"...so there's no need for your 'insurance', I guarantee you." The argument was taking place on the pier itself, having migrated its way out from one of the warehouses that lined the dock on the edge of the water. Rosalie was a good half a head shorter than her employer, scowling in the face of his calm despite the cool, polite tone of her voice.

"You know quite well that I do a better job than most of your men, and I definitely do a better job than any of your human employees." The mention of it made her hand shift and curl around the butt of one sword. Paid less than humans, less than wicks, and no chance in hell that was fair. As she eased forward a step, he raised an eyebrow and a hand.

"Be still, girly." He sounded more amused than annoyed, eyebrows twitching upward and easing a step forward, as if to get around her, except she stepped to the side to match his movements. "Policy is policy, and I make no exceptions."

"But I don't explode!" The irony was that it all but exploded out of her, no longer cool or calm but angry and frustrated and miserable. She didn't have enough to pay off anything of what she owed. "I don't burst. I don't do damage. I couldn't if I wanted to."

No avail. There was no employer willing to risk it on a passive, it seemed. Not until they'd seen her diablerie in action, at least. And her ship was still grounded.

Ever since that ship fire in late Bethas, everyone had been on edge. Only a few other ships had been damaged and the fire'd been contained, but even the threat of further sabotage was enough. Corwynn disliked the need to step up security, if only because it meant he was called on more often to deal with unnecessary suspicions and false accusations instead of further truthful revelations. It only made the gunman more eager to get to the bottom of their most pressing opposition.

It was after yet another such fruitless series of conversations aboard a few new arrivals from Mugroba that the galdor found himself leaving the pier, simmering with the hopes of walking it all off, when he thought he heard a loud and displeased familiar voice. Corwynn considered not stopping, scanning the docks until he noticed the altercation and the passive, mentally recalling Rosalie had made it quite clear what she thought of his offer for employment.

The blond recognized the man she was arguing with. It was hard not to resist; he was always worth harassing. Both of them were, really.

So with a resigned sort of sigh, he changed direction but not his pace, allowing their exchange to continue until he was upon them, leaning against the closest pile of unopened crates, looking at the man as if pretending to have no idea who Rosalie was other than an angry underpaid passive,

"Leave it to small, struggling start-up organizations to starve their employees." Corwynn grinned wolfishly, tone both piercing and smug as he interrupted without apology, introduction unnecessary, "Typical. Insurance excuse again? You really should come up with better ones."

He shifted his gaze to the familiar, keeping all semblance of previous knowledge from his weathered expression, "Taking work without discretion tends to get you ripped off around here, especially. It's too bad, really. How much does the poor deck hand owe you from your pay, hmm?"

The replies were likely simultaneous; Rosalie's response -- "An arm and a leg!" loud and furious and likely overriding the man's cooler "A paltry 17%."

The fact that Corwynn was here, likely in an attempt to make good on his debts, only raised her hackles that much more. It meant that, instead of shrugging it off and leaving it in his hands, instead of drawing in a deep breath and forcing herself to relax, Rosalie's hand dropped to her sword.

Caged animals frequently fought back tooth and nail. She bared about four inches of steel.

"Seventeen, eh?" Corwynn's tone of voice was distant, nearly disinterested, but he let his right hand rest on his weapon because of the entertainment he usually took from its implication, "I'm going to venture to guess you don't tell anyone that upfront, either."

He smirked, not immediately concerned about Rosalie's debt entirely, "Tssk. There's a reason you've only got one warehouse, I suppose."

The other man snickered, not quite sure if the blond galdor was implying he was on the human's side so much as frustrated that the passive had caused a scene and brought an audience to his affairs ... a Brotherly audience, "I shoulda taken out more from this one. Didn't know she'd be the clockin' trouble. You never know when they'll go off, after all."

The gunman's expression hardened as if to keep it from faltering at that last statement, "I think it might be in your favor to hand over her full pay. Having already agitated the woman," Corwynn glanced finally in Rosalie's direction, noticing her partially drawn weapon with a hint of amusement, "You really are risking much by refusing her wages."

