Taking advantage of Astarion's diverted attention, Ellis has found a surface to lean his weight against and observe the rummaging search from safe distance. One hand had migrated to set loosely against the cut, where blood has soaked splotchy into the fabric of his tunic. It's not the sort of cut that needs to be carefully handled, but without any impending threat, Ellis might nurse the dull ache a little more than he might have otherwise.

No impending threat beyond Astarion, of course, though Ellis' concerns are more removed from this moment.

"It's not that deep," Ellis repeats, a light protest bypassing the offer of a drink. Not exactly a rejection of the idea, though Ellis feels it catch in the back of his throat. Held there, as his hand falls away from the wound.

But there is still a moment of careful observation, Ellis studying Astarion's face, before he again peels the fabric of his tunic up to bare the injury.

"You might be more worried that there was poison on the blade," is a terrible joke.

But like, ha ha, right?