marlow:

Marlow poured over the book she borrowed from Corey every chance she had, trying to read the handwritten pages until she gave herself a blazing headache. Her reading skills weren't the best. Her Latin was passable and she had a grounding in odd, sometimes alien languages found in magical texts she'd studied under Clea's tutelage in the Dark Dimension. She'd often had to puzzle through cramped handwriting, but this was becoming more than she could decipher on her own. English /was/ her first language, but it wasn't her strongest when it came to reading, and this didn't flow well enough to be understood. The drawings were distracting, too. Her non-traditional education emphasized controlling and redirecting energy, coaxing it into various forms and illusions, bending it to her will. After that, the three Rs just weren't all that interesting.

The writing would not bend no matter how she looked at it. It constantly changed styles and even languages, and in some places faded away completely. There were spells she could use to bring it out, but it was a borrowed book. Not the oldest she'd ever studied, but old enough that she was wary of damaging it. It might also be spelled for defense. It could hurt her if she tried to go that route.

She finally gave up and went to the main house to get something for her headache. She carried the book with her to see if Sydney or Dawn could help. Maybe they could help her read it, or at least tell her if she was on the right track. She left it on the table while she rummaged for something to drink and searched for a bottle of aspirin in the cupboards.

sandcastlegod:

Corey faced it. She deserved to know. He had to tell Marlow about this. So he called, holding the geneology sketchbook with him.

sandcastlegod:

The little voodoo shop off Rampart was packed full of aesthetically fascinating stuff. Corey couldn't resist. Besides, from what he knew of it, the religion itself -- if not necessarily some of the associated magical practices -- made a lot of sense to him. Pouring out the first sip of milk or wine, offering up shot glasses of rum... he could connect.

He picked up a book of voodoun iconography and dusted it off. Under it was another, dustier book, the leather cover all scarred. Corey picked that up, too, and opened it. Oooh, nice pictures! All sketchy and... bizarre. Not quite Escher or Geigeresque, but interesting. There were family trees the back sections, with hand notes. ...And then Corey spotted the name 'Nicholas Scratch of New Salem.'

Wasn't that Nick's father's name? His really disgusting babykiller-wannabe father?

"Celeste, how much for the freaky antique history-sketchbook?"
"What? Oh, that. I don't even know where that came from; it was Mom's. Let's just price it the same as the art books."
"Okay...I think I'll take it."

nextgen_misc:

After hours, In the backroom of Cornerstone of Creation, Ian McNee opened a box from an estate sale of a 'patron' of the occult. It could be said that the obsession necessary to acquire so many objects that were not very magical was what had beggared the man and ultimately caused his death. True magical objects were priceless. Aside from the rare finds that happened to a friend of a friend of a friend, most were handed down from parent to child or grandchild, teacher to student, or stolen only to disappear into myth to be the subject of speculation.

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