A contract penned on a sheet of magical vellum in Farglen's precise, gear-tooth script. The text gleams in gold filigree — every letter, every flourish laid down by a pencil of Farglen's own design, its tip leaving luminous trails wherever it passes over the skin. The golden lines catch light that isn't there, shifting faintly as though the ink remembers the hand that wrote it.
Being a Binding Agreement of Service Between Parties, Witnessed by the Turning of Gears and the Counting of Hours