Of course, of course. In that case, she will return to await her transportation. 

The corridors of the locomotive are cramped for someone seven feet tall. The cabin she is shown to by the Reckless Bounty-Hunter is small, with frost riming the windows and beds that fold down from the wall. Steam machinery of various types, tools, guns, storage cupboards, and pipes occupy almost available space inside the craft, with an engine room at the rear and pilot house at the front. She sees a hammock strung up in a small empty space with coal dust in it, and a rat carrying a wrench on its back scurrying on one of the pipes overhead.

"London, and no further," he gruffly declares. "We'll be going to the Steam and Sapphire yards for armor refits, and maybe Caminus Yards after that to see about weapon upgrades. And I'll expect you to fight for us in the case of boarders. Should be unlikely."

She doesn’t love the small space, but it’s only for a few days; she’ll deal. Very Gnomish-looking, really, with all the steam-based technology.

She politely nods to the Reckless Bounty Hunter. “That sounds reasonable.”

Well. She doesn’t need to sleep, but it’s plausibly good for her, it’ll prevent her from being even more bored, and it’ll make her seem less odd than she already is. Sure, she’ll take a bunk, please. Are there any other passengers or idle crew who’d perhaps be amenable to a game of cards?

She doesn’t even notice the chill. 

As the engine rumbles steadily to life and lifts off, there's a good eight feet of table space in the galley, including four off-duty crew playing cards.

A soot-stained stoker glares at her suspiciously. But she's doing the same to the other card-players. They do all seem a little wary, though. Conversation freezes. Drinks are set down.

…Honestly? This is definitely one of the better receptions she’s received. It’s about typical of what she got as a Draenei before she died.

She can’t actually manage non-creepy, and it didn’t occur to her to take her armor off, dashing pretty much any attempt at genuinely non-intimidating. But she can sit down, to make her height less noticeable, and slouch a tiny bit, and politely ask where they got those drinks and if any are available for a traveler who’s “bored enough her horns are going to fall off.”

She can’t manage normal. She hasn’t been able to for a long time now. But she’ll make an attempt, and hopefully sufficient money will make up for the rest.

"Coop-"

"Cap'n said normal rations for her, which is one dram a day. You can trade or bet 'em."

“Huh. You playing for stakes right now, and is there room for another?”

"I'll trade you a dram for a dessert," the Sooty Stoker manages. "Another for the rest of a meal. Don't drink."

"Let us finish the round, we can deal you in. No crying about not knowing the rules."

(A Nervous Signaler promptly begins explaining the rules, to the general exasperation of the others.)

She doesn’t, strictly speaking, need to eat, although she does enjoy it, and the alcohol will have basically no effect unless she’s actually drinking something a step away from paint thinner. She’s using it to fit in with the crowd right now, so, sure, she’ll take that trade!

She’s decent at card-counting and has a hell of a poker face, but she’s also attempting to read the facial expressions of literal aliens, doesn’t play cards that often, and just learned the rules. She’ll fake a few tells, but she’s a pretty mediocre player.

Really, she's better company than the Shades of the Dead. Or that one guy who they still think was actually some sort of fungus. Or the Rubbery Man. You can't understand a word they say- Wrong mouth parts, see. They'll say as much as the conversation warms up again, gossip and sky stories that are probably exaggerated.

Anyway, what brings her aboard? What's she hoping for in London- Anything more than 'not be stuck at a bloody Well'?

She will not, actually, laugh at the comment comparing her to the shades of the dead. She does not often laugh without intent any more. And even when she does, it tends to sound ominous, and she is trying to be friendly. But she is very amused.

Work, hopefully, and indeed, not being at a Well. She generally does mercenary work as a melee combatant. She doesn’t suppose they know of any leads on that?

There's not a whole lot of call for melee combat in their line of work. Someone mutters something vague about gangs.

Well, she’s heard word of boarders sometimes, but yes, she may have to go into bounty hunting or some such. She will politely ignore mutters about gangs, it didn’t sound like a particularly serious suggestion. 

If nothing interrupts her, she’ll play for a few more hours, and then go and get her recommended few hours of sleep. She’ll try for more, but she doubts she’ll be that lucky.

...Hey, quick question.

Does she wake when the cannon fire starts?

No, but that’s because she was lying awake morosely staring at the wall rather than sleeping!

