A stupid thought enters his mind that he's glad the attack missed so that he won't wind up wearing an eyepatch. A little too pirate for his liking. And simultaneously he feels a surge of bittersweet nostalgia. Home feels so long ago, so far away.

As Soldat pulls back, Rosinante fishes for his compact in his pocket, where it's crammed up against his poor mashed pack of cigarettes, then has a look at himself finally. Yeah, he'll have to push past the barricade and grab a shower at the nearest room, that's for sure, but the wound patching looks good.

"If you want," he answers as he pockets the mirror. "Not sure there's much to see though." He's pretty sure it's just a sprain from a bad fall, but he's already here and doesn't much feel like immediately getting up and walking on it again.