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Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā The Art of Witchcraft &Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā The Occult Significance of Blood
Table of Contents
PART I. About this Grimoire
Introduction Patron Deities Ancestral History
Traditions & Ethical Practice Charts Tables Components
Protection Spells & Magical Safety
PART II. Guide to Proper Practice
Consecration
ComponentsĀ Stones Crystal correspondence Herbs Incenses Oils
Ritual Tools
Sigils & Symbols
Altar Configuration
Guide to Familiar Spirits Familiar Spirits Summoning Spell
PART III.Ā A History of Witchcraft
Introduction to the Art of Witchcraft Types of Magic Types of Witches
The Occult Significance of Blood
Spell crafting The making of a Spell
Card reading Table Configuration Reading Instructions Cards
Potion brewing Tools Types of Potions Cordials
Candle crafting Types of Candles
PART IV. Spell Listing
Spells
Hexes
Curses
PART V. Potions, Poisons & Antidotes
Potions
Poisons
Antidotes
PART VI. Rites & Sacrifices
Rites
Sacrifices
Donāt sext, hext. Send curses via text. Put magic in your messages. Cast spells through your cell.
Iām trying to mend my brittle bones, to allow warmth in to dry the lingering pools of self doubt.
Iām trying to tell the sediment stuck in darkened places of my mind that I am still worthy of kindness and a soft place to fall a good nightās rest upon devotionās chest.
Iām trying to bundle these old dreams of envisioned love, such tender notions I held close as lilies ripe with dew in my heart.
Yes,
Iām trying
to cultivate young buds, pushing through the threads of earth extending their tiny faces toward the sunās yawning breath, to awaken alive, renewed with newly minted blooms.

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feel something
TRIGGERS ⦠Cutting, blood, torture WORDCOUNT ⦠1,846 SUMMARY ⦠Desmondās memories. (This song is responsible for inspiring this and I recommend to listen to it while reading.)
The room was filled with applause at the end of his speech and when people came up to him, they would smile and offer their hands, proud to shake his. It made him feel like a farce to stand there.
āIām so proud of you, son,ā his father said, planting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. His eyes were full of emotion, as if he couldnāt believe heād raised him. āYou are a man now, a good one.ā
His mother pulled him into her tight embrace. āThatās my beautiful boy,ā she said with the widest smile heād ever seen on her face. āAlways taking care of everyone⦠We are very proud of you, Desmond.ā
His heart was so full, Desmond half expected it to burst. āThank you.ā
All eyes were on him, but he still found her across the room, leaning back into the wall and looking at him too. There was no smile on the girlās face. Her eyes were accusing, arms crossed over her chest.
Gemma knew him better than anyone else, and she looked disappointed. Ā
āYou canāt be here.ā The boy stood tall in front of him, blocking his way into the playground.
A six year old Desmond looked confused. āWhy not?ā
āBecause youāre cursed.ā
āIām not cursed!ā He balled up his small fists, but he knew he was too weak to fight them.
āMom says all witches in your family are.ā
āYeah, you should go before we get cursed too,ā a second boy jumped off the swing set to approach them.
His face was burning, red hot with anger. āI can be here as much as anyone else!ā
āI said go!ā He said and shoved Desmond, sending him stumbling and falling on his ass.
Gemma showed up from behind him and pulled out a knife on them. āTouch him again and Iāll hurt you.ā
Desmond broke the lock with a spell, pulling the dusted old trunk open and looking through its contents. Hidden away in the attic, he found himself in the possession of a never seen before Grimoire.
Aidrian Browne. The name was familiar, one of his disgraced ancestors. His heart started racing.
He never knew his father had kept their old books, in his mind theyād been long lost to some type of cleansing fire ritual. He tightened his grip on the grimoire, protective of their history in that moment more than heād been his entire life.
Those spells, potions and rituals were the reason his life has been tormented, stained by the ghosts of his ancestors. He needed to know what earned him such a haunting, what couldāve caused so much harm and heartache that theyād blame his family for something that was done long before any of them were alive.
He needed to know.
āBut everyone will be there, Des!ā
āI have to study, Gemma,ā he insisted, flipping through the pages of a spellbook and frowning in confusion.
She took a seat at the edge of the desk and let out a heavy, defeated sigh.āWhen did you become such a stick in the mud?ā
Desmond snapped up his head to glare at her. āWhy are you trying to keep me from getting better at this?ā It was so easy for her, she barely had to try. It wasnāt his case, he tried really, really hard. āAre you worried I might steal your thunder?ā
Her shock was followed by hurt. āFuck you, Desmond.ā
āNo, fuck you.ā
He immediately regretted it every time they fought and when she left out the door, he kicked at the desk. He loved her, but he was envious and it was a sickening feeling to be left behind by his other half.
