Don't Rock the Boat

Sylen's eyes flitted from Uwe, to the crowbar, down to his crust-covered socks, and back to Uwe.

"Oh. Um, thank you, I guess." He gave a flat smile, thoughts whirling, unsure of what the hell he was supposed to respond with. Every time he landed on a couple of words that felt acceptable, his mind tossed them out and into the void, never to be conjured again. Was 'thank you' a bad response? What did you say to someone if you weren't interested? And you were stuck in a basement with them? And they had rocks for shoes? "And, you're welcome." Dammit.

He'd never thought himself attractive, and most people didn't tend to comment on it; it wasn't something he ever paid attention to, or worried about. More than anything else, he just saw himself as tired. 

The mage before him clasped a hand around the crowbar like it was a torch, or maybe the way a child would hold a supposedly interesting stick-- out at arm's length, fist wrapped around the middle, thumb over the knuckles. Not how one should hold a crowbar.

"Um," Sylen said. He stared blankly toward Uwe, struggling to figure out how to approach the situation. Uwe's face had gone strangely red, as well as completely lost color, in a matter of milliseconds; the mage's eyes darted around the room, and Uwe kept swallowing, his smile nearly an awkward grimace. Sylen scratched behind an ear uncomfortably.

"Put the-- well-- put the flat part inside your shoe, and then wrench it back," he explained, voice wavering. He was starting to doubt Uwe's ability to use the crowbar at all. "And, uh, after a couple minutes, ideally you should have popped enough of the rock off to step out of them." He gave a thumbs up. "You think you got it?"