Age. Asklepios had all manner of experience with a variety of maladies, but 'we age'? Was she referring to all Norse gods? Norse goddesses? Peculiar phenomenon, this aging in reverse. Did that mean she was going to turn into an infant again, at some point? Asklepios had not noticed an additional wrinkle in his plain face since the day he'd been restored to existence. Fascinating! They aged! But apparently there were rules he did not appreciate in the aging, things he didn't know. If they aged... was it combated somehow? Was that what she meant? So busy were the wheels in Asklepios' mind that he almost didn't register her rushed, flustered question.
Mead.
Hair of the dog?
Hm.
"Yes, thank you," Asklepios finally said - he made himself comfortable on the dust-free couch, but he was still squinting at her as though hoping to memorize everything should he need to recall it later. "You... you say you age?"
The question sounded more accusatory than he intended.
Probably it was better to say... what?
"You age? Backward? Or perhaps there's... some kind of agent you use to control age? Now, that would be a thing to find, wouldn't it..."
His head was starting to ache again. The wooden chest sat on his knees, held in place by twin hands, and for all the world Asklepios could not remember why he'd been so shocked. She was ... lovely ... with a younger face, but now the riddle was the thing. It was a riddle, wasn't it? The squint had a hopeful note in it as the corners of his eyes wrinkled.