The beam on Dylan's force lance sweeps across the rubble-filled cave, catching Irian in its glow. She coughs a couple more times, experimentally, clearing her throat, before pushing herself a bit gingerly away from the wall. A thin layer of dust coats her clothing, her hair is halfway out of its ponytail, and there's a rivulet of emerald blood running down the left side of her neck, but she looks alert, conscious of her surroundings.

"I'm well," she says, dismissing his concern in the brisk manner of someone unused to, and disliking, showing weakness of any sort in front of strangers. Her voice is raspy, and she tries swallowing to moisten her throat, though it's fruitless at this stage.

"Perhaps I should have anticipated something like this would go wrong."

It's not self-deprecating, not really; she's cursing herself a little for not having had the forethought to bring her tricorder, which would have been immensely helpful in a situation like this one. But her words are more an ironic reflection on the fact that not even a seemingly uneventful tour like this can go by without something disastrous happening.