Marcella
If Marcella was frightened in the situation, she wasn't showing it. A benefit to her willpower was hiding her emotions when she wanted to, as she looked above towards the ceiling - and the apparent explosives lining the inside - with an impassive face, before drawing her eyes back up to Drimmle. The truth was the butterflies were in her guts, ricocheting off the walls of her trim waist like ballbearings - but she knew how important it was to project confidence.
The ornate laspistol. The big guy with the heavy stubber. The detonator. The...Hexogrammic ward! It took all the willpower she had not to smile as if she had seen an old friend. The wards were formidable obstacles, but the Psyker knew they weren't perfect. She wasn't a little 10 year old girl on the Black Ships anymore, someone untrained and unpolished for whom such a deterrent would be assured compliance. This time, she believed, if she needed to, she could overcome.
"So, does Lord Durchiss know that you spoke to us last time?" she asked, her voice a bit quieter, more serious, "because I venture to guess he wouldn't be too happy knowing that you're the weak link in his operation. The Inquisitor was disappointed to learn that Durchiss was involved but, the wheels are in motion. Still, you know how the Lords operate, he'll need a scapegoat, someone to throw to the wolves..." she looked at Drimmle, the implication clear that it would be him.
Marcella's own voice would slide into the back of Milos head, speaking to him telepathically:
'Don't...he has the advantage right now...you'll get us all killed...be patient...'