Not good, not good, not good, not good—any aroma leaving a flower of any nature, regardless if Benedict knew what the aroma was or not, was certainly a toxin. This was just one of those common-sense thing you picked up when you started healing on the field. At this point, he was readying a series of antidotes, and suddenly felt that ping of exhaustion writ large. He stumbled on his way towards the door.

He needed to wait, but supplying the mana to preparing the spells was more important than waiting, because whatever it was—"Try not to inhale!"—he shouted, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. Then, with a glare towards Lynea, "says the Cleric, who is here to watch your smart behind."