The Ratling had arrived late.

Making your way through corridors scattered with the bloody and battered remains of several of your shipmates was tough work when you were his size.  Sometimes folks who seemed very much dead were actually still very much alive and desperate to escape the piles of bodies they were trapped in.  Sometimes they were just buried, those could be helped.  Sometimes they were dead and just didn't know it yet.  Bleeding out too rapidly and too far from help.  Burned up beyond any hope of return but still stubbornly clinging onto last vestiges of life.  This one poor bastard had been gutted.

Roald had tripped over a loop of the unlucky son of a bitches' intestines.  Now that's a bad day.

He considered informing them of what had kept him, but decided against it.  They were contemplating coming to the aid of that other ship.  Hard to say whether it was smart or not.  On one hand there was all that happy shiny bullshit about not just leaving a ship full of Imperials to be torn to pieces and consumed or worse.  Probably worse.  On the other hand they might just end up eaten or fucked or fucked and eaten, who knew what order things might happen in.  Maybe he would get turned into a little tiny halfdemon or something.  None of those possibilities particularly interested Roald.

Contemplating the position Roald stroked his face where his full manly beard would be were he not a Ratling.  As a Ratling there was little there other than full rosy cheeks and, oh what was this, a bit of congealed blood with hairs sticking out of it.  Gross.

Flicking those flesh bits of indeterminate origin on the floor Roald added his two cents to the conversation.

"If'n we're going on in dere I'm gonna need a better weapon.  Pistol and Long-Las ain't exactly suited to close quarters."