You were tired, rattled, and possessed of an aroma not at all pleasant to the nose. On the other hand, you'd certainly powered through worse with the aid of stiff coffee and a chill, bracing wind. But there was no reason for you to suffer in silence today. You'd checked up on the swaddled up bundle of cloth that possessed deep within itself, like a pearl hiding in the furthest recesses of a clam, your navigator. In your estimation you'd earned a few moments of relaxation, and you could hear the baths aft singing your name.
You ducked aft, weaving through the slender durluminum spiderweb that was Caroline's keel and trying not to think of the comparisons to lacy undergarments the gossamer buttresses brought to mind. You've heard… interesting things about the current state of French fashion, but you were certain there wasn't a lady there bound in quite as complex a rig as the orchestra of guy-wires and framers holding your lady Caroline in her streamlined girdle.
You chuckled to yourself as you walked, the last hazes of your alcohol-lubricated party last night putting an uneasy swaggering your gait. You Caroline purring under your shoes, her great mass gently swaying this way and that with every passing breeze and minor course correction. It wasn't much, really. Not violent at all, just the swaying of a curvy lady walking the town.
You hastily doffed your vestments at the door and… well, you'd intended to fold them up, but that was the kind of thing that could wait for later. As it was, you just sort of… wedged them into a cubby and ducked deeper into the hot, wet room. The baths were nestled right near the boilers in what used to just be trunking for steam pipes. Even at altitude it was pleasingly warm, and the air was thick with warm, sweet mist.
You walked absentmindedly to one of the stamped-metal tubs and sank down as far as your massive frame would allow. It felt good to sink into the water. So good you almost nodded off before you realized something.
You weren't the only one taking advantage of the excess supply of hot water Caroline's massive boilers provided. To your left, Lucia's fast asleep with her sinewy arms thrown up on the tub-sides. Her mouth hangs open in a most unladylike fashion, and there's a little river of drool trailing from the corner of her half-smiling mouth.
You tried not to stare, but… without the stiff leather and heavy padding of her flying gear, this is the first time you'd gotten a good look at her figure. It's most unladylike, but you already knew that. What you didn't know is just how divorced the poor girl's figure was from anything that could be considered womanly. Her body was all cut muscle, like it'd been carved out of particularly reticent granite by an impatient sculptor with dull chisels. Her chest was… not.
You couldn't find ways to describe it other than in the negative. One might even say underdeveloped. The poor girl was clearly in dire need of some cake, you'd make certain to pass the word on to the cooks. And, if you recalled correctly, the Turkish produced some… delightful little jelly-cubes. Maybe in concert they could help fluff out your espatier's woefully underfed frame.
"Ahem."
You almost jumped from your bath at the cough. Surely there couldn't be another woman in here with you! What would people think! Slowly, you turn in place, hoping that if you move slowly enough the noise will vanish back from whence it came.
"Captain." Czeslawa's got the fainest hint of a bored smirk on her plump face. Everything about her is plump, really. You'd noticed that before, you'd be surprised if there was a man alive who hadn't taken a second look at the way her figure filled out her cold-weather gear. Especially the—erm—fore-upper quarter. But seeing her naked like this…
If Lucia's chest was the essence of negativity, Czeslawa was the other side of the same coin. Unbound by her usual preference for long heavy dresses, her chest swelled like foam atop a stout ale, almost threatening to bubble over the top of her tub in its fullness. You know she's young—nobody with a figure so full could be so unmolested by the rigors of time and gravity—but at the same time she looks the very image of a happy matron. You can almost hear the universe wispier in your ear a wordless cry to set right what went wrong and make Czeslawa the mother of your children.
You ignore the universe, however, and concentrate on covering your unmentionables from her gaze. You can't quite get a read on her, but she seems far less flustered than you are. A part of you imagines she's probably seen men naked before—and worse—in the course of her trade.
"Czeslawa," you said.
>Wat do?