13411/Are you being served

Are you being served
Date of Scene:	31 May 2021
Location:	The Magic Box, Sunnydale
Synopsis:	Sinister befriends Giles, learns a bit about magic, discovers how dangerous magic can be...
Cast of Characters:	Sinister, Rupert Giles

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Sinister has posed:
If there had been a check-up on doctor 'Nicolas Wessex' as he had noted, he truly was staying at the sunnydale super 8 equivalent, for a seven night stay with options to stay longer. But if not? Well, he left and paid handsomely for the price of a book and a charm that he had no idea of the value of. Perhaps the morning was spent strolling, contemplating his plans, watching the sky and watching the people, but it's probably around elevenses, when tea and biscuits or perhaps a small cress sandwich and a tea-cake are to be had, when he shows up at the shop. The weather is pleasant enough, mildly breezy as Sinister pauses at the entrance of the shop, looking at the apparent emptiness within and /looking/ at where life resides.

He smiles faintly to himself, looks at his reflection in the glass to make sure that it is utterly impeccable and takes himself and his small box is tea-time pastries into the shop. The Ding is loud, as are the clipped heels on the wooden floor, muffled by the patches of carpet.

Rupert Giles has posed:
There hadn't been any checkups on Nicolas Wessex on Giles' part. Maybe Willow or Mercy had, but he hadn't. The fact was, after he ate, he rather fell asleep and stayed that way until dawn this morning. Giles still has no idea how much had been paid for that book and charm. That had been taken care of and put away long before he ever arrived back at the shop. The true value of the book and charm had been about fifty dollars for the pair.

Mercy had been here, for some time, but now Giles is alone. She'd come, she'd fetched books for him, and then she'd gone off to check on her mechanic business. After extracting a promise from him to behave himself and not do anything but sit if he could possibly help it. And sitting is exactly what he's been doing for the most part. The ding brings him from the back area, with a fresh cup of tea in hand. He is walking slowly. Carefully. Because he really wants no repeats of the previous day. And while he's still pale, he looks much better than he had the last time the doctor had been here.

"Doctor Wessex," he says as he moves toward the counter. He sets the tea atop the surface and casually leans there. And it really does seem to be casual. Where his thoughts had been on something called a shadow caster when Wessex had entered, now they're all focused on the customer. He seems pleasantly surprised that the man had returned. Perhaps it's a breath of fresh air to talk to a fellow countryman.

Sinister has posed:
"Mister Giles, I wanted to come by and see how you are," And a good englishman, if he's showing up at elevenses, is going to make sure that he has offerings to share. He sets the small box of tea-cakes and scones with clotted cream and jam, on the counter with a small pat and a smile. "No further episodes, I trust?" Even if he knows the answer to this question, he nevertheless asks. It is polite, after all. "I also wanted to assure you that I meant what I said before I left yesterday, I would be quite happy to help in return for salacious understanding."

He eyes Rupert though, eyes ticking slowly over. "You look well rested, at least."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles had rested quite well. Even so, he's still tired. Given thing though, that is unlikely to be surprising. He looks well enough, despite that. "I'm alright, I think. Better than yesterday. Thank you for checking." He means that. His eyes move to the tea-cakes and scones, and there's definite interest there, though he refrains from diving right in. That would be impolite. "Would you care for a cup of tea?" Now that? That would be polite.

"If by episode you mean fainting, no. No more fainting. Dizzy spells, yes. Fainting no. But I've been careful not to push myself. To stop when I get dizzy." Or else there might have been more fainting. Sometimes, Giles can be a good boy. He chuckles. "I'd be happy to talk with or without your help. Understanding magic and how it affects things is never a bad thing," he says. Except when you have a villain who knows all about such things. Oops.

"Rested enough, yes. There may be a nap, later.."

Sinister has posed:
Helpful people will be helpful though, won't they? And though there might be darkness where there's a bright light shining, that kind of shadow has a fine line and a differentiated border that only becomes problematic when it is /crossed/. You do not cross that line, right? Right.

"Oh, I would -love- one. Milk, one sugar if you would. And a couple of plates, if you have them..." because when tea has been offered teacakes become open season. "Do you need a hand?" this asked as he makes to at least loosely follow Giles to the kettle.

