It's never a guaranteed thing that Ingrid will decide to enforce her vision of a perfect mercenary unit on the world on any given day.  It is an inevitable thing, though.

A short distance away from the crowd assembled by Ziska's 'mech, the trademark warning of a clattering saber hilt against a belt came.  Strutting forward like a military inspector critical of all she saw, the Duchess was wearing the House uniform - and nothing but, to her chagrin.  It was too cold to wear the heavy metal of the cuirass, and the lack of protection gave a clear view of the wrinkles forming in her outfit.

Ordinarily, it was perfectly straightened and smooth, almost inhumanly so - but since she's taken care of it herself in this cave, her grooming's gotten worse.  Her boots remain polished, though it must've been...no, looking at them closer, she's clearly done it [i]just[/i] before she walked up to here.

Despite their brief discussion earlier, there was going to be no salvation for Ziska today.  With how she looked to the side and huffed before she spoke, she was clearly [i]trying[/i] to contain her indignant anger.  Few would get this sort of grace.  She put one hand on her hip and one in the air, and shouted [color=SteelBlue]"ZISKA!  Lowering yourself from Mechwarrior to the level of a mere taxi driver!  You are a better person than to charge for rides."[/color]

[color=SteelBlue]"And [i]you,"[/i][/color] she turned her finger to Tarak, [color=SteelBlue]"get your mind on preparation instead of simplistic dalliances - the right to be beheld by your courtier is the right of the victor, not the one yet to win!  Which is to say, let her work and get thyself to better pursuits!"[/color]

That one she wasn't even contemplating before she got here; she just managed to see Tarak's mock goo-goo eyes being thrown Reya's way and decided she was going to be more of a problem.