[ She smiles a pleased smile when he acknowledges that yes, Clea is also quite nice to look at. It's always pleasant to have one's work acknowledged, whether that work is a Painting or the work that has turned her body into a sculpture and a peon to grace and elegance. Things this place is sorely lacking.

But that which is pleasant can never last.

It's becoming harder and harder to enjoy the view. Not because of the man - she stands by her assessment that he's quite pleasing to look at - but because of the state he's in. He looks like an expeditioner who just got chewed on by one of her Nevrons. He shouldn't be going anywhere. But he is, of course, a man. So instead he's pretending he's fine. Verso was always fine with those masks of his, and Renoir would never admit to acting because of himself instead of Aline.

Clea tilts her head as she looks up at him. Sighing as though he's burdened her in some way, she rifles through her pockets and divests them of a truly staggering amount of the little statues, letting them fall around her on the floor before she stands in a single, fluid gesture. Walking around him, she makes frequent 'hmm' noises under her breath, assessing his condition.

And he's just...standing there. ]

You're not going anywhere. You'll fall over in a stiff breeze, and then my afternoon fantasies will be ruined.

[ How is she supposed to contemplate what a sculpture of him would look like if he falls over and dies? She can't admire the beauty of a dead man. Well. Not in that particular way.]

Can you sit? Or should I examine you standing?

[ Not that she's any manner of physician, but she hasn't seen one here, and she might be able to stem some of the bleeding. Or go find one. ]

If you collapse, you are going to ruin everyone's amusements. Nobody will remember the competition, only the beautiful man collapsing.