Tyhr was indeed proud of having her talents be recognised by her employers. Almost like a cat, she liked the attention paid to her by her masters. However, she had her own preferences of when she liked to be noticed, and she did not like to be noticed halfway up in the skysea, trapped on a moving block of wood, metal and steam, with no way to run or hide, and the only option out of this particular lesson of the day was to drop out, literally. The fact that she was not going to be taking home a prize to skin, bleach and hang on her growing collection had yet to be factored in as well. Added to that was her entourage. True, she liked companionship, but not on a hunt. They served to distract and, on occasion, eat a dart or three meant for her target. There was also absolutely nothing to do on an airship. She could hear the other Baraki down at the hold, sharpening his swords incessantly, as if he could magically cut air apart after enough of the same action. Good for him, if that was what he was into. She, on the other hand, savoured every moment she was on the trail of her hunt. In the void that was the skysea, she was experiencing nothing. It was annoying. The smell of her hunt lingered temptingly in the air, and she was so deliciously close to her objective, but there was nothing she could do about it. Patience was not a virtue she possessed. 

And then there was the issue with her companions. Wolfy made it very clear that he did not have any interest in her jokes, seeing as he growled at her prize-winning "cutting edge technology" one. Growls usually did not mean appreciation, as she had learned from first-hand experience in a chance encounter with another of his kind. Quite the opposite. The Ashan was nice enough to her, mostly, but she couldn't shake the feeling of condescendence that emanated from him every time he spoke. Not that she minded. Her lack of a birthright to anything at all made sure she had healthy doses of being viewed as a being lower than everyone. There was her best buddy captain of the ship, Shuda. He was an Arkard, which said enough about his attitude towards her jolly-making. The final addition to the fine crew of this ship was of Imperial employ, just as she was. Also like her, she was a hunter of sorts, with more focus on stealth and espionage than tricksy tools and murder. Tyhr kept a few select darts and traps just for her. 

With boredom setting in, she ran a check on her equipment before the coroner could diagnose her as the first death caused by the dullness of it all. She clenched her fist, and her claws extended outwards with a nigh-muffled click. She released, and the claws slid back into the gauntlet, just as soundlessly as they had appeared. They had never jammed on her before, and she never thought they would, and the practice now seemed a little useless. She stretched out her hand and curled her fingers in, depressing a button located at the edge of her palm, near the wrist. A small indentation on her gauntlet, between the claws, sprang open, and fired a single dart forwards, hitting the wooden railing that overlooked the gaping nothing beneath the ship. She reached forwards and extracted the poisoned projectile, turning it over in her hands. A glint of toxic green at the side of the dart's silver casing made her laugh derisively.

"Whoops." She wrenched the storage of darts open and unloaded the cartridge within. It would be quite a pain if she fired one of these at today's hunt. A pain, that is, for both the recipient, and her ears when Bela was done with his nagging. At the very least, it was a comfort that the former would die very painfully, grasping and clawing at their own forms, attempting to rid their body of the feeling of a million needles being pushed very slowly into them. No amount of skin and flesh torn would save them, however. A rather sad way to go. She tossed the cartridge aside, having done with her reminiscing of the last victim of the darts, and fished out another one. She loaded this one in, and snapped the storage shut. Anaesthesia. Takes about 5 minutes to kick in, less if heart rate was increased, such as in a situation where, say, the victim was fighting for his life or scared out of his wits. Their movement would slow, their actions more clumsy, and their peripheral vision narrow, before they finally stop entirely. Tyhr toyed with the idea of increasing the dose to stop their hearts from beating as well, but stopped abruptly when the ship's speakers emitted the sound she had been wanting to hear since departure. She pulled her short sword out of the woodwork, sheathing it behind her, as she scrambled to her feet. The sound of harpoons being fired, and the reply of their targets having been met made her blood rush through her body. She sprinted around the side of the ship, and looked on as the Hunter's Ship drew in close. 

This was the feeling she loved. The thrill she missed so much coursing through her every bone. The thrill of the hunt.