Either answer suffices, judging by the little hum of assent; Ilde's mercurial mood is veering in a new direction, lazily entertained by the concept of macing a vampire and vaguely enamoured of the way his healing skin feels under the pad of her thumb. (The fae, like cats, have a little bit of sadism about them.) "You'll live." For a given value of living, and her hands are moving further afield.