Desmond managed to shove the grimoire under the desk and pull up his sleeves to cover the scars just in time to greet her with a flat look on his face. āDes, why arenāt you at the party?ā
āIām working.ā
Gemma put on a warm smile, she always had some of those to spare where he was concerned. āThereās no one here, Des. Who are you going to teach?ā
He knew she meant well, but her insistence was annoying and particularly inconvenient at the moment. āIām preparing a class, Gemma. Some people donāt just wing their lives.ā His retort was delivered with a bored, flat tone despite his irritation.
āMaeve is looking for you.ā
The mention of his little sister made Desmond pause. āIāll see her later,ā he decided.
Gemma fell into silence and he expected her to leave, but she approached him instead. Hands on the table, she leaned in to catch his gaze and keep it. āDes, I miss you.ā Her voice was soft, warm and pleading.
He had never seen her sound lonelier, begging for his company. Scraps of his affection. They had grown apart and he was to blame for that. Desmond was profoundly sorry for the first time in a long while, but he could feel the blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt and he had to send her away before she caught him. āMy life doesnāt revolve around pleasing you anymore, Gemma.ā
Gemma pulled away. He would never forget the hurt look on her face. āI can barely recognize you anymore.ā Desmond lowered his sight to the book open in front of his eyes. He didnāt need to look at her to know her eyes were welled-up, he could hear it in her voice. āYouāre just⦠some asshole with a superiority complex now.ā
āYou are behind again, Desmond,ā his mentor pointed out. āThis is last weekās assignment, you missed the deadline. I canāt keep making an exception for you.ā
āI wasnāt finished.ā
āIf you need help with the work, ask your sister. She is always the first to hand hers,ā the witch reminded him. It was unnecessary. āDo what youāre told or youāre always going to be behind everyone in class.ā
āYes, sir,ā Desmond agreed, though he knitted his brows in protest.
āYou need to keep up, Desmond. For your own good.ā
He simply said what the man wanted to hear then,āYes, sir.ā And that made his life so much easier. To pretend.
āPlease.ā Desmond pulled at the cuffs around his wrists, but they were made of iron and imbibed in sage. The chains pulled him down to his knees in the cold, dark room of Ceremonies. āPlease, donāt do this.ā
The witches took their places to form a circle around him. Their eyes were full of disdain and betrayal, both cold and aggressive. They wanted to hurt him. He knew they wanted to hurt him. āYou donāt have to do this!ā
āIām sorry, Desmond,ā the leader of the Ceremonialists said and reached for the blade. His voice was flat. āItās the rules.ā
āPlease!ā He begged with tears in his eyes. He begged with his whole heart, but it didnāt stop the blade from cutting him off.
It felt like bleeding, but this time the power didnāt come in, it spilled out. Leaving him an empty husk to dry.
āI want to go home.ā
āWeāll make a new home, beautiful boy,ā his mother offered him an understanding smile and brushed the curls off his eyes. He was seven years old. āA better one.ā
He looked at her and she seemed so sure, but he was still scared of the world. āPeople wonāt hate us anymore?ā
Gemmaās small hand found his and she held it tight. āI wonāt let anybody hate you.ā He believed her.
āGemma!ā
His father stepped in front of Desmond to keep him from walking any farther into the house. āGet out, Desmond.ā
āIām talking to my sister!ā He could see her standing by the kitchen table. āGemma!ā
His father grabbed him by the shoulders. āI said get out, Desmond,ā he said and shoved him towards the door and out. āI canāt even look at you right now. You are not welcome here anymore!ā
The door was shut with a loud bang.
āGemma!ā He tried again, bringing his hands to his hair and tugging. What did he do? What did he do? āMother! Please!ā
The door stayed close.
āDo we have to be witches?ā His question stunned his mother at the breakfast table. āCan we be something else?ā
āYou donāt like being a witch?ā He shook his head softly. His mother turned off the stove and took a seat next to him, touching his hand. āDesmond, you canāt change who you are.ā
āI can change.ā He insisted. āI just turned six and Iām two inches taller. I can change, mommy. I can be good.ā
She got down on her knees and cradled his face between her gentle palms. āYou are, baby,ā she said and kissed his forehead, āYou are so good.ā
āNo, Iām not.ā There was a sadness in his voice that did not belong in a six year oldās mouth. āEveryone says that.ā
āYou are good.ā She pulled him into a hug and held him there, where he was safe from harm. āYou are my good boy.ā
The screams that echoed through that buildingās basement were haunting. Sometimes they were his, sometimes they werenāt.
