The surroundings are not incredibly promising. There is a flat slab of glassy stone, a small platform slightly sheltered from swirling, roaring winds and mists being sucked continuously in a vast clockwise cyclone, down, down, into a great chasm - along with bits of debris. Huge spikes of black ice poke up from below. Lightning crackles. 

There is a narrow spur extending out over the chasm. And upon it, a pitted cast iron gazebo. There are a few wind-worn caves in the walls near the platform. Humanoid figures emerge from them, red-eyed and curious. There is a large, misshappen stone full of holes that a lone figure seems to be worshipping. The wind is cold. The light above is strange-coloured, and obscured by mists and the storm.

That appears to be all.

A local equivalent to the Maelstrom, and a research crew, perhaps? In any case, is it possible to reach the caves without falling into said Maelstrom, or does she just have to await rescue? 

It's entirely possible to reach all the mentioned objects without much risk.

She’ll be cautious, she has no desire to fall into whatever that is. When she gets reasonably close, she gives a friendly wave.

”Hello. I have been stranded here, and intend you and yours no harm.”

These figures attempt to communicate in sign. They seem fascinated by her eyes and horns. Their own eyes glow slightly - red or amber-gold, mostly. They otherwise seem quite similar to humans in appearance. They are dressed in wind-ravaged fineries of some kind- Red and white coats and blue capes all frayed at the edges from the wind, flapping in the winds even now.

Soon, they attempt singing. The noises they produce are clearly not human noises. But this is not a language she understands either.

They don't seem especially upset or urgent about it, though.

Glowing red eyes are often a sign of fel corruption, but the undead eredar really isn’t someone who should be judging people for that, and they don’t seem hostile. The singing reminds her a little of the Naaru, but that’s more homesickness than any non-superficial similarity.

If they’re paying attention to her eyes and horns, and not the fact that she occasionally forgets to breathe, that’s likely a positive development, in all honesty. They aren’t running and screaming about demons, nor the Scourge, so it’s really a very friendly first contact.

She’ll ask them how far a safe distance is from the edge of the… whatever… is, though. Hopefully they can understand her.

Two of the ragged-clothed figures look at each other, then pace off about five paces between them and gesture at her.

Then, they all have a brief sign conversation and head out as a group to the cast-iron gazebo out on a prominence of rock. Perhaps they intend on a performance.

She’ll cautiously follow them, unless they seem like they’re trying to shoo her away. She’s going to continue being exceedingly cautious about the whirlpool, though; she doesn’t trust that the winds won’t pick up suddenly.

From out on the spur of rock, the depths of the chasm are a slight big clearer. The winds roar above and around, but are just a bit gentler here, on the platform.

It is a great circular pit, seeming to descend in darkness forever. It seems to exude some kind of primal cold, and the sight down the greedy gullet is... Wrong. Too deep, too cold, too hungry. Spikes of twisted black ice line the mouth of the thing, and deep within, there is a faint sensation of something moving. Something you might be able to see clearer if you step a bit closer to the edge...... And if you stare for long, there is a hint of a wild, enticing notion to fling yourself into the depths and fall, forever.

The procession of devils proceeds across a narrow span of rock and assembles on their worm metal stage. And then they sing. Their lips are motionless, their mouths hanging slackly open. Buzzing plainsong pours from their throats. The notes are scattered across the scale, creating only a tenuous harmony.

Slowly, they begin to shuffle in what might be a dance. Its movements are performed only with the feet. The patterns are unclear, complex, and executed with the exhausted devotion of priests performing vital rites. The well's wail drowns out their song from further than a few meters distant, but they persist.

If she watches long enough, though, eventually it becomes clear that the winds around the chasm are quiescing. Relatively.

She might be much more resistant to void corruption than an equivalent living person, but that sure doesn’t make tempting fate a good idea. She takes a stop back and carefully doesn’t look at it directly, after the first sign.

This is perhaps some sort of guard force, then, for a prison or potential portal. Or they could be doing ill-advised research. That happens, sometimes.

Whatever their role is, they’re clearly skilled shamans, to keep the winds calmer in such an area. Assuming that’s what’s happening. They don’t appear to be doing anything to make the maybe-void problem worse, at least, so they probably aren’t shadow cultists.

