The Balladeer is certainly good at bluffing; she'll give him that. It might help that the poor man is used to dealing with murderers. Nor does it escape her notice that he's edging both of them toward the door, and she does her best to keep up without tripping. She'll just leave the talking to him, and as soon as they're close enough to the door, they can make a run for it. Or he can, at least. She might not be able to manage anything beyond a panicked waddle.

Wait... what's happened to his face?

Greta's looking up at the Balladeer's new goatee in astonishment - she's sure that wasn't there a moment ago - when the man lunges. She doesn't even think; she just gives the Balladeer a hefty shove to the side. With a little more freedom of movement, she would have been able to rebound out of harm's way. As it is, with the dress so tight around her knees, she can only totter awkwardly... right into the oncoming sword-thrust.

Pain radiates from her side, and Greta curls in on herself with a gasp. Oh, no. Oh, no. This is so stupid.

She falls, her back colliding with a thinly-cushioned gurney. She's moving at a cracking pace all of a sudden, bright lights flashing past, and for a few dizzying moments she thinks she's flying upward. It's too bright and too loud and too fast, and it takes her too long to realize those are ceiling tiles scrolling along in front of her, that she's on her back on some sort of wheeled cot. Several grim-faced strangers are pushing the thing along and barking incomprehensible jargon at one another, though she's at least able to pick out 'stab wound.'

Someone has their hand pressed over the hole in her side, and it hurts, and Greta makes a creditable attempt to struggle upright (helped by the fact that she's belatedly wearing jeans again, and can actually move). "Balladeer?!" She can't see him. Where is he?

Hands push her shoulders back down, and one of the strangers - a woman - says, "Just stay calm, sweetie. We're gonna take care of you."