Ianthe, still muttering imprecations under her breath from that sharp descent that had resulted in coffee spilt all over one gloved hand, cleared her throat pointedly.<span style="color: teal">"Please do not make me referee another argument between the two of you. It will give me a headache and make me cranky."</span>Clearly annoyed, she took a last swallow from her mug and set it down on one of the bridge consoles before joining the others at the airlock.<br/><br/>Save for the oversized olive-drab jacket she wore over her stealth suit, her attire was purely functional: her short, straight-bladed tech sword sheathed at her left hip, her Eagle pistol holstered in a low-slung tactical rig hugging her right thigh, and a suppressed Shadow Lance sub-gun cradled at rest but attached to her chest via a single-point bungee sling. The 'helmet' on her suit was scarcely more than a full-face mask, and its internal microphones lent her voice a metallic timbre over the comms.<span style="color: teal">"Disappearing is kind of what I <i>do</i>, Darion,"</span>she reminded him.<span style="color: teal">"I have no intention of wandering off, but if you want me to stay visible at all times it's going to compromise my ability to scout and slit throats. Your call."</span>Meanwhile she was stretching her perceptions out beyond the hull in an effort to discover any other minds in the vicinity.<br/><br/><b>[Psionic Scan: Psi 17 + roll 15 = 32]</b><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>