Desmond was vaguely aware there were others trapped in there. Dying. Like him. It was dark and cold in there, darker than usual, then it was quiet. Silence. Maybe death was coming, and he recognized it when it stood in front of his cell.
An angel covered in blood and looking at him with cold eyes.
āPleaseā¦ā His voice was hoarse, and his throat dry. It hurt to speak, to breathe, to live. āJust⦠kill me.ā
His mouth felt like sandpaper. They came in to ask him questions about his kind. Tortured him when he wouldnāt talk. He was so hungry and the stink of that filthy basement burned his nose. Something was dead in there, or maybe that was just him. He felt so weak, and he could see his bones sticking out under his skin.
And maybe that was what he deserved, to die alone a long way from home.
He stepped out of the shower to catch her fidgeting with pendant again. āIs that a dark object?ā Ashley threw him a wide-eyed look, like sheād forgotten he was in there and it shocked her to hear his voice. āI can feel thereās something alive in there,ā he explained himself on his way to the closet to gather what little belonged to him.
āI know.ā The vampiress fell in silence for a moment, though it didnāt surprise him. It seemed she was prone to long moments of silence. āDo you want to help me with it?ā Her offer was tentative, but the look in her eyes when he met them was determined.
āWe help people, thatās what we are meant to do as witches. We help people who are sick, and haunted, and hopeless. Thatās what this healing clinic will do for the people of Johannesburg. Weāll help everyone who needs us because we have been given this power for a reason and it should be used for good.ā
Desmond Browne ā a moodboard
TheĀ CeremonialistsĀ
Ariana Fawn, August Knight & Desmond Browne
@augustxknight , @profanidad
ā⦠He who is destined to become a carpenter, will become one even if his hands have been cut off: and he who has been destined to carry off the prize for running in the Olympic games, will not fail to win even if he broke his leg: and a man to whom the Fates have decreed that he shall be an eminent archer, will not miss the mark, even though he lost his eyesight.ā

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whatever keeps you up at night / itās Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā all you need.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā all you need to stay awake. to fall asleep. to fall
so deep / you canāt be found & you Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā canāt be hurt.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā canāt be hurt & whatever holds you down at night
will lift you back up / eventually & itās Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā all you have.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā all you have & itās impossible to live / the same life
twice.
ASHBOURNE DOSSIER
NAME: DESMOND BROWNE
AGE: 33
SPECIES: WITCH
TYPE: CEREMONIALIST
TIME IN ASHBOURNE: 1 DAY
Desmond Browne was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, to a traditional but disgraced lineage of witches. Though they had tried, it was impossible to fight a ghost from the past or a stain in oneās name. His family eventually decided it would be best to start over somewhere far enough no one wouldāve heard of them, so that others would only judge them for who they are rather than who their ancestors were.
At the age of seven, Desmond moved with his parents and two younger siblings across the world all the way to Johannesburg, South Africa. The local coven welcomed them with open arms and for the first time, Desmond felt like he belonged in the witch community. It translated into enthusiasm for the study and practice of his craft and he soon became enamored with magic and its intricacies. He broke spells down to pieces and rebuilt them from scratch, loving every single part of it before he made it whole again. His attention to detail could be a hindrance at times and it took him longer than his peers to master a spell or a potion, but once he did, he was intimately aware of every speck that constituted it. He was a witch with a curious, scientific mind, and the world was one large, challenging puzzle he wanted to solve.
He was a good boy, his mother would always tell him. He did as he was told and helped others. His magic did a lot of good for the community and his family was proud of his accomplishments as a young witch, but if anyone bothered to see him, to really look and study him, theyād have seen it coming.
Desmond didnāt do it for the goodness, but because he had to know, he had to learn, he had a thirst for knowledge and a need to figure out the world that was unmatched by any living witch he knew, but the dead. At the bottom of an old trunk left somewhere in the back of his familyās attic to collect dust, he found spell books that had been locked away for over a century. Desmond was never meant to resist them, that much he knew.
The books spoke of forbidden spells, dark magic, blood magic. He knew it was wrong and yet every fiber of his body begged him to try it, to push it one step further into the unknown. How could he not? It was in his blood and his soul. Day by day, he worked on unlocking the words and learning the spells in secrecy. Only theoretically at first, as a learning exercise, he told himself, but soon theory wasnāt enough and his hands itched to put them to test.
