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Ansgar Staudinger


The first person to reach Ansgar was the lass Teg, who was calling out about anyone being injured. Between the explosion, trying to put down the damage and flames, and the general din and noise of all that, the last thing he really cared for was shouting. Well, he couldn't readily fault the shouting, though he would still rather it not be going on. Not like the situation wasn't under control or anything right now. Teg herself was an unlikely suspect, most of the crew was to be honest, even that judge outside of being a bloody damn bad luck charm. He was still leaning against the bulkhead to prevent anyone from wandering in until he knew why they were trying to, to give the go ahead, and not get in the way of trying to get the fuel system back up and mostly running. The longer they were limping on half engines, the worse their odds were. "Nay lass, ain' no injured oe'er 'ere 'sides th' poor ship bein' injured now. Damn 'nemies"

Of course, as he had requested, the good Captain had made her way down to the engine room and was already questioning him on what the hell happened to her ship. He didn't even blink an eye at her tone of voice, he was too pissed off with the fact that his life had gotten a lot more complicated because some sodding wanker on his home had been bought off or planted to make their lives more difficult. Well, the goal was to kill them outright or leave them stranded and dying a slow, painful death to starvation, pirates, both maybe. Hard to say. But the question needed an answer, and he clearly took his time to avoid letting the accent make him completely unintelligible, which happens when he was fairly pissed off. "Aye Lass, whoever ye paid to fuel the ship was either bought of by our 'friends', or one o' them wa' on th' payroll of th' 'friends'. Did th' usual sweep fer bombs in th' lines, an' found one before it hit th' main fuel tanks. If it 'ad gotten there, we wouldn' be 'ere dicussin' it."

It was at this point that Ansgar pulled out a coffin nail and lit it, taking a drag and half closing his eyes for a few, letting the warmth permeate his chest, before blowing it away from all present living beings. Including that damned cat. Speaking of bad luck charms, that cat was nothing but trouble and the Captain refused to believe it. Now that the captain was here, he could start smoking as to avoid accusations of smoking by an open fuel line or something patently stupid. And it was about now that he deigned to respond to their illustrius pilot and her complaints about how soon they'd be back online. "Oh ah' dinnae know, cabbie. Ah'm sure ah can just use a couple o' them bendy straws to fix th' damn fuel line. Yer lucky ah ignored th' complaints on splittin' th' engines on each side t' mixed lines, or ye'd be flyin' with my rig't engines only. Soon as ah can fix th' fuel lines, ah'll be more tha' 'appy t' let you go back to fiddlin' with yer flight stick."

Don't worry, by the time they've landed, the gunship will be a veritable fortress world of its own!
Within the rather spartan quarters of the resident Krieg Engineer, Ansgar Staudinger sat at a work bench that he had requested to expediate efforts on maintaining his various equipment. Mainly explosives, but whatever tools he might be tasked with using would see maintenance here. Currently, he was ensuring his shotgun was in as well maintained of a working order as possible. They had notorious failures in their mechanical action, hence the near religious attention that was paid to ensuring it was in smooth working order whenever possible. Even if that was quickly thrown out the window whenever knee deep in the muck of a trench or wading through a half collapsed underground network of saps and tunnels. Rare for a Kriegsman, he was currently not wearing either helmet or rebreather, the latter hanging about his neck while the helmet rested on the workbench corner. The room was secured, so it was a rare case of being able to let the mask down and work without the obstruction of viewing through the rebreather.

After reassembling the shotgun, the Kriegsman checked the time. He was due to report to the hanger for the next mission, and he took a breath before donning the trademark rebreather and helmet of the Death Korp, going from an individual to another masked, faceless soul of the Death Korp in two smooth, practiced movements. Next came his kit, a duffel bag full of explosives, including several demolition charges, frags, and krak grenades, being slung over a shoulder to rest on his right hip. The bayonet, and entrenching tool, were already resting in their positions on his left hip. Before the shotgun, Ansgar grabbed a pick axe that had served him well during entrenching and sapping operations and slung it into the loop on the left side of his back. Lastly was the Mark 22c he had finished doing maintenance on, slinging it over his right shoulder. At this point, barring the backpack that would carry various miscellaneous items that, for most missions, was left in his quarters these days, there was nothing indicating that this empty room was lived in.

