Naturally Thane glances back to confirm the lack of physical form. "Hm. A useful skill," he appraises with a nod of his head, taking note of the obvious pleasure Loki seems to derive from the thought of his strategic deceit. With no judgement, of course. This kind of thing was an art form.

"For decades," he mulls over thoughtfully. "Then you are an artist of camouflage, it would seem." He is clearly proud of his skills, and with that kind of pride tends to come a particular way of execution — smooth like a thick layer of paint over a canvas. Granted pride could also cause one to barrel ahead ungracefully like a drunken Krogan, but Loki didn't seem the type from what he's observed thus far.