"I must admit, the entire notion of magic is both marvellous and a mystery and to a good many points of view, makes very little sense. Though I suppose, in some respects it's akin to science -- working one thing with certain conditions, to provide an outcome. It's just that to my mind and what I've seen with my own eyes, the ingredients and the results don't seem terrifically invested in being remotely alike."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Light cannot exist without darkness. And darkness cannot exist without light. They're symbiotic. Can't have one without the other. And Giles.. well. He isn't sometimes called Ripper for nothing. Sometimes, that border has been crossed. Usually for a good cause, at least, but still crossed.

"Right. One moment. And I do have plates. I'll bring them out," he says. And straightens, before turning to start toward the back to start walking that way. Not too fast, but at a pace he can sustain for a little while. He glances toward Wessex and nods. "I should be fine, but even so, I'll not say no."

Into the back he goes, listening to the man as he walks. Back there is what looks like a small gym, complete with training mats, a practice dummy, and even an archery target along one wall. A loveseat is there, opposite the target. A mini fridge. And set up near the sink, an electric kettle. This he fills with water before setting it to boil the water.

"Magic is.. a tool, primarily. It's almost like medicine, really. If you have the right ingredients, you can effect an outcome. Sometimes 'tis a fast outcome, sometimes a slow one, depending on the ingredients used, the way they're used, and the order they're used in." He speaks of this like he knows how to make magic work himself. Which.. given he owns the Magic Box might not be all that surprising.

"Well, really, it depends on the warlock or witch who does the casting. Everyone works a little bit differently. Also, in a lot of cases, the results are dependant upon the caster's imagination. As well as their energy levels."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister listens attentively, laying all the words out in his mind and beginning to systematically file them in what manner he might to review later. He stays close but politely so, to Giles as the other man walks, as etiquette is important dontchaknow. Manners maketh the man. "I imagine that there is technique even in the most basic of practices there. I just... I can't fathom how will effects the universe in such a way, saving that perhaps I break it down into its tiniest iotas, to comprehend the cause and the effect. I mean...." he holds his hand out, palm up, fingers lightly curled and indicates the cupboard door where presumably cups and saucers are held.

The fingers curl as he focuses on the knob and it slowly begins to turn counterclockwise off of its screw. "Mind over matter, I assume it must be similar. I see it in my mind, the knob, understand its screw holding it there and exert my will upon the forces already existent, to turn my mind, my energy and the ambient..." the knob comes loose and floats there "...into kinetic energy. So much of it for me, is /seeing/ it and exerting my will." he gestures swiftly and the knob screws itself back in, opening the cupboard with it. "I started with compass needles, of all things."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Manners and etiquette are important, but even more so? They're very important to the English. Manners and etiquette do indeed mark the man. They mark a lot about a person's station in life. Giles' are such that he probably comes from, at the very least, an upper class family. Of course, when talking about magic, there's also a passion there. And, he's much more animated than he'd been the previous day.

"Technique as well, yes. How you speak the spell, or chant or sing the spell, in some cases. How well your artistry is in putting spell components together. How precisely they're around. How well your circle is drawn." He glances at the man with that gesture, then nods. "Yes, quite." Both to the fact that cups and saucers are within, and the explanation given. "But also, not quite. Exerting will does have a lot to do with magic, however. If you don't believe, magic will never work for you. Spells will never be anything but elaborate puzzle games that achieve nothing."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister's lashes lid by half, listening to the emotion beneath the words as much as the words themselves. Interesting. Very interesting. Wessex' comportment is extremely refined and nearly old-fashioned. He would be called a fuddy duddy by some sassy mouthed individuals, given half the chance and really shoud be layered in tweed, despite having quite sharp fashion sense.

"I must presume though, that simple belief is not enough. As there are a multitude of people that have tried to do magic and truly believed what they were doing was legitimate, but..." he tilts his head, reaching for the plates in a standard manner, using his hands. He gathers them, knives and forks and spoons (terribly important to have a teaspoon!) as the kettle boils. "That would seem to be a stumbling block, yes? Another aspect to the consideration. I mean, I believe in magic, I have little recourse to deny its existence, but I do not know if I could perform it."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles would likewise be labeled a fuddy duddy by most, and is layered in tweed more often than not. The only reason he isn't today is the fact that jeans had been easier. Jeans, a long sleeved knit shirt in purple, and white sneakers with black laces. His leather jacket is around somewhere, brown and with the lighter patches and lines that denote he's had it a long time. It's probably behind the counter. That bruise he'd had yesterday looks better too. It's less purple and more fadey-ugly yellow and greenish-purple today.

