Every single magos worth their voltage has... something aside from work. Nobody could change their nature completely, so everyone carried the primordial sin of flesh irrationality, something fools denied, morons combatted, lunatics employed and professionals redirected. That being said, most magi had firmly put it into the "it's personal" category - likely because it, ultimately, was.

Which is why Toros made a constant effort to figure out what the rest of the Conclave are doing in their spare time. She knew them as magi, she needed to know them as, well, persons. Besides, she openly invited them to some of her more tame pastimes. For example, around five years ago, she managed to tune the laser array at some of the more rarefied wavelengths, allowing for a persistent ionisation trail to create a purely light-based and surprisingly persistent afterimage in the air - a glorious display of luminosity dwarving the pale flickers of holo-tech devices at only two magnitudes of energy consumption above nominal level. Was it practical? Unlikely. Still, flashing image of Omnissiah descending onto the spire on his dragon wings was positively glorious and made a lasting impression onto most watchers. That was not surprising.

The surprising part came the next day as the usually reclusive prometheologist sent a curt, yet insistent request for knowledge sharing. Toros was too baffled and intrigued by this behavioural aberration to politely decline. She had spent a week in the domain of PWD-40, explaining hows and whys, as the mistress of the scorched ocean eagerly listened. Toros almost believed that she had found someone with a comparable love of light in all its forms. Even Archmagos could make a mistake from time to time.

Magi outlets told a lot about them. Sometimes, even things that you never wanted to know. Half a year later, Toros stepped into the demonstration area, the proud PWD sharing her private, exclusive piece de resistance as a payment for shared knowledge. She walked out with the afterimages imprinted deep into her memory, not even speaking of retinas. PWD-40 been in hell, carried a piece of it in her ever since, and allowed for some intimate peeking. This was not the Light Toros strived to know and love - this was a pure incursion into the gauntlet of fire, her own tech projecting it at its delightful glory. 

Incidentally, it looked pretty damn much the same as being shot with an incendiary grenade. Granted, the grenade felt a bit worse. The default expectation would be to stop, drop, and roll, which is how a lot of stupider people die, since ignitium, an ugly thing, is perfectly capable of burning on the ground, in the dirt, under water and, technically, in the vacuum. Fortunately, it worked a lot slower and colder than Phosphor, which is why Secunda had postponed her transition into steak. Her body started acting following the well-trained routines.

Her left hand - triggering the smoke grenade on her back, breaking the line of sight with a veil of multi-coloured smoke.
Her right hand - using the monosharpened claws to puncture the key nodes holding the outer armour layer, dropping it on the ground to burn into a crisp.
Her legs - carrying her forward and to the right, straight into the closest cover.
Her eyes - trying to make sense of the telemetry, as the suit data-angels scrambled to explain her what was happening among the mess.

Her voice... hoarsely laughing. She hadn't had such a good time in quite a while.