Syrgei is tempted to pull out bits of said "broom" in frustration, but I suppose I should have expected that. Still, it's hardly in him not to ask. And hardly in him not to help when someone was about to fall down the stairs. He dashes forward and wraps a supporting arm around Tsaerri's waist, for the love of all divines don't shoot me, one hand ready to intercept whatever weapon she would pull out of thin air and butterflies. "I'll just assume that's the blood loss talking, let's get you down the stairs at least."