Of course, of course. In that case, she will return to await her transportation. 

The corridors of the locomotive are cramped for someone seven feet tall. The cabin she is shown to by the Reckless Bounty-Hunter is small, with frost riming the windows and beds that fold down from the wall. Steam machinery of various types, tools, guns, storage cupboards, and pipes occupy almost available space inside the craft, with an engine room at the rear and pilot house at the front. She sees a hammock strung up in a small empty space with coal dust in it, and a rat carrying a wrench on its back scurrying on one of the pipes overhead.

"London, and no further," he gruffly declares. "We'll be going to the Steam and Sapphire yards for armor refits, and maybe Caminus Yards after that to see about weapon upgrades. And I'll expect you to fight for us in the case of boarders. Should be unlikely."

She doesn’t love the small space, but it’s only for a few days; she’ll deal. Very Gnomish-looking, really, with all the steam-based technology.

She politely nods to the Reckless Bounty Hunter. “That sounds reasonable.”

Well. She doesn’t need to sleep, but it’s plausibly good for her, it’ll prevent her from being even more bored, and it’ll make her seem less odd than she already is. Sure, she’ll take a bunk, please. Are there any other passengers or idle crew who’d perhaps be amenable to a game of cards?

She doesn’t even notice the chill. 

As the engine rumbles steadily to life and lifts off, there's a good eight feet of table space in the galley, including four off-duty crew playing cards.

A soot-stained stoker glares at her suspiciously. But she's doing the same to the other card-players. They do all seem a little wary, though. Conversation freezes. Drinks are set down.

…Honestly? This is definitely one of the better receptions she’s received. It’s about typical of what she got as a Draenei before she died.

She can’t actually manage non-creepy, and it didn’t occur to her to take her armor off, dashing pretty much any attempt at genuinely non-intimidating. But she can sit down, to make her height less noticeable, and slouch a tiny bit, and politely ask where they got those drinks and if any are available for a traveler who’s “bored enough her horns are going to fall off.”

She can’t manage normal. She hasn’t been able to for a long time now. But she’ll make an attempt, and hopefully sufficient money will make up for the rest.

"Coop-"

"Cap'n said normal rations for her, which is one dram a day. You can trade or bet 'em."

“Huh. You playing for stakes right now, and is there room for another?”

"I'll trade you a dram for a dessert," the Sooty Stoker manages. "Another for the rest of a meal. Don't drink."

"Let us finish the round, we can deal you in. No crying about not knowing the rules."

(A Nervous Signaler promptly begins explaining the rules, to the general exasperation of the others.)