Roald had never really been one for high society, but this was an opportunity he was loathe to muss up with his usual weaknesses.  He had set about cleaning and pressing his best clothes and preparing his papers and the card the night before.  All plans had been prepared.  He would wake up well early in the morning, arrange himself just so, take command of his unruly hair, and show up to the Windsor Suite neigh unrecognizable as the miserable cur he was.  It was a good plan.

It hadn't quite come out that way, he mused, as he hurried naked about his small room in a rush to get himself presentable.  He'd gambled that a little drink would help him get to sleep early, but as it so often did a little drink opened his eyes to opportunities for debauchery.  Plans were changed, promises made, asses pinched, and now with no time to fix himself up and arrange himself just so he did the next best thing; he jumped up onto the sink, stuck his head under the faucet, and drenched his head.  Snagging a dirty shirt from the floor he pressed it against his head to dry and flatten his thick uncooperative Ratling hair then got that same shirt halfway buttoned up before realizing it was the wrong one.

A few minutes later he slipped out the window and hurried out onto the rooftops, no time to take the streets.  He would be late, there was no helping it, but taking to the roofs might make him fashionably late rather than obnoxiously late.  Fashionably late was still a thing a Rogue Trader would appreciate wasn't it?  Sure it was.  It would have to be.  Taking the rooftop route allowed him to cut a straighter path and saved him vital minutes.  As he neared the Windsor Suite he saw below him a meticulously dressed man in parade uniform speaking with some Arbites, he would serve as a useful distraction for Roald.  While the metal armed man spoke with them Roald scampered across the rooftops in a low, even for him, stance to get nearer the doors to the Windsor and out of sight.  

After he heard the man in the Imperial Guard uniform enter he checked once more to make sure the Arbites were looking the other way and climbed down.  The heavy doors moved slowly as Roald pushed steadily against them, and as he entered the antechamber gave himself one finally round of adjusting.  Dusting off his shirt, pulling the sleeves and legs down, adjusting his cloak so that it falls just so, and flexing his feet uncomfortable as they were in the dress boots.  Finally Roald hurried in behind the man, Sargeant Gustave Boucher, and made his own much less professional introduction.

"Roald Cliffbloom, Ratling, Trailblazer, Mechanic."

His eyes light up as he notes the food, the booze, and that other's have already began drinking.  Rubbing his hands together eagerly he asks a vital question.

"What are we drinking?"