"Yes, I see that," Dorian said, whose brow had wrinkled up in concentration, mixed with consternation. There was a particularly deep cut on the meaty part of Bull's bicep. He cleaned it out, to get a better look at it. It would have needed stitches, if Dorian weren't working with magic.

What Krem had said though, it was a relief, more than anything Dorian could have imagined.

"I haven't got any scars. Not a single one. It makes me self-conscious to be around ... a man like you. It doesn't help that, oneself notwithstanding, the alti are a prudish bunch. So, I apologize. I know my behavior must be odd, or frustrating, or--"

Dorian realized he was talking for talking's sake by now, and stopped. Instead, he opened a little tin of something that smelled both herbal and unctuous, and most strongly of elfroot.

He gathered a reasonable amount of the yellowish salve out of the container.