Does she have time to get her armor on? Can she hear any yelling? Alarms?

There's a loud steam whistle a moment after those distant thumps register, and then a voice calling out, "All hands man your battle stations, all hands man your battle stations!"

Running footsteps and activity in the halls. The ship pitches around. Machinery sounds and more distant thumps. As the ship wheels around, she can see another sky-ship out her porthole, for a bare moment. It's a raggedy and piratical looking thing, all shattered windows and dubious metal. Streaks of smoke trail projectiles as they arc towards her carriage.

And then the much more immediate thump of, presumably, return fire from this vessel, accompanied by deep vibrations in the hull. She has time to get her armor on.

That sounds like it’s probably not boarders then, which is probably a good thing overall, no matter how personally unfortunate.

Her ranged attacks are things of meters, and don’t work through walls besides. She’ll follow the direction of the crowd, hopefully to someone coordinating the situation.

The corridors are cramped and full of men and women moving with purpose.

She is quickly located by the obvious rogue, who is carrying some sort of large metal sphere with prongs sticking out of it.

"These are poor sods, maddened by starlight. You'll see that they're better off put out of their misery. When we disable their locomotive, want to be part of the boarding party in exchange for the chance to pocket something smallish? I am reducin' the chance that one of my good friends comes down with a nasty case of bullet or shiv in the belly, see."

There is a rushing burst of steam in a loud hiss, and then a resounding crunch-clang.

"Don't worry, that sounded minor."

“That sounds well within my skillset. I’ll do so gladly.”

"Grand. You can run shells from the bunker to the front gun if you're so inclined, spare Trev and Melanine some breath. We don't want to keep any that aren't about to be fired in the gun cupola, see, in case it takes a direct hit and cooks off. That'd be it for us. Just decide quick, I have a special delivery for our non-friends." Pat pat the sphere.

She nods, briskly, before identifying her cargo, lifting a crate, and goes. 

A horse would be unwieldy in this space. But a death knight can go quickly, and they don’t tire, no matter how fast they run. She isn’t going her top speed, not in a crowded space, but she can definitely move shells faster than any living human could without exhausting themselves.

The gun crew certainly appreciate it, firing from the frontal compartment of this oversized locomotive, right where the curved outer hull imitates a boiler and right above the pilot house hidden behind its 'plow'. They're calling out corrections and instructions in a fast shouted gunners' cant- And eventually even have her slow down a bit as they bide their shots.

She has a somewhat decent view of the battle here, through narrow gunhouse glass sights. The bounty-hunter's ship is doing its best to keep the enemy forward of itself and keep itself out of the other engine's forward arc... And managing quite well overall, or so it seems.

And then- There's a bloom of orange, and a sudden rush of cheering and the sound of three bells, slow, through the ship. The crew around her celebrate- Another kill tally for the Sooty Sledgehammer! Now, quick, don your sky-suits before they break up entirely-!

(Sky-suits appear to be heavy burlap and fiber sacks with rope mounting points primarily intended to fight the fierce cold of the outside.)

She’s not done this before, but she’s entirely capable of both following instructions and putting on safety gear, and will do so.

Halraan is dead. She is walking around. Law-light generally disagrees with this.

However, the light of the stars is distant, here. Halraan does not instantly disintegrate into dust, a fact that she appreciates.

She will, however, develop a sunburn.

It would be different, perhaps, if the light of Albion were not what it now is.

The distant glow of the Clockwork Sun, refracted and reflected off titanic architecture and enormous stones and great clouds of dust and smoke, is little more trouble than a faint itch. The light of further-away suns is the same- Too diluted, too dim, none claiming this particular region as their right and proper domain to rule and shine upon.

The feeling is akin to some vast, distant thing vaguely disapproving of her existence in a general, undirected manner. Nothing new. Enough to be problematic over hours, days, weeks.

The wreck of the star-maddened explorer is a fairly ghastly thing. Rust and broken glass. Several bodies spilling out into the sky. Graffiti painted in blue and red and brown and black, of eyes, of teeth, of claws, of diagrams and sigils that hurt ever so slightly to look at.

She wants to be the first into that place? They'll gladly let her.

She's met, first, with a woman wielding a pipe wrench and kitchen cleaver, eyes bloodshot and desperate, moving with an utter lack of hesitation or restraint and a rictus grin to decapitate her.