Inktober X: Pattern

The Scribe wrote frantically in the well-worn book, scribbling his finishing touches in the margins, over the less important words, and even along the thin edges of the pages wherever he could find room. Though he was excited, he took great care to ball his sleeves up into his fists, preventing any sweat or smudging to occur. The last thing they needed now was yet another setback.
He continued at his frantic pace even as The Orator walked into his study. "Everything is coming along well, I assume?" Despite being unable to see his face from this angle, let alone through the blank mask he and every other member wore, he could feel The Orator's scowl even from across the room.
"Yes, yes. I shouldn't need anything more than a minute or two."
"You will have half. The Patient is here, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The Scribe allowed himself a moment to breathe. He could feel the beads of sweat starting to soak through the cloth around his neck. He gathered himself and firmly nodded, eyes still on the book as he resumed editing with a quickened pace. "Yes, of course. He will be satisfied, I guarantee it."
"He had better be. Trips from Brightcastle are not very cheap." As The Orator walked away, The Scribe could hear him pause just at the doorway. "But do keep in mind, journeys to the Hollowed Gallows are much less expensive, should anything happen." The door shut behind him.
The Scribe huffed. Who was The Orator to threaten him, really? He had been here for the entirety of two years with the responsibility of presenting visiting investors with various solutions, and yet he seemed to think his influence alone held the pillars of the ground above them from crumbling. If things went wrong in a deal, it wouldn't be his head or soul, but of course, what was that to the man who-
The Scribe heard a snap. He surveyed the damage, seeing black streaks of what was once the charcoal stick now coating the surface of the page and his robe. He faintly registered his heart skipping a beat.
He leapt off his chair and threw open the nearby cabinet, making an instant survey of its contents before grabbing a small browned vial and a rag. He uncorked the glass and turned it over into the rag, but the cloth was still dry. He shook the vial, slammed the bottom of it with the palm of his other hand, and even tried shoving the rag as far up into the glass as he could reach, but it remained as dry as his throat.
The Scribe turned to the doorway, now hearing muffled chanting. He cursed under his breath, grabbing the book and bolting for the door. Within a few quick paces down the narrow cobbled corridor, he turned to the pervasive smell of sandalwood and hoped there was still time.
He leaned against the archway of the central chamber, catching his breath as he caught the familiar sight of The Orator's diminutive figure next to a new one, this one clad in a soft beige and, by his guess, standing at a height well over both of them. Behind the pair, he could see a few recent recruits lying down blood and chalk, their pale faces illuminated by the intensifying glow of burning incense.
The Scribe regained his composure and approached The Orator and the beige-cloaked stranger with his back straight and the book held straight out in front of him. The latter, who he now assumed was The Patient, leaned forward and yanked the book from his hands before he could even finish approaching. He flipped through rapidly, bypassing many pages of angled letters and misaligned squares strewn across, before stopping suddenly. He flipped two pages back, revealing one filled with more streaks than intended. The Scribe held his breath as The Patient alternated his view between the book and him.
"And just when I thought this day would go as expected..." The Patient snapped the book shut with one hand and looked over to The Orator. He pointed at The Scribe with the book. "Your reader is a genius."
"Beg pardon?" The Orator's voice faltered.
"I do not have time to. You will see when it is complete."
The Scribe let out a slight sigh of relief, though stayed still. He wasn't told what The Patient had been looking for fully, but he was sure that the streaks couldn't have been anything but a mistake. Still, he watched on.
The Patient raised both his arms, and the recruits in the corner rushed to him, each holding a bucket with gallons of blood or pounds of lit incense. He took each and deliberately spilled them out, allowing their contents to clatter and splash against the cobbles. As he neared the end, he reopened the book and looked between it and his mess. With one foot, he dragged a smear of blood across the corners of a square before starting to speak.
"Muut nemon tire eavac, arfni im retap. Tis supmet siriv erednetso meibar." As The Patient recited the words, the shapes below him began to float into the air. Lines morphed and shifted, turning from faint browns and dark reds into pinks, golds, blues, and soon enough every color and shape imaginable had spun into the air before them in a spectacular tizzy.
The Scribe felt his heart start to flutter not just at the beauty of the shapes, but at his true success. He had finally managed to impress someone outside the organization, and The Orator had been shown up all within the same minute! Soon enough he may finally be able to access a proper court, or possibly even a school, and renounce his former occupation.
But thoughts of the future started to drift further away as he stood staring at the whimsical patterns. Recognition was good and all, but this spectacle had his full attention. Never before had he seen something so amazing, and he could feel something within it deep from his childhood. The shapes were warm, fuzzy, and inviting. He needn't think of anything else, really. He had the shapes, and they were all that truly mattered.
The Scribe stood there for some time, admiring the stupendous patterns. The Orator, The Patient, and the recruits couldn't help peel their eyes away either, as it was both lightheartedly amusing the way the image danced about, as well as a cathartic release of sorts. It was a story that they didn't want to stop reading, and luckily for them, it didn't have any signs of stopping.