The human was incredulous but torn, crossing his arms over his chest and choosing to avoid the galdor by glaring at the passive, "I'm gonna have to say that it's none of your business. She's been paid fair and square as far as I'm concerned."

"Fair and square is full price, you worthless lugger." Another inch slid free, Rosalie's shoulder's hiking up and her jaw set in a furious, frustrated sort of way. She shot a look to Corwynn, almost as annoyed with him as with her employer. Always barging in when she needed it. How was she supposed to properly hate him, when he did that?

"Fair and square's about twice what you were paying me before the 'tax'." There was a hint of a snort behind that, her chin raised as she looked back to the stupid human, defiant, her fingers curling easily around the handle of her sword. She was about tired of this city, now. Wanted back on the water.

"But I took the cut. And you took advantage. Do I look stupid?" She tipped her head, raised her eyebrows at Corwynn. "Do I? No. Nor am I incompetent. So pay up, or I'll take it in flesh."

There was no way the galdor was going to step into that question. Not at the moment. Sure, he had an answer, but he wasn't necessarily interested in getting involved in a fight. Her slight edge of not-quite-disappointment in his presence was enough satisfaction for now.

The warehouse manager finally showed a hint of intimidation, eyes darting from Rosalie to her weapon to the galdor he knew by name and back to the passive, though his angry tone wavered with a bit of fear, "You ent gonna get a coin more if you're just gonna jump the likes of me. Gonna be hard to find yourself a job if you talk back to all the folks who agree to hire you on, you know. Word travels fast when it wants to, eh?"

Corwynn held his tongue, smug.

"Do you think you can take on my whole crew, scrap?" The man raised his voice, having already attracted the attention of some of the other men Rosalie had spent the morning sweating beside, "Because I don't think too many of 'em disagree with my insurance policy as much as you do."

Some were watching now, tensely considering just how far the situation was going to go. A few seemed to realize the blond man was a galdor. A few might have even recognized his face.

The gunman laughed to break the silence, fingers suddenly listless on his pistol, though he wasn't sure how protective he wanted to appear of his investment just yet. He offered a warning, tone bordering on the threatening, "Mmm. You'd best hope she's not the exploding kind, then."

Did she think she could take his whole crew? She gave them a mild sort of look, head tilted to the side, biting down on her fury for the moment. It came out focused in a biting tone of voice, fingers shifting against the worn handle of her sword and eyebrows raised.

"You think your men are loyal enough to risk it?" One of her eyebrows went up, slowly, as she looked back to her [ex]employer. Rosalie shook her head, drawing in a slow and careful breath. "I suspect they're just waiting for you to go down so they can gather like vultures and take what they can."

She was screwed anyway. Corwynn at her shoulder, and she couldn't even come close to paying off one of those concords. It was worth it to make the man wriggle and then just give up the fight; at least Corwynn was straightforward.

"Some of us ent mung complainers!" Came a loud response from a shirtless, tattooed wick nearby, leaning against another crate.

"Yeah. Not everyone's ungrateful for the coin in their pockets." Came another retort from near the warehouse. A larger human who'd mostly spent the time pretending to supervise when their boss wasn't looking was sneering.

"Shut yer heads. She's not all wrong. She worked harder'n'ye." Responded a tall whip of a witch, pointing with the knife she was using to shave slices of apple from the core.

"Oh, issat right?"

"Sure is."

"Bastard. I wouldn't mind takin' what I could an' shovin' off. Maybe she's got the right idea."

"Aye, an'ow far y'fink ye'll be gettin', eh?"

Voices raised from all corners of the warehouse next to the dock, a commotion all hinging on a handful of coins. The human in charge of it all had paled a little, backing away from Rosalie, glowering at Corwynn as if placing blame. He could've taken the passive alone; she was hardly big enough to put up a real fight for long if she hadn't attracted back-up of sorts.

