Sanctuary busies himself at the workbench loaded with shelves of jars, bottles, books and other esoterica. He grabs a mortar and pestle, some dried herbs, a rag, a bottle of grain alcohol. He lightly admits, “Honestly, I am a bit of a thaumaturge, but I’ll always take a day spent wandering rows of vegetables over rows of dusty library stacks. You can learn a lot just by listening to the plants, you know?” 

Goma wipes a dribble of water off her chin. This man has done little to inspire her confidence so far. “...Uh…no. Do you know what in every hell you’re doing?”

Sanctuary is delighted by the question, his eyes twinkling as he lets loose an earnest grin and laugh as he sets to working at his bench. “Haha haa – Sister, I ask myself that question every day.” He quickly sobers when he glances behind him and realizes how closely Goma is looming over his shoulder, arms crossed, a menacing scowl on her face.