Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

Aramis takes his, a pleased smile playing about his mouth even before he understands what it is. "With holy water," he says, spraying his throat and wrists at once and, after another moment, tugging at them of his pants until he can spray his groin, too. "Pulsepoints at every corner, I'm afraid," he says with a grin to Athos, then goes to Porthos, bottle lifted to spray him as well. "Thank you, Porthos."