The dock manager scowled deeper, beefy arms across his chest as the shouting escalated behind and around him, "Stop flappin' your lips! None of yous are really gonna even consider such a thing." His dark little eyes narrowed and finally shifted to the passive, "Now shove off 'fore you get yourself in anymore trouble, girlie."

Corwynn still kept his smirk, casting the passive a sidelong glance, curious. It almost read, What is it with you? but with more amusement than accusation. He was always up for wasting competition ... but who was he up for encouraging such a thing? Really. Maybe. He rolled his eyes and looked back at the human, opening his mouth to say something snide.

Crash.

An empty bottle smashed behind the dock manager, obviously short of its target. One of the hired hands sniggered, standing up with another bottle ready threateningly, "Go on an' pay 'er first."

((omg long don't hate me.))

What was it about Rosalie? Probably just a symptom of having spent too much time at sea and not enough among other people. Perhaps it was a lingering sense of entitlement, still clinging from her days as the pampered younger child of two wealthy galdori. Maybe she was a born instigator, or a born leader, or...

Or maybe she just liked to start shit.

For now, with everything on the brink of a full-scale brawl, Rosalie slowly slid both swords free and shifted her stance, eyes sliding onto Corwynn. She looked, strangely, more relaxed with the chaos around her. Less self-conscious. Not quite amused, but excited, certainly. She really did enjoy a fight. One she could win, at least.

"What say you, Corwynn?" Was her voice a bit louder, to let the name roll off her tongue and into the crowd? Absolutely. She'd looked him up properly now, after all, and had a pretty good idea of who he was -- and suspected everyone else did, too. Rosalie knew she shouldn't toss his name out there like a grenade but...but she couldn't help herself.

Was the blond galdor willing to admit that he'd reached the level of competency with his weapons that he preferred moving, dodging targets? Yes, but only if the timing was to his advantage. He sniffed distractedly and leaned up from the crates he'd been resting a shoulder against, looking away from the passive, counting heads and calculating distance.

The dock master might have whimpered, but his expression was furious. The bottle startled him into action, arms sliding away from his chest to the gun he wore on his own belt. The shouting behind him bloomed into taunts and catcalls, angry noises and threats once the passive drew her weapons.

Tension was growing, expectant. If there was going to be blood, the entire dock crew was apparently willing to be in on spilling it.

"I don't owe you nothin'. I've paid already. Her'n'you. So sod off; I don't want no trouble." Spat the human, voice quivering still, but he was looking at Corwynn and not Rosalie. He could see that this was not entirely going his way, that an added element of danger had been added once his suspicions had been confirmed about the gunman. So, with all the dignity of a man sorely outnumbered, the dock master began to back away, quickly, hoping desperately to stumble to safety despite the knowledge that some of his own hired hands were willing to have a go at him now.

Behind him, the anger was swelling between shouts of, "Equal share, you bastard!" and "Who cares—take what you can!"

The blond galdor sighed, inclining his head in Rosalie's direction almost coyly. A look of totally unconcerned permission. He winked, teasing, still looking at the passive even as he drew his pistol, field taut like a sail in the wind, possibly aiming but not yet willing to fire the first shot, "You probably don't want that one to get away. Maybe he's got more coins in his pockets."

Guns. Clocking guns. They really were the great equalizer. Perhaps Rosalie had escalated things by bringing swords to a fist fight, but now he had ended them by drawing a gun at a knife fight. Sure, one-on-one, she thought she could take the man -- but with the addition of guns and long range weapons, there was little she could do. Guns and magic rendered even the length of her rapier too short.

"...are you encouraging me to run toward the man with a pistol?" Her voice slid toward sarcasm, eyebrows raised and head tipped to the side. Rosalie did ease forward one step, slow, but that was about all she was willing to do. She could take bruises, scrapes and bumps. She couldn't, however, take a bullet.

"Oh please."

