[ Normally, she would address the ship with both her name and face. A bow of her head, her most polite smile — means by which to garner favor and convince those she would entreat for help. (See how how guilelessly I ask, says her look. Truly, I am a soul worth helping. But gone are those days, for there are those aboard the ship who would readily look upon Alayne's face and say: behold, Sansa Stark or Lady Lannister or I knew Petyr Baelish; of bastards, he had none. Though she needs the assistance others, Alayne knows she must be careful now in what she offers too readily. Even if the other Westerosi still struggle with their devices, she must not rely solely upon their ignorances to keep her shielded and her secrets hidden.

So: some caution, at least at the very surface. A request made through text; an offer with a name but no face. A bastard from the Vale in search of cloth, that is all. ]

Good people of the Tranquility.
I am in search of a passenger, intrepid and strong-legged, to assist me in my endeavors.
Already once I have offered my services to the ship,
those of sewing, mending and embroidery,
and I hope to continue to do so, though I am hindered by a certain lack.
Although thread has come readily to me with the jumps,
fabric proves a much rarer commodity.
My aim is to enlist aid in the collection and dyeing of cloth.
The ship is vast and many of its quarters stand empty,
and I would look to gather some portion of those unused linens,
to give that fabric greater purpose.

But the vastness of the Tranquility is no place for a young woman to venture alone.
Especially when her arms alone promise to return such a meager bounty.

I offer recompense by way of trade or exchange of service.
The ship has been generous with me by way of worldly possession,
though I fear most of what I own is rather delicate and will only appeal to certain tastes.

Thank you.

[ The message is posted and remains as is for an hour, maybe two. Then later an amendment comes, one that Alayne debates over including. ]

I am also in search of the person
who thought it fit to slip a note beneath my door last night.
You are not in trouble by any means, whomever you are.
I look only to thank you for your endeavors.

[ The technology, all in all, isn't too hard to grasp. It's more the fact that there's no real way off the ship (no concrete information as to how the passengers arrived, no explanation as to the contents of the lockers), not to mention the circumstances under which he had arrived, that leave Connors ill at ease. The phenomenon, however, is not one that he seems to be alone in, and when the video feed turns on, he seems much more put-together (and healthier, too) than he'd been when he'd arrived, glasses in place upon the bridge of his nose and the stump of his arm barely visible at the bottom edge of the screen. ]

Apologies, first of all, if the question is redundant, [ he begins, with a slight duck of his head, ] but considering the range of worlds from which we hail, I was curious as to how many passengers are not classified as human or are possessed of "supernatural" capabilities. I'd like to do a little research, if at all possible.

[ He opens his mouth as if to continue on, but seems to think better of it. The transmission is awkwardly short, as is, but he doesn't have much else to say that's strictly relevant (that won't sound too much like covering up). ]

Thank you for your time. Dr. Curtis Connors, at your service.