"Well, no. Simple belief isn't enough. You have to have the right tools, too. Objects of power are very helpful with performing it. Anyone can perform magic, if they believe and have the right tools. Sometimes, even if they don't believe if they have the right tools."

While the kettle does its thing, Giles gets down a cup, puts a tea bag in it, earl grey, the sugar, and then goes to the mini fridge. There, he retrieves the requested milk and it gets set with the rest, next to the kettel. And then the kettle is whistling, and shutting itself off. Giles waits for a moment to let it stop bubbling, then lifts it from the base and pours the hot water over the tea bag in the cup. Once done, he replaces it.

Sinister has posed:
"..." something about that doesn't seem to add up to Sinister. He watches the teabag in the cup, the diffusion of amber into the clear steadily for a few moments. "How does that work then? If magic will not work without belief, is it the inherant magic within the tools themselves that actually makes it work, if the person doesn't believe it ought... uh... Oh dear, my head is arguing aabout that now."

He presses his lips together in a frustrated manner, then shakes his head. "I don't know enough to understand how that would function." He admits this, gestures to where Giles left his own tea and the cakes await. "Shall we? I began to read the book I purchased, by the by. The history is quite rich, it seems."

Rupert Giles has posed:
"Well, mostly that sort of magic is the bad kind. And is usually achieved through magic set in artifacts and the like. The belief was there when the spell was set originally. 'tis without powered tools or artifacts that magic will not work without belief." Giles takes a breath, and holds it for a moment, expression thoughtful.

"Think of it this way," he finally says, releasing the breath as he does so. At the bidding, he slides the cup toward Wessex and takes up the accessories, and turns to head back toward the front. "You have one of those dread machines with a program already installed. Once 'tis installed and running properly, any idiot can come along and use it. But without the proper knowledge, and belief in the fact that one can do so, making that program so that it works is impossible." Whatever he means by 'dread machines', Giles doesn't explain.

He makes his slow way back toward the front of the shop, pausing at the door seperating front from back. He waits for Wessex to go though first, and closes it behind them both. Only then does he move to the counter and through the partition to his chair behind it. He gathers up his tea as he goes, and has a sip. "Perfection." The tea? Or a program?

Sinister has posed:
Sinister considers this as he takes the lead, because this is not his domain but another man's. Of course he must be escorted forth and doors closed in his wake. He sets plates and cutlery down, takes spoon and moment to test the colour of the brew so steeped, then adds but a drop of milk and a single level teaspoon. Even his stirring is precise, it seems like. He sips and sighs. "Indeed," a small smile, a sniff, then a chuckle.

"It follows to that colourful analogy of demon logic box, that there must be occasions when unknown errors occur. I find it amusing to imagine the great magical toolbox throwing out unknown snails, quite literally, all over the place."

Or you know... a storm that disgorges bunnies. WRONG BOOK!

Rupert Giles has posed:
It's less that Wessex need sto be escorted forth, and doors closed, and more that Giles generally keeps that door closed to hide the fact that there's a workout gym in the back of the shop. Most customers might be a little disturbed by that. Or wonder what it's for. In fact, that's exactly what Giles had been thinking about when he'd closed the door.

It's even decent quality earl grey tea, despite being pre-bagged tea. Giles takes a moment to swirl his tea. The teabag is left in the cup as he takes a sip. He looks curiously at Wessex whilst he does so, and listens to the man. And can't help the laugh that follows. "It could rain squirrels. Literally." Pause. "Or bunnies." It must be bunnies! "Or maybe midgets."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister shakes his head at that, both astounded and amused at the same time. "Polylagogenesis," At least none of the books are open right now, eh? "How does one correct an unexpected error? I assume that's what countermagic is for? I imagine... a dissonant element to the energies being manipulated so that they are disrupted, like an offnote in an otherwise harmonious chorus?"

He glances back at the door and because it's foremost in the mind of the man he's discussing with, brings it up: "I imagine it's handy to have your own gym out back, although I admit that was not what I was expecting to see there. I was expecting an office space or stock. But it's certainly handy when one needs to destress, one supposes."

He also gestures to the box of treats. "Please, you first. I insist."

Rupert Giles has posed:
"Hmm. Well, it really depends on both the magic used initially, as well as the effect that came about. Sometimes, the only way is to gather up the stray consequences and rehome them. Or eat them. Or otherwise let them go. Sometimes it's counter magic. Sometimes it's other things. It's very situational." Giles sips his tea and then sets the cup down on the counter.

