Eisenhorn

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

The figure in the cell, Jericho Cross, started awake when life came back to him, eyes casted warily forwards towards the only movement and sound present, the opening of a cell door. Strange, his memories didn't align to ending up in a cell, and upon closer inspection, none of it aligned properly. These weren't the cells of Istvargrad, which begged the most obvious question to be 'where the hell was he?'. The memories of a spiteful last stand, buying precious seconds for those who yet fled to flee further downwards and away from impending doom, ending with a massive, looming figure casting his men aside like chaff. Not the prisoner taking type, but as he picked himself up with a weary grunt, he more closely analyzed the two standing in the doorway of this cell. The lingering, looming edge of whatever...nebulous inbetween limbo he had been drifting in was still there, and was not something he wanted to consider further right now.

"Well, cheers for the jailbreak, my unlikely saviors. A gypsy and an opera looking plague surgeon, when the hell am I...?" Neither of the individual's he was faced with wore any sort of attire close to what most in Istvargrad did shortly before and during the downfall. The purple reeked of nobility, which was another mark in the concern column, another once on top of the outdated attire. Outdated, unusual, and expensive, though he wouldn't be quite so quick as to simply complain. As his gaze shifted over to the masked one, he checked a pocket and, with a quiet sigh, produced a battered looking pipe, searching his pockets for something else while looking over the masked one. Strange gestures aside, another heavily outdated attire. Early mages wore similar garb, though not to that nicety, often times being little more than repurposed traveling garb for extra anonymity, though the mask ruined any chance of that, and reminded him of the plague years that he had, fortunately, avoided by virtue of being born after them. Stood out like a sore bloody thumb, all things considered.

"Not like I'm in much position to judge, now then, business. You aren't busting me out of here in the sense of some altruism, you want something. Well, one of you do at least. I'm sure we can strike a deal of sorts, I'm sure my former employer would not complain too terribly much." Finding what he was looking for, it was a crude sort of repeating match kept in his thief kit, something he won in a bet and used to spark off traps and the like. More commonly, he used it to light the tobacco in his pipe, puffing on it idly, shadows concealing his eyes in part thanks to the hood. The flash of flame, however small, revealed a gaunt face under the hood, just enough facial hair to not be able to call merely five o'clock shadow. His figure, now that he was fully stood up, cut a similar picture. Lean, almost predatory in nature, never seen a day of ease, though the cloak and just loose enough fitting clothes concealed much more detail in the given dingy lighting conditions.

Jericho was focused on pragmatism right now, putting the strangeness firmly behind him until he had time to pick it apart properly. Not like he'd be able to do anything with it if the two decided he was to be locked away again and they go and find some other useful body. He was close enough to the door that he wagered he could bolt if needed, though not knowing who he was dealing with definitely made that too risky outside of a last resort. What was also strange was that he had his pipe and other items, what kind of jailor left their charges armed? The same kind that seemed to not have to worry about it, given that lingering, paranoia inducing fog in his mind from after Istvargrad's last memories until now. Something was off about that as well, reeked of the arcane or worse, and it did not sit well in his mind. So, play nice, and look for a way out. Hell, depending on the business, maybe make some coin. Shadows knows he needed it, given the odds of him getting his hand on any of his old stashes were nil, he'd need to start over.

Veritas Lux Mea

Ansgar Staudinger

"Ah'll live. Anyt'ing ah got 'it with can wait. Walkin' wounded an all t'at. Ah don't even know if ah'm injured."

Ansgar responded briefly to the medic, before hauling ass back to the engine room, moving full sprint with the kind of experience that came from working damage control in a rapidly failing situation. With the Lass moving back to the engine room controls, he could focus on the next most pressing matter. Get their damned shields back up and running. The Captain would find the secondary controls, while they lacked a natural bridge view, were repurposed from old ships that couldn't afford having a vision port. It used well placed cameras across the hull, located in hardened casemates and in sub optimal positions for being targeted. It would take getting used to, but it would work. Ansgar would burst into the engine room, locking down the hatch leading into the engine room. It would take either the Captain, Ansgar, or a cutting torch to get through now. He had a plan for the shields, though it would not be pretty long term.

"Lass! Ah'm rerouting power from t'e old bridge t' the shields. Cannae promise it'll last long, but ah can boost t'e refresh doin' it..."

Ansgar had sprinted into the center of the engine room, zipping up his attire from the way it had been, tied around the waist, as it would insulate him against shock, and he hauled the deckplate up, a belch of smoke rose up, likely trapped from something else giving out. These bastards better be ready to pay for the work he was going to have to do to repair the damned ship. Dropping down, he pulled his kit out and started working, sparks flying impotently against his thick attire, pulling cables and rerouting others, and a rather notable shudder would shake the ship as the shields suddenly flared, the power dump from the now ruined bridge snapping it back online in time to intercept the next barrage, the overclocked shield capacitors requiring constant attention to keep them from exploding.

"Hope yer damned friend can drive em off, Lass, yer lucky ah know m' way around t'is ships blasted equipment!"

