[center][h1][color=teal]Ansgar Staudinger[/color][/h1][/center]

Ansgar cocked an eyebrow as the impaled man spoke of, well, not so much seeking the lords as stopping those that sought them. That...wasn't part of the way things had been spelled out for him. Well, to be fair, NONE of this had ever been laid out for him in any form of understandable explanation. Not like he had ever needed one, or had time for one to be honest, so he couldn't readily have expected anything after death. So, stop these Londor folk from  getting the Flame, sounded deceptively simple. Especially if all they had to do was hold a gate. But the impaled man finally keeled over dead, and Ansgar stood with a grunt, walking over and kneeling in front of the dead man, hand moving over his face and closing the dead man's eyes, muttering an old prayer soldiers gave the departed back in his kingdom. It held no real power, not like the healer or war Clerics of old, but it was comforting, and that was enough for the dead. Finishing, he rose and cracked his neck, leaning on his halberd as he spoke louder, to be heard. [color=teal]"...And whatever gods are left have mercy on your soul, you poor bastard..."[/color]

Ansgar noted the key that had fallen out of the dead man's hands, and picked it up, examining it for a moment before pocketing it. Probably would be useful later, or maybe not. Either way, this dead man had no use for it. The sigil on the armor, he committed it to memory as well. Might come in handy recognizing it later. The noble and silver knightess spoke back and forth, the woman in silver introducing herself before, well, one of the most underdressed people he had seen in years came strolling in. Ansgar knew better than to stare, a pretty face often belied a deadly contenance. Hell, an ugly face could do the same. Case in point, never trust the face or the words. Always watch the eyes. he'd figured out, they spoke truer than any words or expression. [color=teal]"I'd say its a pleasure, Alianor, normally would be, but it seems we're all but knee deep in shit. Hardly your fault, just not the best place to be making acquaintances. Ansgar Staudinger, if we're to be making introductions in Ayree, the latrines of the Wildlands."[/color]

The last bit was open mockery of the so called Heart of the Wildlands, and it was readily apparent that Ansgar kept his mind intact with mockery, humor, and a sarcastic, if bluntly honest, outlook on life. If this was indeed the heart, the Wildlands had to be a wicked creature indeed. Not many bore this much venom and corruption in their hearts, if he were to take the grand old way of looking at figuratives as literals. The man after the apparent fire starter gave off not a bad vibe, but one of a man with intent, and that worried him more. The grip of his hand, darting eyes, all made his gut scream a man with nothing to lose. Ansgar leaned on his halberd more, looking more lax, but in fact was more ready for trouble. Momentum and leverage were keys of using the halberd in his style, and with the flick of his armored boot, would throw him right into a rather effective, if classic, stance. The armored, nigh on hollow man and the one that almost gave this shithole a run for its money on stench were just icing on the cake. [color=teal]"Not missing overmuch, stinky, just the tolling of the bells dragging poor sods along for whatever nightmares these Londor folks likely have in store. Don't they sound like a right cheerful bunch? Londor, sounds like all sunshine, rainbows, and good intentions, doesn't it?"[/color] To say that his assessment of Londor was oozing with sarcasm would be like calling that swamp just a little muddy. A vast understatement.