A single figure currently occupies the bridge of the Faux. Seven feet tall, check. Paws, pointed ears, and tail, check. Considering there's only one Demarian on board, it's more than likely Swiftfoot. The felinoid eyes the viewscreen somewhat dubiously, watching the landing pad goings-on. It's the aroma of tea that precedes her, the strong, but pleasant scent of Russian black which seems to accompany the kapitan wherever she goes. A moment later, she enters the bridge, Jack (the dog) at her heel. "Anyone taking aim at us?" The other three and the Caravan class remain where they are.