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

Jericho Cross

Name: Jericho Cross, introduces himself as "Walker".

Apparent Age: Mid Thirties.

"IS": Human

Description:

Appearance

Armaments:

Armaments Hider

Paired Arming Sword & Dagger: Well worn, well maintained sword and dagger that have been paired together. The dagger is used for both defensive purposes, parrying and deflecting enemy weapons, as well as offensive weapons and is balanced well enough for throwing in a suitably desperate situation. The arming sword is balanced for one handed use, and can parry and deflect as well as cut and thrust. Besides being well made, they lack ornamentation or any real sort of indication of needless wealth. A working man's weapons.

Compact Crossbow: A full sized crossbow cut down and lightened to make it more usable and agile in close quarters situations. More suitable of fighting in streets, not fields, it still has the same impact and potency as the full sized model, but is harder to ready and reload without practice. Capable of accepting varied sorts of bolts, Jericho has a modestly sized quiver of bodkin tipped bolts, each with a generous application of poison to ensure effectiveness against other humans even on otherwise nonlethal hits. How effective they will prove against other targets remains to be seen.

Thief's Kit: A satchel full of various tools and supplies that a scoundrel might need on his daily going's about. From lockpicks, skeleton keys, and even an acidic vial for desperate measures, to tools designed to ease the production of crude poisons and boobytraps, Jericho designed his personal kit to be versatile, lacking the specialization of some kits in favor of being able to handle most situations. The lack of overly specialized tools does limit to a degree, but the flexibility proved far more valuable than the specialty in one singular task.

Lucky Pipe: A pipe that Jericho is never seen without, and an aid to his habit of smoking on a routine basis, the pipe is unusually nice, even if its engravings and decoration are worn away from years of use and aging. Ivory and oak make up its construction, though the ivory is blackened from the routine use as a pipe, and where the man got his hands on such a tool are a very closely guarded secret.

Teraterifficence:

Teraterifficence Hider

Abnormal Resilience: The realm of Istvargrad lacked overtly supernatural beings or species, though it did not lack in abnormalities and abhumans (Elves, dwarves, and gnomes existed and were seen as just abhumans, offshoots of humanity). Most people had some lineage or trait linking them back to some sort of strange lineage prior to the fading of such beings, and Jericho is no exception. His resilience, both to the mundane such as fatigue and poison, as well as encounters with unnatural relics that crippled others is noteworthy. He isn't the strongest nor the fastest, but his resilience has kept him alive long enough to end up in his current predicament, handy since his preference to poison his crossbow bolts means he has been routinely exposed to such toxins as well. Even physical trauma could be bounced back from alarmingly quickly, a combination of willpower, natural resilience, a quick bandage and a touch of liquid courage getting him back on his feet far quicker than most.

Dirty Fighter: All's fair in love and war, and Jericho is well versed in the most underhanded of tactics. Anything goes in a fight, doubly so when survival is on the line, and he has no pesky morality hamstringing his combat efforts. Shots below the belt, ambushes, traps, poison, even something as deceptively simple as a handful of sand for the eyes, Jericho is always on the look out for, and often finding, underhanded means of leveraging combat to his advantage. His former gang often questioned how he was always finding such openings or loopholes, and rarely got a straight answer, calling into question whether it's simply luck or something more unnatural, and has even been accused of being capable of swaying fate with magic, though he flatly denies such a thing, a rarely plain response indeed.

Your World:

Istvargrad

A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.

Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.

Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now, doubly so when opposed by such distrustful, disparate forces...

Backstory:

Backstory

Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.

Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.

This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.

Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.

Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.

It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?

Other: Unlike most of his peers, Jericho is well versed in the major languages among the remaining races of his former home, capable of conversing comfortably in his world's version of Common, Elfish, Dwarfish, and Gnomish (A derivative of Dwarfish, though don't let them catch you saying that). He tends to never answer questions directed at him, about him, straight, and often leaves differing stories or understandings of who he was between each person that asks, confusing efforts to corroborate who he really is. Otherwise, is well spoken, though crass when the mood suits, and a casual liar out of amusement as well as need.

Unheroic: The Backwards Castle

Jericho Cross

Name: Jericho Cross, introduces himself as "Walker".

Apparent Age: Mid Thirties.

"IS": Human

Description:

Appearance

Armaments:

Armaments Hider

Paired Arming Sword & Dagger: Well worn, well maintained sword and dagger that have been paired together. The dagger is used for both defensive purposes, parrying and deflecting enemy weapons, as well as offensive weapons and is balanced well enough for throwing in a suitably desperate situation. The arming sword is balanced for one handed use, and can parry and deflect as well as cut and thrust. Besides being well made, they lack ornamentation or any real sort of indication of needless wealth. A working man's weapons.

Compact Crossbow: A full sized crossbow cut down and lightened to make it more usable and agile in close quarters situations. More suitable of fighting in streets, not fields, it still has the same impact and potency as the full sized model, but is harder to ready and reload without practice. Capable of accepting varied sorts of bolts, Jericho has a modestly sized quiver of bodkin tipped bolts, each with a generous application of poison to ensure effectiveness against other humans even on otherwise nonlethal hits. How effective they will prove against other targets remains to be seen.