Departing the room and sealing it behind him, the Kriegsman marched down from the living quarters to the hanger where it seemed several members of the retinue had already arrived. First to be noted was their resident psyker, an unnaturally tall Adrianne Valenthin. Sanctioned psykers were a rarity among the regiments of Krieg, mainly since actually assigning an external individual outside the standard Commissars was not only extraordinarily rare, but a rather cruel act even by Imperial standards, so he had limited dealings with those mutants that could wield the powers of the warp. So long as it remained in the Emperor's service, however, the Kriegsman would brook no complaints nor arguments. His greetings were muffled and professional, the former due to the rebreather, the latter out of habit. "Ma'am."

Stepping past her, next was the tech heretek. Ansgar was not a fan of her, less so than he was of the psyker, since at least the psyker was a part of official doctrine. The mercenary was being used to fill the same role as the Tech Priests would, something that invited a great deal of trouble should they find themselves in the company of actual Mechanicus forces. Orders were orders, however, and as long as they remained in line with the needs of the Imperium, it would be a presence he would stomach with no resistance. He would maintain his own equipment still, however, that much was certain. Much like before, the greeting was almost a carbon copy of the one aimed at the psyker from before. Almost, since there was slightly more chill in the word than with the psyker. "Ma'am."

Lastly, but by far from the least, was the leader of their retinue and a welcome sight as far as the Kriegsman was concerned. Celestian Superior Aviza Morgenstern, a Sister of Battle and a senior in rank one at that, would likely prove to be an anchor point in any combat line they formed. Power armor helped, but force of presence had equal play in that as well. A pious sister of battle, powerful and unrelenting, often tempted and cowed the common heretic in equal measures, to prove themselves in felling such a warrior, or left them quivering in the face of the Emperor's wrath. He'd served alongside her kind before, though he was sworn into secrecy over all but the vaguest statements, not that he was ever comfortable discussing what had happened during that campaign. It would be telling that when Tyranids were the least of the threats present, the system had been in dire straits indeed. Mentally shaking those thoughts from his head, he saluted the Celestian Superior, being the only actual superior present despite referring to the other two as ma'am as well. "Ma'am, Trooper 17431, Ansgar Staudinger, reporting for duty."
Meanwhile short Kriger is short.
@Andromedai She's always been tall, and blame the 4th degree interdimensional warp fuckery. Tall is good though, to be fair.
I reckon I can go on and fill in the Grand Master of Librarians position, sure as sure.
Ansgar Staudinger


Ansgar was, for once, not busy in the engine room. Things were mostly sorted, though he couldn't check the fuel lines before they launched due to the crate duty. Normally he would sweep the lines with a scanner he kept in the engine room, which looked for unknown materials, especially solids, since they were on a ship that would likely be targeted. Normally while they were flying, it wasn't easy to do, but he decided he would go about that now. With a low groan he resuited up fully, part of his usual precautions in case he did find something, and started checking the lines. Crawling among the running machinery might be concerning to some, but Ansgar was so used to it by now that it really didn't bother him none. He was able to move quickly about it, and like normal, he wasn't finding anything in the lines. Well, normally until the scanner started pinging like mad, and the mechanic blanched and opened the comm to the bridge as he launched himself towards a recently installed valve that would secure the section of piping from the fuel system. Downside being... "YER ABOUT TO LOSE 'ALF YER ENGINES!"

He slammed the valve shut, and threw himself out from below the fuel line since he could hear the sudden loss of flow dislodge the metallic object in the line, and Ansgar had the rebreathing mask and helmet on and secured when the metallic object detonated, blowing out the fuel line and sending flaming fuel outwards, sending the mechanic scrambling for the nearest extinguisher that he kept handy, designed for fuel fires. The automated safety systems locked down the engine room, ensuring that nothing could spread outwards should the mechanic be dead, or unable to contain the flames and damaged system. The detonation did, of course, rattle and shake the ship as well the fact the engine power was, at least temporarily, halved until the mechanic could install temporary fuel lines to allow the half of the engines that lost power to start up. Fortunately he rerouted fuel lines during one extended port stay, setting it up so that half the engines being lost was split between port and starboard.

