[ She nods the once, slow, her voice still low. Paranoid, for obvious reasons, it's not a small matter she speaks of. Perhaps she should have taken them outside of here. But much too late for that now - here at least she could be warm with the horse now lost interest in two human's talking, back to devouring hay. ]

Not true immortality, but eternal life. Death may still find the drinker. But you will heal anything but an immediately fatal wound, and you will not age or die at the hands of its progress. [ amends, with the grimace of an unpleasant memory. Sir Galahad laid out on the bed, his grey hair a thin mess, his cheeks gaunt, the old man he should be. ] Until you stop drinking it, that is.