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Demonic script gives Doug a headache. Pronouncing syllables of it aloud leaves an ugly, greasy feeling on the tongue, like he ate something rancid.
"N'gul… shemmorath… n'gul n'kak… No, no, that's not it."
He turns another page. He's shirtless, barefoot in the center of the room. After a day of reading, he asked for a piece of chalk, so he could make notes. Those notes have taken the form of an elaborate circle around him, inlaid with script, and him at the center. "N'gul… shemora, n'kak… n'kak." He furrows his brow. "Huh."
"Maiden, mother, and crone. Spinner, weaver, and cutter. Three that are one that is three…"
He makes another note, in his circle. It grows more complex, a tiny bit at a time.
After a week, he adds another ring, and scratches the blond stubble on his face. Then he laughs. "Ha!" More furious script, this time in Gaelic. Norse runes. And then, in the outermost ring, in English — Shakespeare. The same verse, repeated around the circle.
'This thing of darkness, I acknowledge mine.'
"Intent is EVERYTHING when you're casting a spell! It's not just about finding the magic words, it's about making the words magic! I see now!"
Fade.