(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

"No, no, don't worry yerself about that..." She frowned. "Well, ye ken read
spells well enough, but spells are no good to ye without a book to put them
in..."
"Do you have one?"
Mebbeth glanced around the hut, and then she caught sight of the
black-barbed picture frame I made. She picked it up carefully and studied it.
"This'll do."
"That thing? It's just a frame."
"Ah, but so are ye, child..." Still holding the frame, she picked up one of the
starched rags I got from Giscorl. With a yank, she pulled off the greenish
starched surface film; it fluttered in the air like a wispy bit of cloth.
"Whatever Giscorl uses in the wash, it works better than curing, stretchin'
and stonin' does on a normal rag. Can't afford parchment, I can't..."
"Parchment...?"
She took the starchy film and pulled it over the black-barbed frame, latching
the rag's edges onto the hooks around the frame until it looked like a small
greenish-black painter's canvas. "It's missin' something..."
"Well, it needs something painted on it."
She nodded. "Aye, or written on it..." Mebbeth took the tankard of ink I'd
given her and set it down next to her. She dipped one of her fingernails into
the tankard, then drew it out, mumbling to herself. Still mumbling to herself,
Mebbeth began to scratch symbols onto the frame, one by one.
"All's done." Mebbeth stood, drying her ink-stained fingernail on her robe.
She tilted her head, regarding the strange, framed page in front of her. "A
page fer yer spell book, it is." She gestured towards me and I picked it up.
"Inside yer spell book are yer recipes... yer 'spells'... if you will. As long as
they sit in the book, though, they're jist words." She tapped her head. "The
Art demands ye pluck the magick out of the book and put them in yer attic...
yer head, a-fore ye ken tap their power."
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