Marshall laughed, as the Harvin spun her charms and bedside manner to the nth; a derisive laugh, more annoyed than amused, and yet, at his core, he did find a twisted form of amusement in how she tried to be precious, yet grown. “[color=a187be]Poxanne,[/color]” he says, testing the flow of the name. “[color=a187be]I wonder,[/color]” he says, standing up, as the lacerations began to shut, “[color=a187be]what makes a Harvin think they are suited to medicine?[/color]” He extended his left arm, and fanned out his finger; bones popping and cracking, as they resumed the position they were born in, and calcium surged between cracks to recreate solid structure. “[color=a187be]In the spite of it all, I’m curious of something...[/color]”

Looking down, he tilted her head, as he drew Selmia’s Dagger, then hummed, and sheathing it. He didn’t want to chance handling it too much. Instead, he angled a finger at his left wrist, and shot a bolt of blood through it; suppressing his healing factor to drain the infected blood. “[color=a187be]... just what did you think you would get in here,[/color]” he finally asked. “[color=a187be]You asked, ‘Imperial’ to my nature. That implies you may have assumed soldier,[/color]” he looked around, “[color=a187be]A fine assumption. All things considered. That is answer is no. I’ve no fancy for that.[/color]”

Marshall cast his back to her, stretching himself out, and thinking, “[color=a187be]Did you, perhaps, think, fallen royalty,[/color]” he smirked, looking back, “[color=a187be]How high? King? Duke?[/color]” Marshall eyed her expressions, “[color=a187be]Ah, prince? Runaway, I bet. A flight of fancy.[/color]” Turning back, he squatted to his ankles. “[color=a187be]Sorry,[/color]” he tilted his head, and extended his armored hand to tip up her chin, “[color=a187be]I’m a thief from the Astral-forsaken island of Yoltarie. No-one special.[/color]” Marshall shifted, and darted forwards; to the untrained eye, he was tackling Poxanne without warning or reasoning. Fortunately, that was not the case...

	A wreck was a wreck, and its state was unkind; unknowable. Marshall had been in many a wrecked ship, and they had telltale signs of imminent collapse. Marshall raced forward, cradling the Harvin against his chest; he couldn’t care less about the rest of the beings that had been close. In truth, he wasn’t caring about the Harvin much either, but her safety meant lodgings, a meal, a heated bath, and many amenities that were denied him in Ziggurat -- most importantly, it meant a damn shave.

Around him, the airship creaked and groaned; a weakened structure meant to fly and idle, not smash into ground, and stay half folded on itself. “[color=a187be]My name is Marshall,[/color]” he finally answered, “[color=a187be]and, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal you for a bit,[/color]” Hand against the back of Poxanne’s neck, he braced her for what was coming, as he shot a thick burst of blood -- blasting off a hatch, and letting sunlight bleed in. Marshall lunged out of it, and sailed through air, before crashing into the treeline before... surging through the canopy, he took the brunt of the impacts, and landed in a nice clearing.

“[color=a187be]That’s just what I do,[/color]” he says, setting her down, as the remainder of wreck came crashing to the earth.
[hr]
[@The Irish Tree] & [@ShwiggityShwah]