The drow doesn't seem to react to the personable contact from the young woman, except to return her greeting with a dry smile-- it even shows, just a little, in her eyes, making this gesture as close to 'personable' as anyone present has heard told from Ithi'ka.  Rarely does she see a woman of stature comparable to her own-- lord, the girl was small for a human-- stand stall under the major's viscerally chilling scrutiny.<br/><br/>When the reporter comes at her, she pulls her longknife without thinking, keeping it close under the folds of her cloak for a surprise strike.  Completely unprepared for this brand of humor, the drow stares back with her thin, white eyebrows furrowed into a furious glare, her mouth puckered as if about to spit.  When he offers is hand then, she is even more confused.  Had she caused offense?  Turned her back improperly?  What manner of half-mad ape<i>is</i>this man?<br/><br/>"Your debt is not to me," she stares at his hand a moment, then answers him after ensuring only that she can shake his hand-- a traditional contact, she's used to that by now-- with her off hand, the knife still at the ready beneath her cloak.  "Ithi'Ka."  She smirks then, his words having played through her mind enough to make sense.  "I expect you<i>will</i>fight indeed."  There's a soft snik of metal on metal as she sheathes the blade.<br/><br/>The warforged's words are like metal banging to her ears.  Somehow, when it speaks, she wants to silence it.  But she knows it is no machine, no toy.  It is alive, malicious, and calculating.  She doesn't let her reaction show.  "Fine.  We have the men gather at dusk, in<i>uniform</i>."  Her overly-cautious phrasing of that word is partly because of her accent, partly out of facetious indication of their "Emerald Claw" gear.  "Empty warehouse or business would be best to meet."