Wash can feel the eyes of those armsmen on him, sees them out of the corner of his eye, recognizes the livery from the time he's spent with Gavalas -- Vorbarra colors of some kind, he'd always assumed. He doesn't look at them, though, is more than practiced at ignoring a dirty look or a scathing murmur, keeping his eyes on the man in front of him, instead. Piotr did send him. To the Emperor. Wash isn't quite so helpless as to not understand there's significance, in that, even if he's just acting as messenger. He straightens as he's acknowledged, a curt, sharp nod.

"He did, sir." An outsider, when he could've easily sent another. Not for a particularly delicate task, but still. Some pause before he hands over what he was given, some piece of correspondence, not anything he's privy to know about. "And I'm to take back a response, as well."

His task done there's a slight curiosity in his eyes now, with the way he glances around the tent briefly ( and still distinctly not directly at Dorca's armsmen ), at whatever might be spread out across Dorca's table. What does an Emperor get up to, down here with the grit and dirt? His understanding of titles like that is likely outdated, but he associates that more with someone lording over armies from afar rather than being right in the trench alongside them. He's half a mind to comment on the drills he saw Dorca leading, but ah, not yet, right. He's technically still waiting on instruction.