The dock master was running now, fumbling to free his pistol from its holster, staggering to get some distance between himself and the trouble-makers despite the fact that he was running to the warehouse. The warehouse that was spilling over with angry employees who were probably still trying to pick sides or no sides at all. It was the Harbor—who really needed a side in a fight, anyway?

Corwynn returned his gaze to the fleeing man at Rosalie's objection, weapon in hand following his stumbling movements even as a handful of men were headed in their direction, "He wears his gun to high. It's for show. Here," his thumb left the hammer and the splitting sound of gunfire echoed from the decrepit walls of the warehouse and out over the water behind them. He fired the first shot anyway. It was too much fun.

The dock master howled and leaned unwillingly to one side just as he managed to draw his weapon, opposite leg buckling as the galdor's bullet ripped through his knee.

Smoke wafted and cleared; for a moment, the approaching hirelings paused. Then, when their employer struggled to turn, painfully attempting to aim in Corwynn's direction, they renewed their angry charge at the passive and the gunman.

"Now, he'll be easier to catch. If he knows how to use that gun at all, he must be a terrible shot." The blond continued speaking as if no real danger was headed their way, thumb shifting to the second hammer, not looking at Rosalie so much as watching the other dock hands take his firing as a call to begin fighting each other.

The hirelings were armed with crowbars, a couple of knives, and some meaty, calloused fists. They might have been permanent employees, considering their loyalty in the face of the potential chaos. They obviously planned to arrive swinging.

They also were dock workers, untrained, even if they were Old Rose dock workers. Rosalie was used to pirates and thugs and even sailors who thought the pretty bit up front in the boat was potential fodder, and not their Quartermaster. But they learned quickly.

Rosalie couldn't quiet smother a wince at the shot, but turned it to a sigh, instead. To be fair, she had started this fight. He'd just made it a bit worse; probably solely to piss her off, or perhaps to see what she could do. So clock it. She had her swords out, she had her feet set -- she waded in, ducking and twisting and defending with the shorter sword, to work her way through the angry mob toward the man who was definitely no longer her employer.

It didn't necessarily work to Rosalie's advantage that she didn't want to kill anyone. Not in the city itself, where questions might be asked, and not a lot of men who were likely underpaid and potentially underfed. Yes, they might have been a lot of rat bastards, but they were stupid rat bastards who didn't really need to die. She aimed to incapacitate, to get by.

The wounded human with the gun was her real goal.

The unarmed man knew better than to go for Rosalie at all, considering his fists were rather useless against blades. As the two others met her with their make-shift weaponry, he managed to side-step their fray and go straight for the galdor even as he was turning to aim. Corwynn caught sight of the man in time to shift his grip, and prepare to defend with the butt of his pistol towards the other man's skull.

The passive may not have been aiming to kill, but her opponents weren't so concerned. Crowbar met sharpened steel as the larger human attempted to throw his weight around and the smaller woman with it. The jolt of impact was teeth-jarring, and Rosalie just barely managed to parry the blow away from her head and shoulder, other blade slicing in a nonfatal arch across the man's side, sending him backwards but not down. The second man, the tattooed wick who'd accused the passive of complaining, stepped in as the man fell back, knives in both hands and a stupidly confident grin on his face.

Rosalie turned in time to parry, shoulders protesting lightly, still recovering from the first blow. The wick's first swing slid down her blade, hilt meeting hilt, and he shoved backwards, wanting to throw the woman off her footing. She held, skidding on the wet and sandy dock.

Another gunshot rang out, but not from behind the passive. It was the dock master's weapon instead of Corwynn's.

Something fast and warm brushed past her, close enough to be felt. Over her shoulder there was an indeterminable grunt from the scuffle between the third thug and the blond gunman, but her tattooed opponent was unfazed, forcing Rosalie to stay focused because his second swing was headed for her ribs. She had time to defend, and if she could get the wick down, there was a nearly clear path toward her former employer, who was struggling to limp away backwards, not even bothering to reload as some of the fighting around him escalated.

