In the open space of his workshop, Torquil had overpopulated one table with scales, burners, dragon scales, jars of varying ingredients and powders, liquids, and an assortment of tools, objects, and gizmos, leaving hardly any room for a leaning elbow let alone the elder Foley.

The gentleman in question was perched over a less cluttered table, his beak nose peering out from beneath his goggles, their irises expanding and contracting in their dark lenses, at the scene in front of him: A glass sphere, sitting upside-down in a clear bowl of water; three orb torches, burning different colors; five small bottles, topped with stone-lids; his glove, protruding with various utensils extending from under his fingers, and a small bottle filled with ash. His free hand was scribbling in a thick journal, stuffed to the midway crease with formulas and solutions squeezing from Torquil's pen.

The work was the latest results from last batch of ash from Abigail Reid's Clasp Flare, and a new series of experiments, getting him somewhere with something about the dagger, but it was as if he were in the a beautiful and forgotten land located in the middle of nowhere--leading to his endless pages of debatably helpful notes.

The quaint dungeon was nestled in a lower ditch of the island that allowed the nightlight to pour through a panorama window, and piled on with a sense of envy towards Aileen Reid, (even though her stolen dagger was nestled safely in a hidden corner of the house,) brought up a longing of the years when he spent his days with endless puzzles and riddles of life, or of being stranded in some tomb with an impossibly adventurous Aldridge.

Torquil sighed as he swelled with the feeling that he was only just a slip away from falling back into those days that felt like they conquered most of a life he let live and die too easily, just as easily as someone had descended the stairs and approached him from behind. He turned, instinctively to see his wife, but his goggles' irises narrowed, then expanded to the rims of the headgear as they took in the site of the visitor.

"I'm afraid you've walked in on me doing something terribly dull, my dear," Torquil said casually as he flipped up the top eyepiece to let his alert hazel eyes see none other than Charisma Aldridge through clearer lenses. He studied the woman for a moment before squinting his features into a narrow skepticism, "Unless you've done something rather clever to trap us in here..." He peered around her and looked around the room, to make sure it was in its same messy state as it was before the other witch entered.

Her steps into the workshop were, as ever, silent. Despite the aged, heavy boots adorning well used feet, Charisma’s steps were light and barely noticeable yet betrayed by the creaking of the old stairs as she slowly descended into the busy celllar. And busy it was. Eyes widened somewhat as they scanned around the room. It was almost as cluttered as the rooms in her own house, but for some reason, quite unexpected for Torquil. He was tidier than her, more organised. Or so she had been led to believe for the previous 50 years.

The wizard turned from his much more preferable position with his back to her and her eyebrows very quickly vanished underneath a messy fringe. Well didn’t he look bizarre? Her blue eyes focused on his own, hidden behind the humorously magnifying goggles practically covering his face.

The goggles morphed slightly as Torquil decided to greet her nonchalantly and Charisma shrugged with mild disinterest in the wizard himself. Instead her eyes were flashing across the work surface before she snatched up a potions vial containing a viscous blue liquid. “Well you should be appreciative of my presence then, Foley.” The welsh accent contrasted the Irish brogue as the witch proceeded to shake the glass vial.

"Unless you've done something rather clever to trap us in here..." the ginger Irish wizard accused and his friend finally looked up at him, faking offence.

“Me? As if I would ever do such a thing!” A grin erupted on the soft features and she quickly flicked a clear lens of his goggles with her index finger. “Lush eyeware. What goblin did you steal those off?”

Once Charisma moved to take the vial Torquil jumped up from his seat and firmly breathed, "No, no, no, no," his claw-hand reached out and fished the vial between to utensils as he placed the wand back with a thoughtful mumble, "Results of a curse dear... Egyptian by origin--no touching," his voiced trilled with his grating voice.

The Irishman then cast an uneven cock of his eyebrows, coupled with an accusatory stare slowly creeping with a smile, "My own creation dear, but I did employ a Goblin's metallurgy work to make small, individual pieces," he tapped his large ocular frames with pride, "A surprisingly cheaper endeavor than a whole set of of dishes, much as Delilah would like them."

He rubbed the back of his hand with fingers extending with tools. At the touch, the implements retracted and disappeared into his gloved palm, "Interested in a pair?" he pushed the goggles over his forehead, "I'm sure they have their uses beyond lab work, with some possibly use of employment in a tomb..." he smiled his scruffy grin. Charisma was never short on ideas or plans, no matter how unpractical he believed they were capable of becoming.

Torquil was quicker than a fat child eating a chocolate frog to take the vial from Charisma’s wary grasp with his ridiculous glove utensil creations. Mrs Aldridge’s brows rose momentarily before she quickly pouted, a shadow of a smirk lurking at the corners of her pale lips. “Sorry dad.” She muttered, eyes shooting back to the vial with a new keen interest.

The words ‘curse’ and ‘Egyptian’ never failed at tweaking this witch’s over eager interest. These words mixed in with the instruction not to touch made the desire to fiddle, experiment and touch all the more irresistible. Surely by now Torquil had learnt that specific lesson.

Upon being offered a pair of absurdly appearing goggles the welsh witch looked her friend up and down, pursing her lips together in consideration for an instant before she very quickly shook her head.

“Taryn already says I dress like I’m blind. I don’t need to give her ammunition.” And with that Charisma began to unbutton her coat having decided she was going to stay and ‘help’ Torquil with his experimenting. She removed the heavy leather item of clothing and tossed it over the back of a chair currently being occupied by books. Inside the various pockets, coins and various other things jingled as they chinked together.

“So,” The glasses from atop of the cursebreaker’s head were taken off and she placed them on her nose while bending down to look at the vial he’d taken from her. “I’m gutted you didn’t invite me over for this, Foley. Some friend you are.” The words spoken in jest came with a small smile as she resisted once more fingering the vial before her.

"Like inviting Rowena to dinner with a sphinx," his eyes narrowed with a green glint of amusement, "of course..." his tone grind-ed with sneaking suspicion.

"Just a small mystery, dear, that I'm at solving," his Irish swig bounced back with its natural tune, "Nothing like what we've been able to manage," he craned an arched eyebrow at his old companion before he smoothed out his hands over his notes ominously, "But a young girl's got a nasty curse, the nature of which is a guestimate, based on a clasp flare I manufactured--Egyptian style with a dash of European," he pinched the air as if he had concocted a delicate dish with a fine recipe.

But a moment later, his finesse fell to frustration as she gestured at what was laid out before them, "But the results tell me everything about the nature and origins of the curse but nothing as to the makeup of the damn thing- "Observe the sphere," he jabbed his finger in the direction of the bowl of water and glass orb, "Inert, right now, but it's natural adversity towards gravity dictates its ability to point in a particular direction," his aim darted to the burning wicks, "The torches, burning different colors?--The curse is not independent on one person's ability, but dependent on something older--I'll need a whole other method of refracting the light to even begin deducing that," then a finger stabbed up in the air as his wide-eyes focused on Charisma, "but it'll get me nowhere towards helping the girl!"

He sighed and then surveyed his work again, "I bet I could create some vague device that guides us to some remote booby trap in the Nile before I found a solution to this confounding curse," he lifted his goggles and rubbed a hand across his cheek, "Maybe I'm just out of practice."