"Unfortunately, I am quite nearly useless."

She sits in the chair, hands pressed against the desk as if it only her force of will can keep it from lifting off the floor. Already, her palms ache and her fingers have started to tingle, but that's good! It means her hands are carefully staying still, and not clenching and unclenching in her lap, or itching to take up the spear neatly leaned against one corner of the office. Still is good. Still isn't threatening. Still has a chance of convincing him she can't be turned to violence.

Pace, damn you. Fiddle with a pen. Walk back and forth in front of your wall of books--run scaly fingers across the layer of dust across their tops, pick through the titles.  Do [i]something[/i] other than stare at her, something except examine her like a butterfly on a pin.

"Certainly useless as a weapon," she bites out, "considering my bodyguard track record."

She hasn't been down to that part of the ship since Barassidar, and she still refuses to look at the jar.

"I will admit to being curious what possible use you could have for us. A failed dictator and the guard who betrayed him? You must have a reason to seek out a couple of has-beens like ourselves."