[Hector sighs, but he rinses, lathers up the cloth, and begins a gentle scrub of the other calf, not pushing for more.]

My father sought eternal life, you know. I can think of no greater form of torture, but he honestly thought he wanted it.

[That and gold, the oldest and most cliche desires of an alchemist. How someone with so little creativity thought he would be the one to crack the code, Hector will never understand.]

Do you think our craft will die out with us? I have fathered no children; my bloodline ends with me.