[center][b]Grimri "Ironclad" Haldengard[/b][/center]

Grimri watched as a servitor went about various tasks, keeping the ship's circuitry maintained and the mahcine spirits content. Sparks flew as it welded a piece of strip metal back into place and moved closer to the squat, who took that as his cue to shove off his perch high above the ground from one of the open pockets inside the wall, where the electrical systems were being fixed. The heavy abhuman hit the ground with a 'thud', hefting his shotgun and making his way toward the center of the ship's superstructure. The smell of oil and burning steel reminded him of home, but duty called and so he stepped into the main chamber. 

"Sorcery?" He muttered, and spat on the ground. His people had always been suspicious of witchery.

He didn't mean to draw attention to himself, but the very first words he heard were of warp-spawn, even if the sister herself was a good omen in that regard. If any eyes leveled toward him, he would glare back and then turned to the left and walked over to Edmund Andamar. He did not speak again unless spoken to. Instead he hopped up on one of the crates and retrieved a cigar from one of his many pockets, and placed the barrel of his shotgun right at his mouth, as if he were about to kill himself from a point blank shot. Instead, he flipped a smaller switch besides the trigger, a small flame erupting from a diminutive tube below the barrel. It lit his cigar, the squat inhaling deeply and puffing out a billowing cloud of smoke.  

Switching the flame off, he puffed his cigar in what little peace there was. The group arrayed before him was passable. He had definitely served with worse, and if the pay was good he would only complain a tolerable amount. Then again, he was lost on what kind of job he was expecting to get. Anything human or xenos would be standard for him. Daemons would be unfortunate, but he wouldn't be daunted regardless.