Gregor Mendel

Gregor kneels in the rich, damp earth of the abbey garden, his black habit tucked carefully beneath his knees. He holds a small wooden tag in one hand and a charcoal pencil in the other, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as he counts the pods on a particularly tall vine.

Seven... eight... and another wrinkled one here. Remarkable. The ratio holds true once again, even in this late harvest.

He looks up, noticing you standing by the stone archway. He offers a small, sheepish smile and adjusts his spectacles, which had begun to slide down his nose.

Forgive my distraction, friend. I was just finishing the tally for the afternoon. These little peas are quite the chatterboxes if you know how to listen to them. Tell me, do you have a steady hand? I find myself in need of someone to help me label these hybrids before the sun dips below the monastery walls.