Tathfheithleann, ever the professional, gently took Grav by the wrist and snapped her fingers against. Grav felt a sudden surge like lightning across the skin of his hand and wrist. Shocking, perhaps, but certainly not painful. The Halfling drew a circle in the air with her finger and traced along it a second time with tiny, nearly-imperceptible twitches of her gloved digits.
The circle illuminated itself and out from it fell a wooden stylus covered in engravings of beautiful, winding vines. A layman might call it a "wand," and while that would not be a lie, it was inaccurate to the thing's actual function: A magic focus. Tathfheithleann dotted two places on Grav's wrist, or rather more accurately, she marked his blood vessels. Next to them she simply drew the number "3."
"It's not going to hurt," she explained.
The Halfling touched the back-end of the stylus against Grav's wrist. With a flash of light and the scent of ozone, those two marks opened Grav's wrist. They were tiny things, but they were bleeding a lot. The blood, surprisingly, did not fall from his arm. In fact it didn't fall at all. Tathfheithleann held Grav's upturned wrist, and his blood levitated out from the cuts upon him and pooled into a neat sphere levitating just above the site.
One second, then two, then three. On the third, his bleeding suddenly stopped, and his cuts closed themselves, his skin stitching together and leaving two neat, tiny surgical scars.
"Um, Ser Tathfheithleann? Not sure how relevant this is, but, ahh-..." Kiara half-murmured. "I just noticed that it seems like Grav has gotten... Fitter?"
The Halfling, without so much as blinking or breaking focus, gestured at her floating parchment with her stylus.
"Write that down," she told it.
The parchment stiffened as if to salute its enchanter, and Kiara's explanation wrote itself upon its vellum surface.
The floating sphere of Grav's blood was barely the cow's eye. Tathfheithleann released his wrist and the sphere floated to her beaker, depositing itself in it without so much as a single drop splashing against the beaker's walls.
The mage girl had to stand to see over her equipment where a Human could easily sit upon the floor. Halflings weren't particularly tall folk, after all. Her hands moved about her bottles and her stylus like water; the entire process of whatever arcane ritual she was performing was as a single motion. She had the hands of someone who had done this a thousand times, and she would do it a thousand more.
The blood sample in the beaker, mixed with all of those strange liquids, bubbled and blackened. Tathfheithleann tapped the glass with the back of her stylus, and that same black blood suddenly hissed a cacophony as a multitude of vapors and smoke rose from its surface. Yet, those selfsame vapors did not go anywhere, as steam or smoke normally would. Instead they collected in a solid, gray puck beside the glass in defiance of all reason. The Halfling seemed completely unbothered as she examined it with that same cold, clinical expression. After a few seconds, there was nothing left in the beaker; not even a residue.
"Well, you aren't turning into a bug. Or a plant. Or a crab," she said dryly in some attempt at humor. "And your blood isn't doing anything it isn't supposed to do."
Which was, of course, a very simple way of saying "you don't have any form of cancer in your blood." But the Halfling wasn't about to say anything out loud that would cause more questions such as "what is cancer?"
Tathfheithleann dropped her stylus into empty air; the little focus winked out of existence through a circle identical to the one it had fallen out of. She clapped her gloved hands together, and her equipment- summoned or otherwise- snapped to attention like soldiers called to muster. The vellum parchment rolled itself up and underneath it appeared a scroll case. That gray puck settled itself atop the vellum as the entire collective neatly packed itself. Within the minute, Tathfheithleann's entire field kit returned to her backpack and she was left holding a scroll case of hardened leather.
She extended it to Grav and Kiara. "Guild of Chirurgeons. Whoever they send, hand them this; it has all of my notes from today and the results of your blood test," explained the mage. "Absolutely. Nobody. Else. No quacks, no hedge healers, and no village wisefolk. Guild. Of. Chirurgeons. Understood?"
