[ Deep in the bowels of the ship was where they were going to find Mica. Missing for weeks on end and at least Frankie was worried she'd been murdered again. But, nope. There she was, crawling out of a duct, face streaked with grease and grim. She wiped her greasy hands on her pants and turned to look at who'd walk in. ]

It's no good, amore. She's still...ah...sluggish.

[ The Black Tide was sitting heavy in the water. Like a kid with a bellyache and Mica couldn't for the life of her figure out what was causing it. ]

We must port my ship soon so I can look at her. [ Or run the risk of ruining her completely. Mica wasn't having that. Not now. Not ever. ]

Who: Sandrath & you?
What: A fallen arch-angel just wandering around the ship, poking his nose where it doesn't belong on certain decks.
When: All day November 18th
Where: Around the Black Tide.
Warnings: Will update if things change.
Notes: Brackets or prose is fine, will match.
===
( His actions need to be seen to be believed! He’ll catch your eye, adjust his tie. Draw you in with the flick of a grin, load you up and bottle in. )

At midnight, a message plays for every passenger aboard the Black Tide.

Join us on deck nine for our spooktacular celebration!

As our intrepid party-goers step out of their cabins, they're greeted with a ghoulish sight. It is dark, electricity giving way to the use of half melted candles and flames that flicker in a chilled breeze. Behind them, their doors have been fashioned in the shape of a tombstone with their names carved viciously into the wood. The walls have been decorated with cotton-y webs, though real spiders skitter across the threads. Blood oozes and drips from the ceiling, though it is careful and never lands on a passenger. And somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.

The stairs creak, the elevator shudders, and outside, the storm continues to rage.

Nameless man the doors of the Pourhouse Bar and Grille, bowing to the guests as they begin to arrive.

They open the doors for them all. The Pourhouse is vibrant, compared to the rest of the ship.

Their host, Victoria Rowe, is of course at the fore of the party, lounging lazily in a lush, over-sized chair, its back impossibly tall and her leg draped over the arm of it. She eats greedily from a gilded bowl, and laughs at something a crewman whispers in her ear. When she sees the guests arrive, she stands with her arms spread wide and a grin like a shark's.

"Welcome!" She says and gestures grandly to the spread. Food of all sorts have been set at the tables. "Eat, drink, and be merry! For tonight we celebrate!"

((For one hour, Passengers are given the opportunity to arrive willingly. After that, they will find themselves there, in whatever state of dress they were in at the time. The exits are locked for those inside the bar.))

Mica's spent most of life underground and storms were still a relatively new experience for her. She'd never been very fond of thunder and when it claps in the distance, she immediately vacates the top deck, tools left sprawled about where she'd been working. At least she'd had enough of a mind to close the panel exposing the ship's innards.

The grease on her hands and arms and legs are the last things on her mind as she rides the elevator down to deck 2.

Nah, she was just going to go hide until the storm blew over.