A snort. Blind, yeah, or a real habit of rolling in cactus.

"Not a lotta ways out of the Anderfels," A grunt. Heaves himself to his knees, pausing to reach for the dagger — a little too far, scoots on a shin, throws out a hand to the corpse's chest. Squishes where the mace pulped him. "Good looks hadn't come in yet."

And if you look young enough, some folk'll balk. Gives you time to stick the knife in.

"How 'bout you?"