"They are plants provided as one would feed for livestock," Carlisle remarks dryly as he passes under another archway, the vines on the structure reaching slowly for him, then for Taako once he is past. "These are my plants, and I have a duty to them. The orchard has plenty who would look after it, and some of them no doubt magicians."

He might be a bit of a recluse, but Carlisle has no illusions about being the only magic user in town. His inferiority to most of them, given his proclivity for healing and nearly nothing else, is a knife constantly in his back, a blade twisting at his spine and feeding his embittered behavior. Save for his occasional feats of glyphcrafting, Carlisle is painfully aware he has very little to offer anyone in comparison to many of the casters in town.

But in truth, he does have much he could offer, and has long been blind to it for fear of failure. Proud as he may be of his ingenuity, he reminds himself — constantly— that it could fail at any time. That he could fail. If he ruins his garden, it's only his plants that suffer. People can't depend on accursed beings like him, he's told himself for years. Perhaps one day, he'll learn otherwise.

"You are a magician," he continues softly. "You handle it."