The heels of her boots clicked softly against the pavement as Rathe made her way along the docks.  She'd been walking for a while, hefting a camel-colored Prada backpack across one shoulder and struggling with a military-style duffel bag.  Truth be told, she hadn't been walking nearly as long as she'd been sitting atop the duffel, but she'd felt claustrophobic back at the hotel, despite the lavish accomodations.  Hell, the city itself felt like it was closing in around her even as she dragged that damned bag like an anchor.  She'd likely have ditched it and gone into a sprint for the [i]Crescenzo[/i] but for the 5pm boarding time and the thin cigar hanging loosely from her crimson lips, it's smoke encircling her in a hazy wreath that smelled of cloves and hashish.  As it was, she'd apparently just made it.  The confirmation needed no watch nor cell phone because the ship was still there and, though she was certain the margin was thin - and that was all that counted.  Letting the duffel down with a soft thud, she turned her left arm over and glanced at her wrist with trepidation, before resuming her march toward the ship with a sigh of resignation.

It wasn't what she expected, but she had no idea what to expect really.  It was beautiful and clearly well-maintained, but much more than she'd anticipated.  Given the circumstances, she'd half expected a Somali freighter packed with borderline pirates who'd ...  If she'd let her imaginings wander that far she'd have never shown up at all.  Per the instructions, she collected her key and found her way to cabin 102.  Barely inside, she let the duffel fall and the door close behind her, leaning her body against it and, for a moment, allowing her emotions release.  Rathe choked a single sob into her fist and then slapped the polished wood door in frustration.  Leaning back against the door, she pulled in a long drag from her cigar and closed her eyes, whispering words of encouragement to herself.  She slid the Prada bag about halfway down her arm before hefting it back up on her shoulder again and slipping from her quarters.

The living area was within staggering distance of her stateroom, and that was a silver lining if ever there was one.  On entering, Rathe's eyes shot past the others in assemblage and set themselves on the bar, leading the rest of her.  It was a tequila, neat, that finally lured the cigar from her lips.  She stood there behind the bar for a moment, dressed in a loose-fitting linen skirt colored in earth tones and a plain white ribbed tank top, which revealed easily a dozen different tattos, before taking another long drag from her nearly-spent cigar and chasing it with a shot of tequila.  "Can I get anything for anyone while I'm here?"