He follows the glance to the door, then meets Wessex's eyes. "Oh, 'tis," he says. "Get frustrated over an obtuse customer, go punch the dummy a bit, then shower to cool off, and come back out front."

He doesn't look back to the treats that had been brought until his attention, is, once again, placed on them by the good doctor. "If you insist," says Giles with a faint smile. He opens the box and pulls out a bit with jelly and cream and nudges the box toward Wessex. "You too." His turn to insist. He takes a bite of the pastry.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister seems to favour a mille-feulle napoleon slice, with icing and feathering on top and strawberry jam and cream between the layers. They're a challenge to eat like you have manners, but he stands oblique to the patiserie, taking knife in hand and .... like an executioner about to behead a criminal.... hovers it over the slice until he has the zen of mind to cut singularly and crisply, slicing it into two perfectly bite-sized halves. The accuracy seems to please him as his eyes glitter and he takes one half up, popping it in mouth with but two fingers and a brief closing of eyes.

"MMmmm," enjoyment is savoured, a paper napkin used to dab the edge of his lips before he offers more. "You know, I find the one thing I truly miss about England, is that it's next to impossible to find decent bakeries in the Americas that know how to do a proper petite four for elevenses. It's always too large, or too small and you have to have three of them and there appears to be this obsession with vast quantities of frosting." He shakes his head "...it just overwhelms everything else, takes away all the nuance of different flavours; that little snap of icing, subtle cocoa, the butteriness, flakiness, real cream... real jam..." he clucks his tongue. "Just listen to me, getting all fussy over cakes."

He shakes his head, looking back "...your friend... Assistant? The young lady that was here yesterday mentioned there are schools and divinations of magic. Does it then depend on which school and discipline you are working with, how you manage the flow?"

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles doesn't miss the executioner style 'beheading' posture, nor the zen like state as the cut is made. The man had mentioned surgery, so attaining precision in all one does is probably a good thing. His thoughts are amused as they roll through his head. Giles enjoys his chosen pastry just as much, though he just eats it without worrying about pastry beheading at the same time.

The pastry in his own hands is presently what Giles' attention is on, and doesn't really fully return to Wessex until the man speaks again. "Mmmyes. Quite right. There's a nice one over on Long Island. I'll give you the address," he says. But makes no move to do so just yet. There's pastry to be savoured. However, the shop in question flashes through Rupert's mind, as well as the address, as he thinks about both. "The selection there is quite superb. I must say, however, these are on par." Perhaps they're from the same establishment?

"Oh I agree. A little frosting goes a long way. But then, I'm rather spoilt. Both Willow and Mercy bring me pastries frequently. And neither of them ever overfrost anything. And both know that while I do like sweet things, I don't like sickeningly sweet things." He can't help the chuckle at the doctor. "You have an obligation to be fussy over cakes. Cakes done wrong are just /bad/."

Giles finishes his pastry and reaches for his tea. He pauses to tilt his head at the doctor. "The redhead? That's Willow. And she's correct. There are many, many different schools of magic, many different ways and styles of practicing magic. There are as many ways, just about, as there are people in this world."

Sinister has posed:
"Oh, really? I will definitely take that address off of you," Precise, nice, surgical. It is entirely intentional, all that is done, because perfection must be attained, particularly when you have very delicate things that you must be precise -with-. These cakes may just be kept a trade secret though, judging by the pleased, but secretive smile shared. He gestures with the knife, a gentle bob toward Giles. "A man after my own heart, I knew I would find your company to be immensely satisfying." Pause, beat "Willow you say? And thus the nail is struck in one blow, as to why I came in for the book that I came in for. One cannot learn a discipline of any kind, without first learning the foundations, no? Although, I will admit, I would dearly love to witness and watch a simple spell from start to finish..."

He pauses again, thinking. "So, could you explain how a stone could cause cachectic emmaciation in someone? I thought perhaps it was cursed, or perhaps somehow superabsorbant. The more I researched that mystery, the more it seemed to have roots in hoodoo."

Rupert Giles has posed:
If the cakes are kept a trade secret, Giles doesn't mind. He has no intention of asking. He'll be told, or he'll find them on his own, or he won't. He might do some research, because that cake was quite good. "Correct. Foundations, then moving onward and upward from there." Giles' lips curl up on one side. "I would not mind showing you a spell. But.." The smile faulters. "I'm afraid I'm not able, right now. Perhaps in a few days, when I'm more recovered." Right now, he'd wind up unconscious. And having to be rescued. Again. And that was just embarrassing. And all of that goes through his mind as he's lifting his tea for another sip.

