Said scrapes have faded into history, by now. The wounds of the preternatural have left a couple of marks that Benny's careful hands and his own tonics and concoctions hadn't help -- white scar tissue writes into his arm, as if to make up for what, to him, is a notable absence on the forearm of the other, all clean pale flesh where there had been cursed ink dug into his skin. All that's left are the rune marks of his prison sentence printed crossways over his jugular, the sort of thing that Baedal shares in barbarity.

Her words are accepted, tested, fingers curling into palm in lazy consideration. A little bit does have humour. Slothful and with an air of great resignation (although a quick glance belies this with some irony), Lucius levers himself out of bed, sliding aside sheets that he'd only begun to consider as a flimsy sort of safeguard between himself and the lady with the sharp object.