An Offer of Help: Kirsten finds a seat.

After picking herself up off the ground, silently mouthing an apology at Wanda as she did so, Kirsten began dusting herself down for a moment. Her eye's searching the bloody floor of the room for her discarded knife.

Now where did I? Ah, there it is.

Stooping to retrieve the soiled weapon from the buttocks of a dead man, (where it had so impressively -and accidentally- landed after being tossed aside), she made the mental switch from the "real" Kirsten to the habitual killer she'd often pretended to be. When Kirsten stood at her full height once again, her blushing features had been replaced by a stern mask. She stretched languidly, like a cat, arms above her head; until the bones in her shoulders cracked. Stretching her baggy, masculine clothing over the sleek, attractive, curves  concealed beneath .

Kirsten-the-street-waif would not have so-casually displayed her attractive and -very- feminine form. Certainly not in the presence of so many men, near strangers all. And certainly not in the presence of a man-eating elf , let alone one whose eye's had been following her in a way that Kirsten knew all too well. But Kirsten-the-Killer would pay little heed to who saw her curves. Kirsten the Killer needed no one to protect her from predators. Kirsten the Killer was a Predator herself.

Rotating her neck slightly, arms still above her head, knowing she could not fail to attract the dying man's attention with this display, she fixed the gangster with her best approximation of a feral grin. It was a damned good act, she told herself, worthy of a traveling player. After all, she'd been perfecting it for the full eighteen years of her life.

She just hoped this blood-splattered survivor was not one of the gangsters who knew the real Kirsten. Otherwise she'd have made a display of her "wares" for nothing. What would her companions -especially Wanda- think of her then?

Concealing her disgust behind impassive features, she moved closer to the wounded man, plomping her shapely behind down on the nearest corpse with a casual air that belied her horror at such casual desecration. Settling herself in, making herself as comfortable as possible on the dead-mans bony-back, she flashed that feigned, feral grin once again. She hefted the throwing knife in her hand, tossing it casually a few inches in the air and catching it again with the same hand. Not high enough to risk having the blade spin around and impale her hand (Ranald no! The trickster god had blessed her with quick hands, but she was no street-juggler), but enough to impress none-the-less.

"Can you now?" she quipped, in the softest, most disquieting voice she could muster. "Tell you what, you look just about spent. Tell us about this little spat," she made a motion with her knife, as if to encompass all the death and carnage in the room, "And we might just let you live after my friend here finishes patching you up. Better be good though. I'd hate to think he was wasting his time -and our bandages."