Assuming nobody attempts any human sacrifices and the well doesn’t start sprouting tentacles, she’ll bow respectfully to them when they finish their rites, and will wait until they return before starting to ask practical questions, like if the presence of the whirlpool is actively malevolent, if it’s liable to escape, and if there’s likely to be a transport to somewhere a bit more inhabited within a week or two.

The first question gets a hand-waving uncertainty sort of gesture. The second gets a head-shake and again an uncertainty marker. The third one gets a firm nod and an indication of a large flat area of the landing. Whatever sort of thing might arrive, though, it's not here now.

.......With the winds receding, she can see patches of star-laden bright nebula, through some of the thinner patches of the weakening storm.

Maybe, probably not, and yes. Not an imminent problem, then.

She’ll narrow down the time frame for transportation if possible - she has to worry about contingencies much more if it’s two weeks than two days, after all - but that’s also relieving. She’ll ask around if anyone needs any odd jobs done, or at least any that can be communicated through her very limited vocabulary, they seem nice enough to offer her services to, seeing as she doesn’t have anything else to do. If they don’t, then the time’s going to be spent working on various sewing projects and exploring the area.

There is really not much to do here. It's rather a desolate place. 

Luckily, the narration is permitted to skip a substantial amount of tedium. The distant nebula and stars darken to indicate a night, and then brighten to indicate a day.

A bit after that, a bright headlamp is visible in the distance. A large steel artifice is making its way towards the Well, chugging along steadily. It steadily grows larger over the course of an hour, emitting steam from a chimney and thrusters at the rear. It's not really behaving as if it is subject to gravity, in some ways, maintaining a steady altitude for the most part without any indication of upward thrust. And yet it weaves through the air, hauling to the left to counter the still potent winds around the chasm.

The thing is about a hundred feet long and thirty wide, a battle scarred construction in the image of a steam locomotive, with gleaming wooden panelling and worn steel structure. The control room has blood red stained glass panels, with figures visible piloting it inside, just behind the actinic glare of the headlight.

Still fighting the wind, the steel ship settles onto the stone with only minor scraping and clatter, the chugging of an engine quieting and dying as it lands. Shortly after this, a large door is opened near the rear of the craft, and an even dozen men and women in rumpled blue uniforms start manhandling something out.

An iron box the size of a dinner table, bloodstained and dented, glowing with sullen indecipherable sigils burnt into the surface, heavy iron chain wrapped around and around and around it. It thumps and lurches as she watches. Its mere presence seems to agitate the winds. 

They begin proceeding towards the edge of the landing with it, overseen by a Smiling Cutter bearing a grin that doesn't reach her eyes, knife-shaped earrings, a long dark coat that is simply screaming 'hidden weapons' and the roughish gait of someone left of the law and not particularly bothering to hide it.

..that seems both evil and dangerous. She won’t go on the offensive unless the locals are protesting, though, they know the situation better than her.

She’ll still approach the obvious rogue to ask a few questions, though. If the plan is good, it’s probably safer for her to carry the thing than anyone else here, and she could manage the work of several of them.

”What is that, and what is the intent behind dropping it into the” she hesitates here, before gesturing vaguely at the whirlwind-shrouded abyss “that.”

They seem to be all humans. The Devils are not objecting, just watching curiously.

She drawls in a lanky accent. "...Bein' as we are two strangers meeting at an inopportune time and place and under admittedly unideal circumstances and conditions, I must regrettably decline to provide much of an explanation beyond what is obvious and clearly visible. That being the fact that we are disposing of a certain matter which should not be particularly dwelled on, as both I and my benefactors would rather it be simply forgotten here amongst the hungry ice an' winds along with all the other detritus, prisoners, monstrosities, debris, and other such calumnies which the well of the wolf has swallowed over the years. My captain and I will both thank you quite warmly not to inquire further on the matter and prune away any curiosity as regards certain things which are best not spoken of or seen. I am sure we are both civil people and this matter can be closed without any especial hard feelings or regrets. I similarly hope that we will be able to reach a fortuitous agreement on matters which do not relate to the aforementioned one which should be ignored, and perhaps grow in acquaintanceship an' business relations for such things as passage away from this frankly awful and desolate place."

Something about the long-winded explanation is an obvious social signal, or possibly a hidden message. That much is clear just from long experience. But the details of what it implies are unknown in this foreign place.

Ah, they're disposing of something. Well, if the guardians of this place don't have an issue with it, than she doesn't have any specific objections, although it seems sort of dubious as a policy.

