It's been an arduous fortnight since I advanced in the College of Mages. I am no longer an apprentice, but rather an adept. However, I am still a long way from being trusted with my own pupil, let alone my own practice. Nonetheless, I am grateful to my mentor—none other than the esteemed Hermit of the East—for his assistance. A hedge wizard bumpkin like myself would never have had the opportunity to learn about genuine magecraft otherwise.
That being said, imagine my surprise when I found a strange package at my door this morning. Few could never have hoped to receive such an honour, but here I am. I must admit that I'm curious as to what strings my mentor had to pull in order to send me schemata for how to build an automata, alongside the necessary parts required for such an endeavor: clockwork gears infused with distilled arcana, runic-engraved components, the finest porcelain—no doubt imported from the far reaches of the Orient—and this pulpy, rubbery eldritch substance reminiscent of flesh. In comparison to the genuine article, these things could pass for an actual biological organism if not for the joint lines and other minor inhuman characteristics. Of course, these contraptions aren't illegal, but ignorant fools regard them with suspicion nonetheless. Not even a decade ago, saboteurs from the Isles across the Channel demonstrated against these machines, though the Crown put down that rebellion posthaste. What did they call themselves again?
But never mind that train of thought. It's irrelevant right now; I'll thank him later. I'm almost finished with the procedure described. All that remains is for me to inject my lifeblood into its core. A simple slit of my wrist with this blade, followed by the incantation prescribed by the guide, and this mechanism will be given a semblance of life, limited only by my own. Let us begin, shall we?
As instructed by the guide, I kneel over the automata's abdominal compartment, place my palm atop its core, and take a deep breath to brace myself. A quick movement, then a groan. "In nomine meo et pro sanguine qui effusus est, concedo tibi vitam!" I chant with clenched teeth.
The miraculous sight that I witness soothes the pain of my self-inflicted injury. Forthwith, the humanoid construct's carapace becomes incandescent, and moments later, my sanguine essence pervades its artisanal form. The automata rouses from its dormancy, and its achromatic ocular lens—in other words, its eyes—open. They look around, filled with a semblance of curiosity, and when their eyes meet mine, it comes to a halt.
"Query: dost thou claim to be mine creator?" it inquires, its aberrant yet saccharine voice modulated in an archaic dialect of yesteryear.
In response to its—or, come to think of it, her—inquiry, I...