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A hand mirror, half a broken teacup patterned with prancing horses, an empty jam tin, a broad red book. Nothing of any value or use to a mob of wandering clansfolk. He reached down for the book where it lay.
A Bible. As sturdy as firewood in his hand. He turned the damp pages one by one and every page, every column of text, every inch of every surface was inked with arcane circles, spirals, in bloodred ochre. The broken halves of the words hanging between those scrawls were rendered useless.

(Rohan Wilson, The Roving Party)