Halraan forces herself to physically relax, as much as is possible for her. Her voice, when she speaks, is something close to friendly, but both oddly monotone and  echos strangely.

"Of course. If your workers do not require their assistance, I would be remiss to interfere in your operations. Where is your destination, and how soon do you expect to reach it?

"While the vagaries and demands of the sky and the whims and plans of my captain are not fully known to me, at this time we are bound back to the jewel of Albion, that being London, the capital city and where the Traitor Empress reigns, and I do not see any particular reason for us to go elsewhere, largely upon consideration of the state of our fuel reserves, which is currently insufficient for a longer reaching voyage. If the winds are fair and we are not imperiled or menaced by any unfortunate events it ought to be a very simple and kindly two day cruise. Am I to understand that you would like to request such passage?"

“I would indeed, although I must regretfully say I lack any local currency. Does gold have value for your people, or should I attempt to barter?”

"Gold does indeed retain significant value for its rarity, luster, and historical usage as a store of value, even if in these modern days the reforms and new currencies in circulation have somewhat decoupled such things from general circulation. I would personally be delighted to obtain a quantity of gold at an only slightly usurious rate from one who does not have very many options. I do also admit to some measure of curiosity as to your physical nature, that being different from the races of people with which I am familiar, even if it is akin to the forms of humans and the Rubbery Men and the guises which are preferred by those Devils which have the predilections to interact with human society."

She laughs, startled, at the woman’s candor.

”I am a draenei, although I expect that to mean very little to you. Some sort of… unforeseen portal interaction sent me here, and my kind are few in number, so your unfamiliarity does not surprise me. I have indeed not met a rubbery man or devil myself, unless the guardians of this place are one of the aforementioned, but I have seen humans before.”

Which is, frankly, odd, and is making her suspect some sort of alternate timeline nonsense rather than the simple, if disastrous, possibility of being on another planet, or what remains of one.

She gets out her purse as she talks, and counts out ten golden coins, raising an eyebrow at the Smiling Cutter. “They aren’t pure, I’m afraid, but they’re more gold than not, still.”

One develops a sense for these things, if one bends their will and wit towards it. She carefully inspects one of the coins, if permitted to handle it, and then declares:

"For these ten I am inclined to offer you the sum of twenty Sovereigns which will buy ship's provisions sufficient to feed twenty 'ungry souls for a day or two, and an argument on my behalf towards my captain, who is oft indulgent to me in minor requests such as this, as to your passage to London. Having no desire to inquire as to your nature and business here in this dreadful place in a mirror to our likewise desire to be left to our business, I shall not inquire into your goals or nature. Know that you may face some perhaps undeserved scrutiny and mistrust from certain quarters, largely on account of the glowiness of the eyes, which rarely signifies qualities amenable to civilized interaction among beings of this broken sky."

“I gladly accept your terms, then,” Halraan says, agreeably, handing over the coinage.

Really, that’s pretty generous! Sure, she could probably get a better deal at a moneychanger, but usurious seems extreme. 

Sovereigns are apparently gold and silver coins inset with bits of gems - no, stained glass. This one bears a woman's face on one side and a man's on the reverse. This one bears an image of a throne with a strange machine haloing it and patterning of dead branches. This one shows a palace.

"That being one ten-sovs, one five-sov, and five one-sov shall make up the total sum of twenty. Thus I believe the simple transaction is concluded and I shall leave you to your ruminations as I oversee our business here and reassure the crew and so on and so forth. I assure you we are likely to depart within the hour."

Halraan nods her head gratefully towards the Smiling Cutter, pockets the coins after a cursory examination, and heads off to give her farewells to the locals. Do they accept donations, for their valuable work? She has money now, if they do.

No, no. Keep your Sovereigns. We have our pride, and our duty.

Is what they would say, if they had proper voices. Perhaps the gist can be transmitted anyway.

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.)

She doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to eat, although she does enjoy it, and the alcohol will have basically no effect unless she’s actually drinking something a step away from paint thinner. She’s using it to fit in with the crowd right now, so, sure, she’ll take that trade!

She’s decent at card-counting and has a hell of a poker face, but she’s also attempting to read the facial expressions of literal aliens, doesn’t play cards that often, and just learned the rules. She’ll fake a few tells, but she’s a pretty mediocre player.

