[ The man who approaches -- and by this point not even Irving feels phased by the fact that all of his so-called "matches" thus far have been men, because like Ephemera he's seemed to reach the conclusion that these conversations are all in fact more platonic than not in nature, and proving useful thus far in terms of networking and learning more about this world -- carries with him some aspect that strikes Irving as being perhaps vaguely military, an impression that's only strengthened once he's able to note both the eyepatch and whatever facial scars are visible to him from beneath the man's hood.

Irving looks down at the factsheet he was given, lips twitching faintly in a frown as he reviews the most unpleasant word written there: mutineer. May God please spare Irving from having to suffer any more mutineers, but then, he supposes this wouldn't be Hell if that were the case, now would it?

Because by now Irving is indeed very strongly convinced that he is somehow in Hell. ]

Her Majesty's Naval Service, yes. Lieutenant John Irving with HMS Terror. [ Irving takes the opportunity of a passing waitress to ask for a tea, himself. ] What nature of mercenary would you be, might I ask?