A fortnight? That got a lift of Gabe's eyebrows - not some passing fancy of insomnia, this. "Could be," he agreed. "They can lose potency over time. Or they might be targeting the wrong thing. Come this way." Beckoning for Spencer to follow, Gabe led the way through another door, into his personal workspace - shelves lined with storage jars, even if half of them were empty or nearly so, and benches cluttered with equipment, ingredients, bits of parchment. In one corner, a cauldron half-full of something so dark green it was nearly black glooped quietly in a low simmer.
Gabe shrugged his robes off and tossed them over the back of a tired-looking armchair; he pulled his ratty notebook out of the back pocket of his jeans and started rummaging around on the bench for a quill. "Tell me about the nightmares. One thing repeated, or a few things, or different every night? Reliving old events? Ah-hah." He pulled a slightly bent quill out from under an open book and started flicking through the notebook, looking for a (relatively) clean page. "Recognisable people and places, or just an unknown feeling of dread?"