Really, she's better company than the Shades of the Dead. Or that one guy who they still think was actually some sort of fungus. Or the Rubbery Man. You can't understand a word they say- Wrong mouth parts, see. They'll say as much as the conversation warms up again, gossip and sky stories that are probably exaggerated.

Anyway, what brings her aboard? What's she hoping for in London- Anything more than 'not be stuck at a bloody Well'?

She will not, actually, laugh at the comment comparing her to the shades of the dead. She does not often laugh without intent any more. And even when she does, it tends to sound ominous, and she is trying to be friendly. But she is very amused.

Work, hopefully, and indeed, not being at a Well. She generally does mercenary work as a melee combatant. She doesn’t suppose they know of any leads on that?

There's not a whole lot of call for melee combat in their line of work. Someone mutters something vague about gangs.

Well, she’s heard word of boarders sometimes, but yes, she may have to go into bounty hunting or some such. She will politely ignore mutters about gangs, it didn’t sound like a particularly serious suggestion. 

If nothing interrupts her, she’ll play for a few more hours, and then go and get her recommended few hours of sleep. She’ll try for more, but she doubts she’ll be that lucky.

...Hey, quick question.

Does she wake when the cannon fire starts?

No, but that’s because she was lying awake morosely staring at the wall rather than sleeping!

Does she have time to get her armor on? Can she hear any yelling? Alarms?

There's a loud steam whistle a moment after those distant thumps register, and then a voice calling out, "All hands man your battle stations, all hands man your battle stations!"

Running footsteps and activity in the halls. The ship pitches around. Machinery sounds and more distant thumps. As the ship wheels around, she can see another sky-ship out her porthole, for a bare moment. It's a raggedy and piratical looking thing, all shattered windows and dubious metal. Streaks of smoke trail projectiles as they arc towards her carriage.

And then the much more immediate thump of, presumably, return fire from this vessel, accompanied by deep vibrations in the hull. She has time to get her armor on.

That sounds like it’s probably not boarders then, which is probably a good thing overall, no matter how personally unfortunate.

Her ranged attacks are things of meters, and don’t work through walls besides. She’ll follow the direction of the crowd, hopefully to someone coordinating the situation.

The corridors are cramped and full of men and women moving with purpose.

She is quickly located by the obvious rogue, who is carrying some sort of large metal sphere with prongs sticking out of it.

"These are poor sods, maddened by starlight. You'll see that they're better off put out of their misery. When we disable their locomotive, want to be part of the boarding party in exchange for the chance to pocket something smallish? I am reducin' the chance that one of my good friends comes down with a nasty case of bullet or shiv in the belly, see."

There is a rushing burst of steam in a loud hiss, and then a resounding crunch-clang.

"Don't worry, that sounded minor."

“That sounds well within my skillset. I’ll do so gladly.”

"Grand. You can run shells from the bunker to the front gun if you're so inclined, spare Trev and Melanine some breath. We don't want to keep any that aren't about to be fired in the gun cupola, see, in case it takes a direct hit and cooks off. That'd be it for us. Just decide quick, I have a special delivery for our non-friends." Pat pat the sphere.

She nods, briskly, before identifying her cargo, lifting a crate, and goes. 

A horse would be unwieldy in this space. But a death knight can go quickly, and they don’t tire, no matter how fast they run. She isn’t going her top speed, not in a crowded space, but she can definitely move shells faster than any living human could without exhausting themselves.

The gun crew certainly appreciate it, firing from the frontal compartment of this oversized locomotive, right where the curved outer hull imitates a boiler and right above the pilot house hidden behind its 'plow'. They're calling out corrections and instructions in a fast shouted gunners' cant- And eventually even have her slow down a bit as they bide their shots.

She has a somewhat decent view of the battle here, through narrow gunhouse glass sights. The bounty-hunter's ship is doing its best to keep the enemy forward of itself and keep itself out of the other engine's forward arc... And managing quite well overall, or so it seems.

And then- There's a bloom of orange, and a sudden rush of cheering and the sound of three bells, slow, through the ship. The crew around her celebrate- Another kill tally for the Sooty Sledgehammer! Now, quick, don your sky-suits before they break up entirely-!

(Sky-suits appear to be heavy burlap and fiber sacks with rope mounting points primarily intended to fight the fierce cold of the outside.)

She’s not done this before, but she’s entirely capable of both following instructions and putting on safety gear, and will do so.

Halraan is dead. She is walking around. Law-light generally disagrees with this.

