"Oh, healing, of course. If you can fuse a bone, you'll never lack for a task or twelve —"

He doesn't follow. He does shift a hand toward his pocket, hangs there by its thumb. Gauging the time available, before Thranduil's attention should turn.

"— There's money in it, of course not personally, Maker knows that a Circle doesn't fund itself. And an abundance of young men bashing each other with swords? Accidents will happen,"

He natters on. Fingers brush eggshell.