Almost absentmindedly: “They call it elfblooded, here, although the distinction seems biologically moot—”

Strange tears out another strip and cinches it tighter, another layer, wrapping it as tidily as he ever did any bandages. His shirt’s a mess, his own forearms clumsily bared. He looks down, assessing until the bloodloss eventually staunches and slows down and the outside of the makeshift bandage isn’t wet anymore, before he finally looks up at her face.

His concern from earlier has sharpened. Why does she want to examine her meat?

“You’re half-elven? And your tissue looks fine, Ennaris. Why wouldn’t it be?”