Hang on for a tic as he tries to make sense of the sylladex nonsense, hand curled under his mouth in thought and muffling his arcane mutterings about Elsewhere and psychic or cthonic influence and pocket reality.

But when she speaks, he does listen, intently, in the same pose - sometimes closing his eyes to visualize.

"Home I'd say it's a rift into an elemental sphere, but this is far from home..." he says, his breath hitching. "I've no sense of your magical state of the art, but if you've come here you must have a way of healing the wound in reality, or at least giving the material plane medicine. Otherwise, why make such a dangerous venture?"