In Derrica's palm is a little earthenware pot, rough at the edges with a small lid that snickts pleasantly in and out of place. Her pack rests at her feet, ready to be lifted and slung over shoulder once this task is done and they have been sent on their way.

Her face is still pinched with worry. Partly for the journey Ellie, Kostos and Matthais are embarking on, partly for the looming worry about the College and the Conclave. Likely that pinch in her brow will remain, until the matter has been settled.

"It's not perfect," she is saying now. "It's only a sigil, and it will hold for at least twelve hours. But it'll keep you safe in case something happens while you're looking for the Grand Enchanter."

And obviously, something that can be declined. She isn't insisting, only offering.