Nightime's flyers feel their pains

"Haven't seen the two of you this tired in a while," Elma comments wryly as Mòrag and Brighid settle down onto the barracks couch, their postures not graced with any additional "decorum" but instead resembling wholesale slouch into each other, folded knees not even achieving parallel.

Brighid rolls her eyes in Elma's direction (invisibly but comprehensibly). "Brass are one thing, indigens another. But when both of us are called to handle the other's specialty..." she trails off.

Mòrag's hand drifts up, waving sharp negation: "You saw nothing."

Elma smiles. Alright, but that means no one saw her join in either.