Rosalie was very much outsized, if not outclassed. Instead of taking the blows against the swords and holding her ground, she opted to roll with the punches some, dancing back a few steps with the force of the strike and twisting to the side to put the bulk of the angry wick between her and the dock master. This way, if he did manage to get off a shot, it wouldn't be at her. Guns were dangerous. Cuts and bruises, easy to recover from, but a bullet to the brain...

As the slash came toward her ribs, she brought her sword down and eased back another step to hop out of the way. Her arms were starting to tingle from the effort, but it was a familiar sensation, and one she certainly didn't mind. That numbness was just a reminder that she was alive, and the pain in her wrists the same. It was good.

She ducked and twisted under the man's longer arms then, working to get within his guard so he couldn't use superior reach to his advantage. Her own short sword went for his calves and knees to bring the brute down, breath exhaled in a grumbling, frustrated comment about wicks.

The knife-wielding wick was admittedly overconfident, perhaps assuming Rosalie's size was an indicator of her experience. He was relying on his strength more than anything else, and when the passive stepped away from his swing with uncalculated ease, he became quickly frustrated. Then she was all in his space and he struggled to recover with a good swing, distance closed inside his reach in a way that limited the power he could expend.

He was still moving, shifting his footing to gain the advantage of some distance, when Rosalie swung for his legs, clipping one but just brushing past the other as she finished the arch. The wick stumbled, sideways and forward, catching himself and bringing the hilt of his knife upwards under the passive's chin. The blow wasn't hard so much as it was fast.

"Y'gotta work harder'n'that, chip." Spat the wick even as he wobbled, off-balance and finally bleeding. It would be easier to knock him down—

Over her shoulder, Rosalie could feel the angry ebb of Corwynn's field. Muttered words she didn't understand were followed by a somewhat reluctant but equally aggressive swirl of mona and a pained gurgle. Then, the unarmed man stumbled backwards to barely brush past the passive, flailing and groaning in obvious suffering, all-but-knocking into the wick as he was trying to recover.

It would have been comedic in any other circumstance. Comedically convenient, especially as the two of them struggled to disengage from each other. The unarmed man was blossoming in open, ugly lacerations and visibly unnaturally disoriented. The older galdor hissed a string of obscenities from behind her, unwilling to fire into the mess and regathering his field as if considering another spell.

Meanwhile, Rosalie's former employer was almost into the cover of warehouse, limping and bleeding, despite the dock literally a mess with fighting. Her path to reach the man was relatively clear if no one else decided they wanted a piece of her along the way. The tall witch was now on his tail, however, gaining.

It would have been wisest to back out now. The man probably didn't have much money, and what he owed her really was slim pickings in the face of four concords -- but Rosalie was in her blood, now, and Corwynn was watching, and some proud part of her kicked her forward into motion instead of beating a retreat. One foot was planted firmly on the face of one struggling man as she vaulted over and past. She was small but, damnit, she was fit and she was fast. At a full out, half-crouching run, she was sure there was little to no chance the dock master could outpace her.

The main concern was just the gun. So she kept her eye on him, and on the wick, too. Didn't think he'd be a problem, though; she didn't mind sharing.

Rosalie was already out of earshot by the time Corwynn muttered something angry and very loud about cleaning up her messes, the human and the wick eventually finding their way to their feet and looking for more punishment. The galdor didn't waste his breath further, however. The dock master had been a better shot than he'd assumed, or at least the lugger had suddenly improved his aim for the sake of proving the gunman wrong in front of everyone in earshot. It wasn't as if he hadn't been shot before; it was simply that an unexpectedly large fight on the dock was obviously not the place to deal with such things.

The lacerated man got to his feet, took one look at the galdor as he was regathering his field and raising his pistol, and ran. The wick, wobbly with a slashed up leg and smashed face, hardly got a chance to shift stances before Corwynn simply sneered, aimed, and fired at point blank range, sending a third gunshot ricocheting out over the Harbor. He wasn't going to piss around now, but the blond was oddly enough to not kill the man so much as probably cripple him, firing as he did into the opposite leg to keep him down and out of the way.

