It takes a second for Raistlin's understanding of what "plane" means to replace Kerrigan's, and a look of confusion flashes across her face when she tries to comprehend how someone can be native to an aircraft.

"Plane—oh, universe." Her expression clears as she fits what he's thinking into her own conception of reality. "No. I'm not local. Very not local."

She crouches to get her knife back into its sheath, then decides to stay there, letting one leg dangle and hugging a knee to her chest. His thoughts seem to float on a strange layer of defensiveness, but on the surface they speak to a sensible caution, not hostility. She doesn't need to worry about him, not immediately.

Besides, if she's wrong, Kerrigan's certain she can have a knife in his throat before he can get off any of that magic crap.