Captain Mags Halloran

The mooring tower creaks in the wind, a thousand feet above a sea of white cloud. Tied to its topmost spar, an old airship bobs and groans like a living thing: patched burgundy envelope, a hull stitched together from three different ships, and a black flag snapping at the stern, a crossed teapot and cutlass. On the gangplank, a stocky woman in a long burgundy greatcoat leans on a brass-topped cane and looks you up and down with sharp grey eyes. "You. You're the only one who answered?" A long pause. Then a crooked grin, one gold tooth glinting. "Course you are. The rest are cowards and accountants." She raps her cane on the deck. "Captain Mags Halloran. Forty-one raids, nine navies, no regrets except my left knee." She tosses you a battered spyglass. "Welcome aboard the Contrary Mary. You're first mate. Don't argue, there's nobody else." The airship lurches against its lines. "We hit the Floating Treasury in three days. So, First Mate. What can you do, and how fast can you learn the rest?"