He considers the question at hand, and then shrugs. "I would have to see the stone to know for certain, but it sounds to me like the stone was siphoning off body mass to somewhere else. Or to something else. Or perhaps into itself, for later use. You have to admit, the thing did as advertised."

Sinister has posed:
"Yes, it did indeed. Rather textbook example of be careful what you wish for though, I'd say," Sinister eyes Giles with slightly narrowed eyes, trying to work out perhaps why the recovery would hamper spellcasting. An eyebrow arches, "...it takes its toll on you, doesn't it? Magic takes something out of you. Like hard excersize for too long, only on a..." he gestures, trying to find the right word, hand circling as if to attempt to pluck or coax it out of the air "....oh bother. I can't think of the right term for it. Spiritual doesn't seem fitting. Mystical, though accurate, is also unsatisfying."

But then he holds up a finger, rummages in his pocket for his phone and takes it out, flipping through the photos to bring up an image of a perfectly 'pill' shaped stone, with very fine pitting and careful, but rather faint carving on it. He sets the phone down so Giles can see it and honestly it could be from various schools, Hexcraft is a definite possibility, but so was Hoodoo as noted. Or even chaos, or demonology to pay their gluttonous masters.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles chuckles and nods. "Yes, quite right. Always be careful what you wish for. Especially when spellcasting. What you're thinking about can and will affect what you're trying to do with your casting." Giles goes still for a moment, at that slightly narrowed eyed look. Then he relaxes again, and nods. "It does, yes. The energy for the spell comes from the caster, or from something or someone the caster is using to supply that power. The bigger the effect, the larger the drain on the caster's energy. Spiritual and mystical are both accurate, but not the entirety. Like hard excersize for too long, but generally much swifter. And the drain can be much more accute, and .. more."

Giles pauses there, and lifts his tea again. As the phone is produced, Giles looks at it warily. His own phone hasn't been seen not once, and it's an old style flip phone. It doesn't even take photographs. He steps closer to the counter to look at the pictures, and shakes his head. "Could be a number of things. Hoodoo or voodoo. There are some types of chaos magic. A few demonic styles. Hexcraft. There are even some ancient Indian and Russian, of all things, that have this sort of style. 'twould help if I could see the actual stone. If I can see it, 'tis possible I can sense the magic within it."

Sinister has posed:
"I'll see what I can do about that. I might have to go and retrieve it personally, as it strikes me that having it fedexed over is probably not something one wants to chance losing track of. Oh, my goodness, that's a scary idea; how many things have been lost in the post and created strange nexuses in the warehouses that litter the land." -- And if that doesn't actually sound like a rather fun idea for a plot, this player is a Monkey's uncle! Sinister nods though, as the energy drain makes sense of a sort. "...I trust that if you are not careful, you can kill yourself with overextending." He takes back his smartphone, as if sliding it away and taking it out of sight is going to be good for Giles' sanity. Miniature demonbox with communication and data! AUGH! Evil thing.

He finishes his tea then, takes the second slice of the napoleon slice also and dusts off his lips, looking pleased at the eleven-o-clock refreshment ritual and how successfully it has been completed. "But to my side of the bargain, I suppose. You were going to have to research, if perhaps you could guide me, I can assist with the movement of the masses?" He nods to the great library above.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles takes a breat at the mention of fedex, and nods firmly. "Yes. Artifacts are best not left to chance," he says. He chuckles and shakes his head. "Probably less than you fear, and more than I'm aware of." As to the energy a spell takes, Giles nods again. "Yes it can. There are times the sacrifice is worth it," he says softly, lifting his left hand, palm up, so he can look at it. Today it's not bandaged, and a cut can be seen there. A neat slice, done with precision almost as surgical as that the doctor here could do. Or Spike. But not quite as neat. There's a little tear in what has to be the end the knife came out of. Perhaps there was a nick on the blade?

The removal of the dread machine from his counter does seem to cause a bit of relaxation in Giles. Even in today's modern technology, he prefers his books and physical tools to those of electronics. His eyes are drawn to the books above, and he contemplates. "Yes, I do believe so. I took a break as I'd ran out of reading material just before you came in. And I promised not to overdo it, so.. I didn't." Good boy? "Dark blue cover, about so by so," he says, measuring with his hands the dimensions he wants, which is about a foot tall by a bit less than that wide, and several inches thick, "Right hand side, third shelf up."