However, the light of the stars is distant, here. Halraan does not instantly disintegrate into dust, a fact that she appreciates.

She will, however, develop a sunburn.

It would be different, perhaps, if the light of Albion were not what it now is.

The distant glow of the Clockwork Sun, refracted and reflected off titanic architecture and enormous stones and great clouds of dust and smoke, is little more trouble than a faint itch. The light of further-away suns is the same- Too diluted, too dim, none claiming this particular region as their right and proper domain to rule and shine upon.

The feeling is akin to some vast, distant thing vaguely disapproving of her existence in a general, undirected manner. Nothing new. Enough to be problematic over hours, days, weeks.

The wreck of the star-maddened explorer is a fairly ghastly thing. Rust and broken glass. Several bodies spilling out into the sky. Graffiti painted in blue and red and brown and black, of eyes, of teeth, of claws, of diagrams and sigils that hurt ever so slightly to look at.

She wants to be the first into that place? They'll gladly let her.

She's met, first, with a woman wielding a pipe wrench and kitchen cleaver, eyes bloodshot and desperate, moving with an utter lack of hesitation or restraint and a rictus grin to decapitate her.

The sigils aren’t going to hurt her. Maybe if she stared at them for a few hours.

A women with a knife and a bludgeoning weapon is also very unlikely to be able to hurt her. For one, she’s wearing armor. For two, she has been fighting demons for over ten millennia. And people mindlessly attacking with no caution are not usually particularly skilled fighters.

Killing her does remove her budding sunburn, at least. Also the ever-gnawing pain eating away at her remaining sanity, often compared to hunger for lack of a better metaphor. For a moment, at least. Her shoulders visibly relax, before she remembers herself and tenses up again.

They’re people, then, which makes sense. She’ll do the decent thing and request the star-maddened surrender first. She doesn’t expect it’ll work, but one never succeeds without trying.

No, no, you don't understand, the work, if he just finishes the work it will fix everything, he needs eyes-

Fuck you, sky-demon, you may have replaced everyone else but you'll never take her alive-

They'll pay, they'll all pay, he has a tally of every insult and slight and will return them with interest-

Friends, he wants to give you the GIFT of LIBERATION, does your skeleton not cry out to be free-

There's gunfire and more sword clashes elsewhere as others follow her aboard.

The ruined vessel is groaning and creaking alarmingly. Loud reverberating twangs and pings echo through the hull. To the magazine? To the engine room? To the galley? Search the quarters? Pick quickly.

Eye guy will be pointed to the convenient nearby corpse, which also contains eyes, and is much less likely to object to their loss.

Being called a sky demon is a very familiar and very unwelcome experience, no matter how understandable. Also, she did request death, if indirectly.

Revenge guy sounds like not her problem if he doesn’t attack. If he does attack, then he clearly can’t tell apart his targets. 

No, her skeleton is fine, thank you. He will be politely thanked for his concern, and swiftly killed if he attempts to liberate any skeletons.

She’ll look for the captain’s room, or anything office-like. Out of sheer habit, she’ll go for any paperwork she sees, but she’s also on the lookout for any safes that could potentially be picked up and carried, to be unlocked later at her leisure. 

Well, eyes guy is going to panic and start babbling apologies try to beg her to take him aboard the ship, actually... The expressions of her fellow boarding party members indicate that they Do Not Like This Idea Much.

The other three turn violent, and lose. Well, sky demons lady manages to clip her torso armor with a shotgun...

The captain's cabin does indeed have a few different sets of papers, and a safe!

The groaning and creaking of the hull is growing steadily worse. Boarding party members are, at the order of the captain, running crates of coal from the engine room to the gangway, where the rogue and captain are helping relay the loot.

"I'll not contest the safe if you give up the papers, Deadly Knight," the captain says to her. "Surprising sometimes what can be useful in that lot, but has to be looked over and the rambles ignored."

If her armor couldn’t take a bullet, it wouldn’t exist by now. She’ll point the guy over to the captain to sort out while she grabs her loot.

She can’t use the papers, so that seems fair. …any chance she can bargain a bed, for her… new friend here, as well?

...Fine, her 'friend' can come aboard. They'll see how he is after a hearty meal and a good sleep. It's often a bad idea, though.

