[Ned crouched behind a heavy, overturned pub table, digging through her travel-worn leather satchel. It's a brief shelter from the utter chaos the rest of the tavern has descended into, but probably not for long.]

For the record. On the chance we don't survive this. I just want you to know- I'm completely sure this is your fault.

[Well, possibly. She still wasn't entirely sure how things had gone this badly; but when under-caffeinated and in doubt, blame the extrovert.]

[She finds what she's after in her bag, pulling out a spool of thread and a tiny cushion full of pins and needles.]

I can do a thing, but it's gonna keep me a little tied up, think you can bust some heads and cover me?