<hr/><strong>Name:</strong>Shariel<br/><strong>Position:</strong>First Officer<br/><strong>Status:</strong>Watching, Waiting<br/><hr/><br/>Longing was an emotion, and no true Vulcan would allow himself to be debased by such a feeling, for better or worse. Yet, his home was falling away from him into the darkness of space, and there was a sensation of loss and longing. It was a fallacy that Vulcans did not possess the capacity to experience emotion, they were a primal, passionate people. The t'an s'at was a patient study of his feelings, a logical examination that robbed his instincts of emotional weight. Were he to allow himself the indulgence, he would have missed his mate and daughter, longed to be near them and with them, to feel their minds mingled with his own. He had a duty, and could not return, and so there was no sense in futile longing. It was not so simple as the cold unfeeling of an automaton, but Shariel divorced himself from the feeling all the same.<br/><br/>At seven feet tall, the First Officer stood above most of his crewmates, as still as sculpted stone where he stood beside the Captain's chair, coal black eyes fixed forwards. His natural stance was to attention, the golden tunic and black trousers of his Starfleet Command uniform immaculately tidy, clinging to his lean, lithe form, showing the outline of taut muscle beneath. "Sir." The barest, slightest inclination of his head showed an understanding of the command. His short cut, ivory white hair stirred as he turned and moved with easy grace to take the Captain's chair, managing, somehow, to stand to attention even whilst seated. The lingering, feverish heat of the human was slightly strange, though easily ignored, his chill flesh helped to dispel any radiant warmth quite easily.<br/><br/>He had adapted to the various troubles of being surrounded by aliens, the rank odour of perspiration and their loud, braying voices. Diversity was vital to the wellbeing of the Federation, but even a strictly logical creature was entitled to a sense of discomfort in a strange environment. There was good reason that Vulcans alone were permitted to staff Starfleet vessels with entirely Vulcan crews, they were a breed that functioned best when courteously detached from their comrade species.<br/><br/>The standing orders were sufficient for the current situation, so he remained silent. His energies were devoted to observing the rest of the crew and the instruments, watchful and wary for any signs of danger or distress. Pessimism was not a trait he possessed, but his logic had a touch of what a Terran would call cynicism, and he had learned that trouble was an inevitability, even in the vast, and seemingly empty, galaxy.