He's gonna moonch, he's gonna croonch

The prospect of many splinters in the near future, Ruby has ordered all non-combatants to muster. Arrangements are being made to segregate anyone that shouldn't be in harm's way on one or more vessels. Lacking a mind like a steel trap, some issues have arisen and escaped her thinky bits. With little time to spare, she's commandeered the magic carpet and is making all haste to one of the remaining Arks where there is apparently an ~issue~. There is still a lot of room on the flying Uber to Carpet-pool. Below the threads during the fly-over, the fleet is arranging itself into squadrons and formations. The side of the Ark they approach has a side hatch open like the lolling tongue of a doggo, and occasionally digs at the waves. The yawning section of hull is like an open mouth full of straw. "Bog's breath, there's always somethin..."
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