Rosalie, of course, only heard the shot behind her, focused as she was on the dock manager, closing their distance as he hobbled. The passive was soon in stride with the tall wick, who flashed her a devious grin. A bit of fighting was better than unloading a ship any day, it seemed. Around them as some scattered hand-to-hand, but a few of the workers seemed to grind to a halt against each other as the two women passed, turning to give chase.

Then, their former employer turned and waved his weapon, skidding to a faltering stop, "Stay back you ungrateful bastards!" He groaned, dizzy, and thumbed back the second hammer on the double barrel of his pistol.

If he was aiming, it was shaky and angry and unclear, "All of yas! I ent afraid to drop one of you 'fore you take me with you!"

"You know, my intent was never robbery." Rosalie wasn't breathless but she was panting and flushed, her eyes very green and very aware. The sentiment might have been directed toward the wick at her side, or to her idiot ex-employer, or perhaps it was intended for the air around them. It held a musing and almost [but only almost] apologetic edge to it.

As the gun danced toward her, Rosalie slowed, putting her sword out so the wick would slow as well, a silent warning. She wasn't a friend, precisely, but she was on the same side at the very least. Her expression went more calculating, considering, and then she eased away from the witch, to put more space between them. Increase the spread. Make it impossible for him to shoot both of them, damnit.

"At this point, sir..." The 'sir' slid toward a snort or a sneer, her chin tipped up as she eased more toward her left. "It might be wiser to concede defeat. Your last tick, here. You've lost the loyalty of at least half your men."

"If robbery be takin' what's not yours, then, aye, you've been intent on robbing all along, scrap." The bleeding, shaking, gun-weilding stout man spit his words with the vehemence of a trapped animal, dragging one foot a little to continue to back up, nearing the warehouse's gaping entrance, "They aren't on anyone's side but the winner's. If I shoot you—"

He leveled his weapon, causing a chorus of snickers and various obscenities from the gathered crowd. More than a few of them were obvious threats.

"If I shoot you, then I think I could solve my problem."

The dock manager pulled the trigger, leveled as the weapon was in Rosalie's general direction ... and nothing happened. No bang. No smoke. Not even a fizzle. The man's face twisted into a pained sneer and he kept his hand steady, finger still on the trigger.

A few expectant heartbeats passed.

"Godsdammit." Hissed the wounded man, lifting his aim upward and away as quickly as possible. There was a click. His eyes widened before the BANG! as the gun misfired, loud and angry and fiery, propelling the bullet upwards in a cloud of black smoke. He howled at the searing of oil and black powder and fire on his hand as the misfire melted its way outwards. Then, in a moment of clear thinking, he threw the gun and began to turn to hobble into whatever kind of run he could manage, hoping for the safety of cover in the cluttered, dirty warehouse.

If Rosalie wasn't after him at that, the entire dock was. There was a roar, a swelling tide of displeased voices, and then bodies pressed past her after the man, everyone keen on getting to him first.

((Rolling dice makes guns so much more fun, I tell you what!))

Rosalie flinched. She hated it, but she flinched; she didn't run, didn't dodge out of the way, just curled down into herself and pressed her eyes closed, praying that the man would wince and...

...and nothing happened...

...for a moment.

She was just looking up as the gun misfired and the breath caught in her throat in response. The thunderous explosion, at least, didn't scare the life out of her, because she could see the wreck the gun had made of the man's hand, the mess and the tensed, pained expression on his face. She didn't know much about guns, but she had some inkling when it came to cannons, and it was enough for her to figure out it was wrong.

Of course, by the time this had all run through her head, the press of the crowd had closed the gap and eaten up her head start toward the man. She took one step before realizing that, were she to head toward the man, she could very well end up in a pile of angry mob scrabbling for what coin they could get. So instead of joining the mess, Rosalie retreated backward: putting up one sword and heading over to snag the man's gun, instead.

