Linden's having some difficulty staying upright. He's dizzy and isn't seeing so straight from getting socked so hard in the eye; already, the beginnings of nasty bruises are blossoming vibrantly on the pale skin of his face and neck alike, fist and finger-shaped respectively. He winces when he notices Phillip, seeming to debate leaving the way he came, but without the support and guidance of the Avoxes that flanked him back here, he's not sure where he'd even go.

A big part of the bidding process is, in Linden's experience, discretion. Even if some brutality is par for the course and well-known among some with specific and eccentric tastes, the illusion of civilization is still something that those who partake want to maintain. There are a lot of "clumsy" Victors for that reason... but the second he opens his mouth with the intention to lie about a bar fight or a nasty fall, he's closing it again. Even if he can't flat-out say what happened, he can come pretty close, and that feels much better than lying to the Tribute in his District he relates to the most strongly.

"Do you remember our conversation on the night of the Crowning?" he asks hoarsely, feeling his way along the couch cushions until he locates a bottle and a small box.