[b]James E. Carter[/b]
[hr]
Carter nursed his glass, the drink turning easy as he leaned back against the polished bar. The phonograph’s scratchy tune, the smoke curling toward the chandeliers, the clink of glasses... hhell, it almost felt like a proper saloon if you squinted hard enough.

He’d caught enough snippets from the others as the night wore on. Arkadios, steady and practical, calling this a good distraction. Volodar with his usual stiff-collar complaints about who was at the helm, as if Itzi couldn’t keep the ship flying straight. And Marinier, the old goat, saying plain as day what Carter himself believed: you had to take your mercy where it came, or you’d snap in two.

For once, Carter felt fortune leaning his way. Gold stacked in the belly of the ship, liquor flowing, a chance to laugh without gunfire snapping at their ears. After years of chasing shadows and bad luck, he wasn’t about to spit on it.

His gaze wandered the hall, over the mismatched crowd. Zoe twirling the wounded Private into a little waltz, of all things. Miss Giorgiou judging the gathering like the typical high society broad she seemed to fancied herself as while Nikos went on being of service as ever, offering excellent coffee. The Favian captain meanwhile smoked like he’d been born to it. And then... her.

[quote=@Bingelly]
[b]Mitunbaal Vasiliou[/b]

Unusual for the her short time among the crew, Mitunbaal seemed less than eager to join in the center of the merriment. She had been late to enter, and had quietly taken a seat having yet to grab a drink. Despite the reluctance, she wore a smile on her face and hummed along to whatever was playing on the phonograph as she watched the others in the bar raise toasts with the clinking of glasses. She did dutifully keep an eye on the private Robertson as he moved between the group, though more her intent was studious than amorous. 
[/quote]

Miss Mitunbaal.

She sat quiet, humming faintly, a smile on her lips but her eyes elsewhere. Carter had heard the talk, how she’d mended Aden with nothing but her hands, bullet wound closing under her touch. Healing magic, he’d always thought that sort of thing belonged in storybooks about queens and liberators, not in the middle of a cramped airship of a modern age. He’d seen plenty in his travels from rogue raiders blotting the sky to harpies dragging men screaming off decks, but healing magic? It was stranger than all of that somehow. Part of him scoffed at it yet another part couldn’t quite look away, curiosity gnawed within him.

He tossed back the last of his glass, set it down and let out one last curl of smoke, slow and steady, before grinding the stub of his cigar into an ashtray. [i]No sense showing up reeking like a chimney[/i]. He let a slow grin tug at the corner of his mouth. 

He crossed the floor with usual ease, but when he stopped before her, he kept his tone gentler than the usual grin-and-draw some in the crew had gotten used to from the Mainer. 

“Looks like the floor’s startin’ to fill,” he said, a faint tilt of his head toward the two dancers, “Figure it might be better company with a few more steps in it. What do you say, care to join me for one?” he offered his hand to her.