[There's a random melodic jingle as she pages through the ship's diagnostic information, the small charms at her wrist and elbow clinking faintly off one another. To her credit, Cathway does tip her attention toward the knight on the gunship's ramp. The mottled sheet of her grey hair falls forward over her narrow shoulder; she's rather small and narrow looking for a creature of power, and when she looks at Seviilia there's a frankness to her attention that seems (briefly) grounded.]

Not here. You probably know what happened to them better than we do.

[She offers up a smile:]

Can we do anything to help you be comfortable here? We rarely have hosts like you.

[She's very cold. Reeks of death in a way that belongs to her. That's... uncommon.]