[ooc: I forgot the word for the inside of a bone, once, don't sweat it.]

That draws a ripple of feeling out of her, a flash of frustration screwing up her delicate but stark features. It's the sort of thing she guesses will be lost on whatever this thing is - and it isn't as though she can read what might, for all she knows, be a matching look on the bit of it that passes for a face, if it even might be said to have one.

"Isn't that the question of the hour," she says, darkly, "It is, allegedly, one of the five blood types of those of us so lucky as to be pupped from squid - although I very much doubt that those muttering hacks at the so-called centers of blood ministry have even the slightest idea of how to classify anything properly. And what is it to you, exactly?"

She gives the polite monstrosity another skeptical once over. The hive is rustling with newspun paper as it plasters the Zealot to their final resting place against a tree.