The roar of a middling-large airship fills the street outside, and in strides a Tall fellow in a blue Republic of Texas Air Fleet flag officer's uniform, the Delft-blue trenchcoat barely showing any rank at all (it appears he's a commodore, but the Texians' sparing use of braid or insignia makes it hard to tell), and the naval-type saber at his hip, worn under the coat, sticking out the back and the open front at once, exposes the cross-draw-mounted Paterson Colt on the front of the left hip, buckled on over trousers of the same color as the coat, tucked into black cavalry boots, which sport a pocket colt revolver and a dirk for a boot knife, one stuck into either boot, their pommels protriding slightly.
"Barkeep? a shotglass and a bottle each of your best whiskey, and whatever brandy you've got under or behind the bar, if'n you don't mind," he says in a thick Texian Drawl, "and I'll pay the deposit to take th' bottle with me. Durned ship's chandler forgot the grog ration!"
