"Magic," Woe supplies, and then she demonstrates.

The flick of her wrist is a delicate gesture, but what flies from it is anything but delicate. An amorphous net of thanergy-girded cartilage falls over Abathur with directed purpose, swaddling him as neatly as a babe.

"It's a property of certain organisms here...whether evolved or instilled, I've yet to determine. Does being denied the impulse cause you distress, and if so, what is the nature of that distress?"