"Lass, ah' need ye' down 'ere at the engine room!" That was directed at the Captain, who would no doubt either be on her way or recovering from the explosion and shuddering. It would take somewhat longer as he tried to get the last of the burning fuel under control, eventually wrestling control of the engine room back under his control which, after ventilation kicked on, allowed him to get the rebreathing mask and helmet off, watching the engine room doors unseal and open, stepping out into the much cooler and less stressful, for the moment, corridor while waiting for the Captain. He would also be actively blocking any attempts to enter the engine room for now, he planned to keep it off limits until all the repairs were done to the damaged fuel line plus anything burned by the fuel fire. As tempting as it was, he resisted the urge to light a smoke up right now, though he could use it. Better wait until the captain got here first, then do so, lest he be accused of being stupid.
Weiland Voss - Eyes ever Forward





The blistering, whipping winds of the storm were a reminder of Weiland's first trip over to the new world, ironic considering the new life he had now found as a pirate. The barking order of preparing the port side guns brought others to action, though Weiland was far too forward to readily assist with the cannon fire on the Royal Navy vessel, he did bring his musket to bear, moving with the shifting and stormy seas to get off a relatively decent shot, helping buy his crew time to get the volley off. He was busy reloading his weapon, not simply standing idle as the volley found its mark and crippled the opposing vessel. Having finished loading his weapon, the cry to brace for impact got a sideways glance towards what they were about to collide with, a bloody iceberg of all things. Maybe he should have stuck to keeping his feet planted firmly on solid ground, after all, and he grabbed the most solid piece of ship he could get his hands on, though the details from here on out would be a blur, at best.




Coming to later, Weiland stifled a groan in case there was trouble around the area he would find himself waking up. Rather than outright jump up to his feet, he was slow to pick himself up, checking himself over for injuries that weren't readily apparent after only just waking up. Nothing broken or lacerated, he'd gotten lucky. Or blessed, as some of his comrades from the tribe would put it, though he would start moving about what was left in the immediate area, the cloaked and hooded figure offering a brief nod to the captain as she spoke on the rough start. With little time to breath, more Pirate Hunters engaged the battered and weary survivors of the pirate crew. The one leader of their surviving band took a nasty shot from his pistol, while other members of the crew went to ground and returned fire wherever possible. Lifting his musket and firing a shot of his own, starting to reload when the one man yelled out about getting some help getting closer, and the silver eyed tribesman ducked forward, moving low and fast and appearing by his side.

"Stay close, watch where I step, and keep up, we're taking the low path to give you a way to hit their flank from 'impossible' terrain. Lack of caution will leave you wishing you'd sat here being shot at, that black glass will ruin your feet if you don't do this right. Ms. Faulkner! We are taking to the flank, we shall return." Weiland would have to make sure that the Brigand, since the man's name eluded him, was keeping up. While a direct line of sight was not going to be as readily apparent from the lower ground, they were out of sight and, at a casual glance, unable to interact with the fighting. A close enough sweep, however, revealed one shallow cove like structure that would lead behind the position of the hunter's current position. Weiland would start making his way up there, and should the brigand have chosen to follow, he would make sure the man was aware of how to ascend as well. Near the top he would shift sideways, almost wedging himself into a crook to give the brigand space to pass him and strike first, as the man's lack of ranged firepower was noted before.

Bracing himself at the top afterwords, Weiland would observe the backs of the hunter bastards and a rare grin crossed the silver eyed man's face. He would, after allowing the brigand time to act if need be, open fire from the position, ready to either drop back down or swap to his pistols instead of reloading, the cross fire position would likely catch them off guard since both advancing and ascending up to this position was likely not something they would have concerned themselves with. His current plan was to cover the Brigand, barring that though, the crossfire position would leave the hunter's backs terribly exposed regardless who they chose to go after, be it the flanking attack or the original targets at all. This was where things got interesting, approaching problems with non standard solutions, this was something he could get behind, as it were.
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