For years he was the epitome of his covenās ideals of what a traditional witch should be, all the while practicing his own brand of witchcraft in secret. His magic grew in power. He had the covenās magic and his secret experiments and he felt boundless ā for a while. It was a young witch who betrayed him, one heād cared for and tutored, that turned him in. His trial was quick. His bond with his coven was cut off immediately and he was cast out without a second thought. Not even his family could bear the sight of him, ashamed of what heād done to them, how heād proved the people who scorned them right in calling them doomed and rotten. He was alone for the first time in his life, stripped off his magic and with nowhere to go. Lost to others as much as he was to himself.
Desmond wandered from town to town, unsure what to do with himself and missing the feeling of having more power than his body could withstand. Having grown accustomed to sharing their power, being cut off from his coven made him feel hollow in a way. It lead him further down on the path to blood magic, magic that neednāt a bond with others, magic that only demanded sacrifice. He started looking for cursed objects, anything that could add to his power, hungry for more, anything would do. It was all he had left, after all. His search took him to Cairo, but heād grown careless in his despair, sloppy with grief, and he fell prey to hunters in the city.
He didnāt know how much time he spent in that cell, but it felt like a lifetime. Days blurred into each other as he was haunted by the screams that spilled into his cage every other hour. From time to time, someone visited it, sometimes with a plate of something barely edible, and others with a weapon. Desmond thought he would die in that hell hole and he almost made peace with his fate when she came into his life.
Nursing him back into health was only the first of many graces Ashley Statham would bestow upon him and when she asked him to come with her, work with her, for her, he couldnāt find a reason to turn her down.
Desmond spent years by her side. His magic grew from the many spell books she had to offer him and he almost felt whole again. He moved into Chicago, finding himself a modest place to call home, but when she called, he answered. It was when her calls stopped that his perfectly content new life started to fall apart. Other than his practice and Ashley, there wasnāt much left for him and as he was certain that she wouldnāt have up and left without a word, the witch started looking for his missing friend. It was only two years later, when heād reached the limit of hope, that heād find himself in a town that didnāt show up on any maps. Welcome to Ashbourne, greeted the sign, and he could feel in his chest the moment he stepped into town that heād found a cursed place.
Laila felt as though she was becoming part of the structure of the building that she worked. Like Jerry the doorman, her presence was as familiar as the columns that divided the main room of the Sanatorium. The blonde cradled her chin in her hand, letting out a dramatic sigh as she blew a lock of hair away from her forehead. It as a quiet night, something that seemed to be a rarity now that the weather was turning away from the bitterness of winter and more into the warmth of spring.
Two drinks swam in her system, but it wasnāt nearly enough to chase away the boredom that threatened to make the whole floor swim before her eyesā she lifted her chin to gesture to Jerry; giving the unspoken sign for ācover for meā. He nodded back, wordless, but more loyal than a hellhound. Painted lips curved and Laila slunk away from her position against the wall and instead made her way up the stairs.
Of all the floors of the building, there was only one that held an individual of interest. Tonight, he appeared to be as disenchanted as she, pouring curiously coloured liquid from one vial to the next, analyzing the smoke that drifted from the beakers like a mad scientist. Long legs tucked up onto the stool and she passed off an easy grin when Desmondās attention finally turned to her. āYou know, if youāre looking for a potion to give you wingsā you could always try a Redbull.ā
Desmond had had a taste of the ordinary, of what itād be like to be human. Powerless. It had terrified him to think he might live the rest of his days as such, and he breathed out a sigh of relief once his magic was retrived. Ever since, heād thrown himself back into witchcraft full force, more enamored by what heād almost lost than ever before. The power in his veins made him feel alive, awake, and he craved it again, more and more.
Heād been so focused on his experiments that he didnāt notice her arrival until she took a seat across from him. Desmond arched a brow at her.Ā āFlying, really? Thatās the extent of your imagination?ā He put down the vial, displeased with the result.Ā āI expected something more disconcerting from you.ā Desmond offered her a smile then, planting his hands on the counter. āSlow night for you too?ā It was difficult to tell from his position, his customers used to be a loyal bunch. Few risked a peek into the infamous Epicure.Ā āIām so bored,ā he confessed, fishing a bottle of rum from under the counter. The Epicure liquor was too expensive to go unnoticed so he brought something from home.Ā He poured her a glass without asking, pushing it toward the blonde,Ā āCheers.āĀ

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