If it was ruined, well, it was still sellable as scrap. If it wasn't, she wanted to learn how to use the thing.

Something was melted near the hammer and the flash, burnt and scarred black, oozing a bit of smoke and cooling oil still. Whether or not it was entirely ruined was not really something an untrained eye could determine. It could be fixable. It could be useless. It was currently just a steaming hot mess of slightly lacking craftsmanship.

Rosalie had apparently opened a whole floodgate of frustration from the dock workers—either against each other or their employer. Some men and women were still fighting, surging past to get to one another and the warehouse manager. Some were wandering off, perhaps to lift what they could from the supplies they'd been unloading all day instead of face the melee that was still raging inside the warehouse. It was, for some folks, just evidence of a hard time in the Harbor. Some people felt the effects of taxes, the Underground, and now the Drain more than others. It showed in their eyes. It might have been scary to be on the receiving end.

The warehouse manager was groaning.

Corwynn hadn't bothered to follow the crowd. He'd made sure his two opponents were down, unconscious and wounded or afflicted, terrified and gone. He'd reluctantly put his weapon away without bothering to reload and returned to leaning against some crates, looking as distantly bored as possible, thumbs hooked in his belt as he bled from somewhere or another, ruining his once-fashionable jacket with the stain.

The blond galdor was still unwilling to deal with injuries in front of a rather ravenous crowd; it was too much vulnerability with not enough cover. He might have been humming, pretending to be patient.

At least Rosalie didn't make him wait. She put up her second sword as she walked, short legs stretched to cover the distance more quickly and leave the angry mob behind. It wouldn't be that long, certainly -- or so she thought -- before the crowd decided to turn on her as the instigator. Either that or they totally forgot she existed, but it seemed wise not to risk it.

She didn't pause when she reached him, the wrecked gun dangling from one hand, but settled her hand against his elbow to twist him away from the mess. Except that she only got partway into the gesture before noticing the red rose against his jacket, blooming blood spreading slowly outward.

"...oh ticks, he tagged you." In the rough moment, still a little breathless, her voice was less refined and more...sailor. "Filthy lugger got you! Fuck!"

The blond galdor pretended to look down and notice for the first time the hole in the upper right shoulder of his tailored jacket, grinning almost coyly, "Oh, that. Yes, well, you clocking got me shot over a handful of birds." He practically purred, rolling his eyes, "I won't add taking a bullet for you to your tab. This time, anyway." He smirked, "Or maybe that's just what I get for calling him a bad aim. I should do something about it eventually. It's a bit of a bleeder, there."

Corwynn sounded less concerned than the passive, straying from her face to the pistol in her hand with a look of distaste at the blackened thing. It was an interesting trophy, but the gunman may have understood more than he was currently willing to let on. He laughed, wincing a little, leaning away from the crates to look past Rosalie and back to the warehouse, judging their window of escape. There was no smear of blood behind him, which indicated the bullet had not simply passed through,

"I can get you a better souvenir if you really want one, songbird ... But not here."

His tone implied leaving, which Corwynn started to do in a rambling sort of way. It must have been the casting—or more likely the burning pain he was feigning not to be experiencing—but he wasn't entirely sure where to wander off to. He hadn't quite had a destination in mind before he overheard Rosalie's angry conversation in the first place. Somewhere out of sight would be a good start.

Rosalie still looked horrified, hissing -- but then, for her, a shot was much more of a problem. She couldn't just hole up somewhere and nicely ask the Mona to fix it for her. Or, well, perhaps she could, but she sincerely doubted that the Mona would listen. So she nabbed Corwynn by the good arm and nudged him away from the mess and toward...well, clock it, she'd take him back to where she was staying. Even if it was a hole in the wall.

"I didn't get you shot. You got yourself shot." She believed that much, at least, halfway growling as she steered him. Her head was going to dealing with the bullet; were they going to have to take it out? Would the Mona do that, too? Did she need to get her hands on some hot tongs and gin? "You fired first, after all."