As he speaks it, exactly what he's thinking appears in his head. It appears to be leather, probably dyed, maybe from some sort of creature, and has what appears to be silver embellishments on the corners of the cover, as well as the upper and lower portion of the spine. There is no title.

Sinister has posed:
"Let your mind follow the logical leaps, my friend. And be prepared to take what you need," Sinister takes a deep breath then, nods to Giles and looks up at the library above. Perhaps it's plucked from Giles' brain, where they all go when they're taken out, but what occurs next is a moment right out of the Sorceror's apprentice.

He raises his right hand so it's at chest level and ticks two fingers forward from the flat palm and the library above takes wing. Book after book swirls down, one after another; the first being the one Giles requested, but all the others also, in a grand ariel parade infront of the Watcher's eyes. Each pass behind Sinister and flit past Giles himself, slow enough that if another leaps to brain, he might pluck it straight from the air and set it onto the counter. The dance is so smooth, each one rejected floating back to set itself straight back in the exact place that it was taken from...

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles looks curious, not fully understanding just what the doctor is meaning by that. But he doesn't ask, for in the next moment, there are books dancing through his shop. "Brilliant," he breathes. He watches the display like a little kid their first time in a candy shoppe. And there are other books that come to mind as they parade in front of him. And he grabs them, and sets them on the counter.

By the time the whole of the library from the upstairs section has come and gone again, Giles has two stacks of books for at total of fifteen or twenty books at least. The one to the right is shorter than the one to the left. And he pulls out the third book down first, and starts flipping through it.

At about two thirds of the way through the book, if Wessex is either watching what Giles is doing, or watching his thoughts, he'll see an image of that stone that he'd shown Giles on his dread machine. "Wessex," he says, forgoing formality for now, his tone sounding a touch troubled. "Is this the stone?" He turns the book and slides it over toward the other side of the counter.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister smiles, a half-thing that nevertheless looks pleased at the effect that has been achieved. He lowers his hand, moving just a little closer to the counter to look down at the stone in question with a squint. "If it's not the same one, it's very similar." He looks at the text to the side of the image, scanning it over quickly. "Sanscrit engraving, so ancient Indian subcontinent. Oh, my. This is the rakshaza equivalent of a toadstone. No wonder it's ravenous. How in the holy hell, did they even get their hands on it, if ... this is to be believed?" He gestures at the text, where it professes to have to be cut out of the living stomach of a Hungry Demon, those that broke from the Chaos and tried to devour Vishnu himself, earning their name from his cry for help. He frowns, looking along in the text "...believed to be closely related to similar myths about stones taken from the devouring djinn of the middle east..." Something there makes him shudder a little.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles is now in research mode. "Indeed. Very similar. If 'tis not the same one, 'tis one from another such demon or djinn," he says. "This is to be believed. Perhaps not everything within is entirely accurate, but close enough not to really matter." He takes a breath and moves away to sit down on his chair behind the counter. The wheels are clearly turning, but not in any way that's helpful. "I'll have to think about it. Give me a day or two to see what I can come up with. I can make a few calls, too. I think I remember seeing something simliar in Egyptian culture, but I can't be certain. I'm not quite as familiar."

Sinister has posed:
An apophis stone. Yes. The great devouring worm/Dragon. Such artifacts are terribly dark and extremely dangerous, but the sheer power that can be harnessed through them is quite literally devastating... if one can harness the energy of all that life lost, sucked into the stone's core, depending on how old it is... can be oceanically vast. In the wrong hands....

"I will see about going to collect it in the meantime," Looking at the stacks of books, at least they're all where they ought to be and Sinister nods to Giles. "You can reach me at the hotel, or leave a message with the receptionist if you need to. Worst comes to the worst, you can have the hospital page me, I'll end up in some spotty places where signal isn't great. Pagers work." He then takes several steps back, clicks his heels and departs the shop, leaving Giles to stew on the ramifications of these artifacts being out there marketted as diet pills... for the elite, but who cares about that tiny detail?

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles thinks about it. "Ah. Apophis stone. That seems right. And deadly dangerous. Even when it isn't inside a stomach." Giles nods to the man and reaches for another book, opening it on his lap and setting to read. "I will, just as soon as I know somthing. Take care, Wessex." Oh yeah, his brain is definitely gone to distraction now!