A few arms-lengths away, a neighboring table holds a pair of ragged-looking miscreants drinking their sorrows and failures into oblivion. They, and nearly everyone else in the bar, are unaware of the almost imperceptible ripple of blurred air on the opposite side of their table, a short distance behind Rogue Trader Cortez and the rest of his entourage. Between Arkhah Traak's natural chameleonic skin and the chameleoline cloak shrouding his equipment, the Kroot warrior was the next best thing to invisible as he half-crouched with his eyes keenly scanning the room, particularly those gathered close to his employer. Had he not been concealed, any observers would have noted a wafer-thin layer of mesh armor over his tribal leathers and the meticulously cared-for long-las rifle hung over his lanky shoulders, the barrel and hilt each modified to mount a wicked-looking curved blade like the pulse rifles his people were known for.<br/><br/>Instinctively, he tenses as the black-clad man approaches Cortez, and his head crest twitched as he caught the whispered words of the human steerswoman Sarah. With a lithe movement, he slid the bladed sniper rifle into a two-handed staff grip, ready to intervene if any threat was offered against the rogue trader.