried to repress the wave of dizzying sickness that had just washed over her.
"Don't look away now," Morax called, lowering his goggles again. He moved to pick up the tongs that held the phylactery. "You'll miss the best part."
"That's quite alright," Priscilla responded.
"Suit yourself," Morax said. With that, he stabbed the hot phylactery into the fleshy construct. It began to quiver, writhe, and even squeal. "But... maybe cover your eyes anyway."
Priscilla did as commanded, and she was relieved that she did when she heard an even louder gooey pop and felt another one of those pieces of fatty tissue splatter against the back of her neck.
"Okay," Morax announced in the silence that followed a few more minutes of popping and squealing. "You'll want to see this."
Turning to face Morax and his work, Priscilla was not expecting to see the tall, well-formed man standing in the basin. His features were oddly perfect and strikingly symmetrical. In some ways, he reminded her of a statue.
Morax was holding on to the handle of the long tongs, which protruded from the man's chest, around where his heart should rest. With a heave, he removed it. There was a brief spurt of blood, but he staunched it with a wave of his hand that elicited the skin's rapid reconstitution. Using the same sharp instrument he'd pricked himself with, Morax carved a glyph over the newly healed skin. It was his sign.
Finally, Morax set aside all instruments and tools, leaned in toward his creation's ear, and whispered: "Are you awake?"
The man's eyes snapped open in response. They were a pale, thoughtful blue--the only aspect of the construct that could possibly resemble the former form of the alchemist now trapped within it.