There's a fingernail-sliver amount of space free enough inside the vial to tell that it is in fact thickly purple, the contents. Wry-reproach accepted with a raise of an eyebrow, Lucius' attention is back on his sleeves, fussing the cuffs closed as she examines the gifted sample. "A potion, for cleaning wounds. I take it you aren't used to more magical remedies, prior to Baedal."

In the same way he isn't used to those of raw materials and chemicals doing what God intended, prior to Baedal, as opposed to whatever perversion magic makes of them when put into a cauldron and stirred with a wand.