[b][center]Grimri 'Ironclad' Haldengard, formerly 3rd Platoon Boar Squadron, Mercenary.[/center][/b] 

In the cold void of space, the squats mined nameless asteroids and barren worlds devoid of life or happiness with stoic resolve. Upon one very large asteroid in the Segmentum Obscurus, a hardy squat was born, named after his great grandfather to uphold his honor and name. Grimri was birthed amidst the grinding of steel on rock and combustible engines roaring mere meters away. He grew up quickly, helping his father in the smelting refinery before he was even a beardling. He had a good head on his shoulders and a strong back to carry large loads of minerals, until he decided to forge his own path and aid his cousins and peers by delving deeper into the rock. 

He spent five long years hammering away at the asteroid stone and deposits, his world perpetual darkness with flashes of light. More than a few of his friends perished in the dark from collapsing tunnels or the occasional xenos horror they would stumble upon. But Grimri made it back, with a newly grown beard and fresh wealth of gold and zinc and asteroid metal. He started work back at a second refinery, and now that he was old enough, he and the lads would have to deal with raiders falling to the planet just like all the bearded folk. He found he enjoyed the mechanisms inherent in auto-guns, particularly shotguns and revolver pistols. Big barrels, hard firepower, and stopping power.

His first real conflict other than traitorous imperials came in the form of a system spanning Ork WAAAGH, a tendril of the army splitting off and landing on the squat's home. The greenskins dug deep tried to root the squats out, fighting and dying hard. Grimri's father fell in the fighting, and the refiner was destroyed by some blasted primitive explosive, but Grimri sent over two dozen greenskins to their screaming gods, and through his grief and hatred, fell in love with the idea of combat. Such a longing, coupled with his curiosity for the rest of the galaxy, led for him to take the road off-asteroid and sell his services for various groups and traders. Hive Worlds, Forge Worlds, Agri-worlds, for seven decades Grimri lived, pissed, and shat on whatever planet one could think of in Obscurus, plying his trade and keeping himself alive. 

Whatever cultists, traitors, or xenos threw at him, he kept surviving and made a few good hits back. Some of the younger mercs began to call him Ironclad, like one of the Knight mechas or Adeptus Astartes, and though Grimri thought it silly, the name stuck and he grew to appreciate it. Unfortunately, his love of alcohol and constant need for supplies in repairing his gear keeps him moving, looking for more cash. A part of himself wonders if he shouldn't go back to the asteroid, or if his great grandfather would want him to continue the path he takes to like a fish to water. He doesn't know. All he knows is, there's a rogue trader in need of a gun and he needs the money.