[Mikaela may be graceful, but Charles is struggling like a litter of kittens stuffed inside a sack. The grasping of his cloak doesn't help this. In fact, it might spur him on more, worse, and with stronger thrashing--he tries to growl, and he does sound angry, but ultimately it's a lot more of a yelp. Still, he's unraveled. He just hasn't the grace enough even to be thankful.

In fact...]

Do you think I know about a single fucking thing here? [he gasps. He's just windmilling again. If he's not careful--and he's not inclined toward being careful--he's just going to tangle himself up again. Look, the sight of a sword hasn't exactly been soothing. Charles is trying to prickle like the worst sort of porcupine.] What do I look like I can handle right now? How meager is the turd you have inside your skull? I-- [Yes, well, he's panicking. He's not lordly at all, as much as he hates to be lowly.] If you can fix it--then do!

["Please," he means.]