“Neither would you; you’re certainly careful enough when we spar.” Blind though he might be, he’s not imperceptive.

With Simon successfully lured into his lair away from the door at last, Myr pads over to the spare bed and deposits the nug upon it; the little creature promptly winds itself a wallow in the sheets, peering over a ridge of fabric at Simon with bright black eyes. Were its owner capable of doing the same, he would when Simon names his tormentor in that tone.

"Ser Coupe?" An alarmed echo, not quite disbelieving, but-- It's difficult to think that someone he thinks of as highly as he does Wren Coupe might be responsible for his friend's ill mood. Hardly the first time, though, he's heard that his automatic good opinion of another person might not be warranted. (The eternal curse of the optimist.) "What's she done? What's happened?" You're not in some sort of trouble, are you? --But no, he can't entertain that idea of Simon for more than a split-second. He wouldn't--

Consider, though, how easily trouble found another of the Inquisition's templars when it came looking. Myr frowns but holds his tongue against further questions, instead seeking out one of the chairs in the room to rest his hands on its back. It keeps him from fidgeting.