Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
When the barber-surgeon peeled the dressing from the wound, Dandelion groaned pitifully. ‘Relax,’ Regis said, cleansing the wound. ‘It’s nothing. Only blood. Only a little blood… Your blood smells nice, poet.’ At precisely that moment the Witcher did something Milva would never have expected. He walked over to the horse and drew a long Nilfgaardian sword from the scabbard fastened under the saddle flap. ‘Move away from him,’ he snarled, standing over the barber-surgeon. ‘The blood smells nice,’ Regis repeated, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the Witcher. ‘I can’t detect in it the smell of infection, which with a head wound could have disastrous consequences. The main arteries and veins are intact… This will sting a little.’ Baptism of Fire, Chapter 5
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