Oh- Abandon ship! The hull is starting to break up, the piercing cold of the heavens and accumulated battle damage shattering floors and walls, twisting pipes and blowing out what remained of this engine's bones. It's no longer safe here. Everybody off, and submit to a head count as you come back aboard so they're sure they've got everyone!

Right. Papers go to the Captain, and she’ll go see what sort of lock this safe has.

The mood is a little forced-celebratory. Victory! Don't mind the star-madness. It's not like it could happen to us. The Captain's got a good head on his shoulders, and the ship is solid.

The safe's lock is a badly maintained dirt cheap 3 tumbler design. She could probably just wrench the door open, really.

Halraan gets a bit burned on the way back, as well. She solves this by doing… something… involving some golden light and then a few muttered swear words. 

She’ll check that it’s actually locked, first, and then cut through…

No, actually, now that she’s thinking about it, that’s definitely more attention grabbing than wrenching the door. She’ll do that, actually.

The metal's objections to this treatment are insufficient to overcome the advantages of undeath and leverage.

Inside is mostly a smattering of coins- Soverigns, five-sovs, half-sovs, pence, and one ten-sov. Coming out to about 44, in addition to the 20 she was given earlier.

The scrap is probably worth something too, but perhaps not much given the sight she can now see out her porthole- A vast industrial edifice of rusting metal and still machinery. The distant thump and clatter of a more active section, swabbed by clouds in the distance, shows that only some, not all, of this industrial ruin is abandoned.

The rogue finds her soon.

"Having private business to attend to that does not concern those not already involved in it, my Captain would prefer to settle your passage before moving on to those matters. Would you prefer to be dropped off at St. Dominic's Station where you may be subject to certain official scrutiny, or perhaps to instead leap from the engine, which will be proceeding at walking pace to facilitate this, onto the welcoming, semi-anonymous, and charitable roof of the house known as the Copper-Bottomed Kitchen?"

“Should the jump not be too arduous a distance, the latter would be quite preferred.”

"Quite an understandable sentiment and something we can certainly accommodate. It should be a modest fall of some ten feet. I am sure the metaphorical and sapient rats of London will find it interesting to meet their new neighbor. It has been delightfully unproblematic to have you aboard."

“And you have been most generous in your hospitality. Should you need a blade in the future, I would be delighted to work with you again.”

She’s difficult to read, but does seem to be quite genuine.

"Irregardless, I shall leave you to make arrangements for departure. Your debarking will proceed in approximately one hour. And if you would permit me the final indulgence of a small bit of unsolicited advice. It is custom in London and the lands influenced by her culture to choose your own name. Something descriptive. Evocative. Not your best quality, or your worst one. Perhaps a mask or an aspiration or a regret or an affectation or a scar. Perhaps, at times, given by a friend. For example: Dropping the name of the Smiling Cutter," A gesture towards herself, "Should let you find me again some day, if for some reason I shall not pry into you decide to make this your goal."

She bows, only slightly performatively, and also difficult to read. But she seems to be thinking something along the line of 'it's nice to work with professionals'.

And then away.

Hmm. Well, she could always go with something literal and simple. The Fallen Paladin, maybe. But she'll have to think about it.

In any case, London awaits.

The roof of the Copper-Bottomed Kitchen is full of vents, access stairways, discarded debris, rattus faber housing wedged into overlaps and crevices, and other such material.

It's not difficult to find a way inside, past a cheerfully drunk nun and on down worn and bare but someehow welcoming stairways and halls.

The interior of the place is alive with the poor working class, clearly a social center in the city. It's something like an enormous apartment/office complex, corridors and rooms all arranged in multiple levels around a huge central cafeteria. There are criminal underbelly elements around, visible to one who has long experience with such patterns, but they are not the dominant force here. It really is a powerful charity, holding things together with a wealthy benefactor or two and mutual aid. There are job notice boards and a little market for daily necessities and a collective childcare scheme.

Her appearance causes some alarm here, compared to the welcome on the ship...

Job notice boards! Promising! Are any of them jobs that involve killing things, or, failing that, lifting heavy objects?

She’ll walk slowly around people, and keep her body language open, but she’s still an unknown species in armor wandering around. If they aren’t attacking her, she’ll count that a blessing.

There are some for moving heavy objects! The jobs that involve killing things are mostly not displayed here. It's a hive, sure, but the scum and villainy is surface level at most. Like a desert supporting lichens and shrubs, not forests; Too poor to be shot through entirely with it.