Then there was the dirty brunette bitch who had just watched him scream in terror, who had let him walk into this, and who was doing a pretty shitting half-arsed effort at her job, if the closeness of the fired bullet to Leander’s shoulder was anything to go by. The galdor dropped to the ground like a sack of freshly dug potatoes in a loud thud, with a groaning echo of pain to cushion the sound.
A second thud followed only a moment afterwards, signalling the passive’s connection with the ground. He wasn’t so lucky as to be hit by a bullet and crumple in a natural way, though — Leander had been hovering in whatever position Lemandier had left him in, with one leg raised above the other. He landed like that, awkwardly on his ankle, and the noise of pain that escaped Leo was not nearly as heroic and masculine as the galdor’s. The embarrassment was just yet another nail in the coffin, another weakness of the scrap in front of members of the superior race.
He hated the lot of them.
“What?” He hissed, pushing himself off the ground and sitting before gingerly pressing on his ankle. He didn’t think it was broken. He slowly wiggled it and experienced an ache of pain, but he decided it was probably fine and he needed to stop being such an impotent little pansy. Right, what did the woman want?
He crawled over to Lemandier’s unmoving form and stared down at it, finding none of the satisfaction he might have, had he been the one to shoot him. “You want me to what? Let the ersehole die, Niccolette!” His own command was a touch more shrill, a little more frenzied, but it was no where near the confidence Niccolette had spoken with. She had spoken with all of her authority, and it was heavy on Leander’s mind. She was carrying on as all galdor’s did, doing her own thing with complete assurance that her command would be followed.
“Fine,” he ground out, grimacing as his hand hovered over the bullet wound, before finally working up the constitution to press his hand on top of it. The flesh - and blood - was warm. Disgusting. He waited, staring down at the man, eyes darting between the bleeding wound and his contorted face. “Apparently she can do a lot,” the passive muttered in delayed response to Lemandier’s earlier question.
He shuffled out of the way when Niccolette came to take over. “Just leave-” he started to his again, but stopped when the woman ignored him in favour of speaking directly to the other galdor. “Fine.” He turned away, standing up on shaky legs and hobbling over to where his forged document now lay, blood-soaked, on the floor. He stared at it for a little while, sighing at the wasted time, before turning back to the two galdori. He scoffed, “The whole clocking Harbour of dick-toting morons has something to say about your clocking husband’s death, and you’re just as bad as them all if you’re going to take his taunting at face value.”