The lounge's occupants barely notice Camael's entrance, absorbed as they are in their song. As the last boisterous notes fade away, they raise battered tin cups and clink them against their neighbors, then take long pulls from their drinks. In the relative silence apart from the sound of two dozen throats gulping, Camael has time to get a better look at the room.
Roughly square, the floor here is not carpeted, a prudent measure given how many spirits seemed to spill when the revelers smashed cups. The walls are paneled with some plastic material masquerading as wood, and the narrow bar tucked into the far corner is made from the same stuff. Mementos of a hundred worlds adorn every spare space of wall, from picts of green skies to the massive taxidermied head of some xenos beast, its iridescent antlers spreading nearly the length of one wall. The only space not plastered with souvenirs is the small votive niche in one wall. Its shelves are filled with clay and plastic icons of the Emperor and some saints, like warriors manning ramparts. It appears well maintained, in spite of the purposeful clutter which surrounds it.
All at once, the cups clatter onto tables. Those less used to shipboard rotgut gasp for breath, while the hardened veterans of naval swill grin at their consternation. Then, a gunnery corporal spots Camael.
"A-ten, hut!" he shouts. The whole room lurches to its feet, the more inebriated only with a helping hand from a nearby comrade. "Space Marine on deck."
The more sober among the group try to stay at attention, trying very hard to veil their curiosity. The rest can only stare agape, or grin stupidly as if they aren't aware of anything amiss. While they appear accustomed to Space Marines wandering the corridors of the ship, judging by the crewmembers' reaction having one enter their sanctum is a novelty.