At a glance the tilted ship does its best impression of a very stylized cavern, its stalactites formed by hanging equipment and crates in thick rope nets, stalagmites a pile of the unsecured detritus of everything else that formerly sat firmly on the ship's floor.

Crates of every size form mounds and peaks, some busted open from the force of their fall, their contents scattered and mostly as good as lost if they've slipped into the crevices of the jumbled conglomeration that makes up the terrain.

Donnie walks along the length of the beam he'd landed on, pulling out his own lantern, one that employs the same brightbloom source. With a twist, he aligns the mirrors within to focus the light into more of a beam, running it across the piles beneath him as he looks for the next best place to put his feet down.