Gwenaëlle can think of some very obvious reasons why this is only an offhand question in an excruciatingly pun-heavy sort of way—

“I've mostly just grown accustomed,” she admits, aware it isn't the most satisfactory answer she could give. “Sometimes it's more difficult than others; most of the time it feels like a sort of...background noise that I've learned to live with. An ache. I have more severe pain relief,” scrupulously thorough, as ever, “but it's not the sort of thing I'd use habitually. I mean,”

almost rueful,

“it's for habitual drinkers. Jude tried it, once, and it worked for him because his—” she makes a vague gesture that doesn't really convey anything but might convey: werewolves, I don't fucking know. “He has a higher threshold, you know, can't get drunk. Sort of the same opposite to a common drunk who just doesn't feel it the same way, any more. Anders, when he was still here, taught me how to mix potions that had less capacity to fell an ox — I don't think I'd ever seen the man look quite that shade, when he saw what I was making in the first place — but I've always...you never know, you know.”

So she keeps the dangerously strong stuff on hand, too. Just in case. It's not never useful.