He fiddles with the page in hand, fingers along the edges, turning it and turning it with a distant frown. He'd seen people lose their magic, or have it modified in other ways. Strange at his fullest, others with nary a spark to their name. This seems different. Is it because it's magic, or because it's him?

"It isn't mine, though." He folds the sheet at last, tucks it away in a pocket. If it ends up a dead end no one feels is worthwhile, he can tack it back up later. He makes to leave the board to let others have a go, but he sees them, the others, the perhaps less astute and less experienced. "I wouldn't take the basement job if I were you," he calls to them before moving on.

"It isn't mine to have," reiterating to Loxley, "not being a mage myself, and because it belongs to another god. It isn't fake-" Well. Isn't it? If none of these places are really real in the end? "It doesn't feel fake. But there's a reason the Circles existed. Get someone to teach people, usually kids, coming into their powers and make sure they don't accidentally burn their village down. I'm trying not to be afraid of myself, but if I start any fires, I'm getting out of this city to somewhere more remote."