((Gimpy? Gimpy?! EFFYOOU! Kidding, of course.))
It dawned upon Blaise, as Karen joined the effort to help him and they began to follow the newcomer, that a number of things needed to occur. First and foremost, he needed to get straight, here and now, that he was not an “assassin� as she kept insisting. He was down on his luck and had taken a few jobs in the field, yes, but his primary profession was the art of confidence. Voicing this concern never happened; he forgot to speak as his mind drifted to the next subject: he needed to stop seeming so weak. It wasn’t that the wound had worn on him so much physically yet, but the loss of blood made him weary to the bone, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to <I>care</I> enough to make much of an effort at anything. He still kept a wary eye on Karen, but had given up on worrying about Kioca, deciding that match already won and himself at her mercy. She’d shiv in the side if he tried anything funny, Blaise reasoned.
He betrayed the barest hint of a smile, just quirked one corner of the mouth, tried to focus on being less of a burden, as he realized his situation: suspended between two ladies who seemed in some degree concerned for his personal well being (despite recent hostility). He might be injured, but he could still attempt the usual charm. So he looked to one, then the other, with a hint of a genuine smile, muttered a, “thank you.�
