Inside the Weapons and Possessions lockers, someone is already rooting through stuff.

"Drinking horn, no. Speargun, close, but no cigar. Cigars . . . nice. Cuban. Aha!"

A cargo-jeans-wearing, +1 AC shirted beanpole stands up, a pair of twin antique revolvers in his hands. "My heat! Score!" He spins the guns once before tucking them into the holsters on his belt and catches sight of the new people in the room, who he nods at before turning to look for ammunition.

Then he does a double-take.

"Leels?"