Thief's Kit: A satchel full of various tools and supplies that a scoundrel might need on his daily going's about. From lockpicks, skeleton keys, and even an acidic vial for desperate measures, to tools designed to ease the production of crude poisons and boobytraps, Jericho designed his personal kit to be versatile, lacking the specialization of some kits in favor of being able to handle most situations. The lack of overly specialized tools does limit to a degree, but the flexibility proved far more valuable than the specialty in one singular task.

Lucky Pipe: A pipe that Jericho is never seen without, and an aid to his habit of smoking on a routine basis, the pipe is unusually nice, even if its engravings and decoration are worn away from years of use and aging. Ivory and oak make up its construction, though the ivory is blackened from the routine use as a pipe, and where the man got his hands on such a tool are a very closely guarded secret.

Teraterifficence:

Teraterifficence Hider

Abnormal Resilience: The realm of Istvargrad lacked overtly supernatural beings or species, though it did not lack in abnormalities and abhumans (Elves, dwarves, and gnomes existed and were seen as just abhumans, offshoots of humanity). Most people had some lineage or trait linking them back to some sort of strange lineage prior to the fading of such beings, and Jericho is no exception. His resilience, both to the mundane such as fatigue and poison, as well as encounters with unnatural relics that crippled others is noteworthy. He isn't the strongest nor the fastest, but his resilience has kept him alive long enough to end up in his current predicament, handy since his preference to poison his crossbow bolts means he has been routinely exposed to such toxins as well. Even physical trauma could be bounced back from alarmingly quickly, a combination of willpower, natural resilience, a quick bandage and a touch of liquid courage getting him back on his feet far quicker than most.

Dirty Fighter: All's fair in love and war, and Jericho is well versed in the most underhanded of tactics. Anything goes in a fight, doubly so when survival is on the line, and he has no pesky morality hamstringing his combat efforts. Shots below the belt, ambushes, traps, poison, even something as deceptively simple as a handful of sand for the eyes, Jericho is always on the look out for, and often finding, underhanded means of leveraging combat to his advantage. His former gang often questioned how he was always finding such openings or loopholes, and rarely got a straight answer, calling into question whether it's simply luck or something more unnatural, and has even been accused of being capable of swaying fate with magic, though he flatly denies such a thing, a rarely plain response indeed.

Your World:

Istvargrad

A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.

Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.

Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now, doubly so when opposed by such distrustful, disparate forces...

Backstory:

Backstory

Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.

Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.

This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.

Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.

Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.

It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?

Other: Unlike most of his peers, Jericho is well versed in the major languages among the remaining races of his former home, capable of conversing comfortably in his world's version of Common, Elfish, Dwarfish, and Gnomish (A derivative of Dwarfish, though don't let them catch you saying that). He tends to never answer questions directed at him, about him, straight, and often leaves differing stories or understandings of who he was between each person that asks, confusing efforts to corroborate who he really is. Otherwise, is well spoken, though crass when the mood suits, and a casual liar out of amusement as well as need.

Veritas Lux Mea

Ansgar Staudinger

"Andrea! Kev! What the hell is going on?"

"Lass! Tha' latest blast was from th' bridge! Git down t' the engine room, backup controls are 'ere an' ready! Ah'm on damage control! Doc, meet me t'ere! Everyone else, stand clear!"

Ansgar had pulled on his full attire, including carrying the rebreather in one hand and damage control kit in the other. One could call it a tool box, but there were also supplies for sealing small breaches to the outside, locking down damaged components, putting out fires, as well as actual repair work. When it came to damage control, the man always tended to take the lead since, well, he was pretty much the best equipped person on board to actually go about being able to respond and prevent the situation from getting even more out of hand than it already was. The captain would likely want to have words with him later since, well, he hadn't told anyone that there was a backup set of controls in the engine room that'd he'd installed shortly after his hiring on. He'd opened them up the moment the next explosion had happened, and given his intimate understanding of the ship's layout, he was painfully aware of where the blast came from.

Moving at full sprint, Ansgar was in his element, though when he rounded the corner and spotted the crumpled, unmoving form of Andrea on the wall opposite of the bridge. Kevej was there as well, and he looked far better off. Given the blast doors were sealed, well, that only confirmed his suspicions. A small miracle the blast doors worked, and he ignored the pilot's body as he hooked up an analysis device to the panel next to the blast doors, cursing under his breath. Completely ruined, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of even beginning to salvage or get the bridge back up and running without berthing or docking at all. He opened a direct comm to the Captain, not broadcasting this information over the ship wide comms. No need to get people panicked more than they possibly were already.

"Lass, th' bridge is shot. Complete loss without dry dockin' th' boat. Andrea's down, reckon fer good. We'll know w'en doc gets 'ere. I'm movin' back t' t'e engine room after doc gets up 'ere. Ain' nothin' I can do 'bout this rig't now."

The mechanic was compartmentalizing and locking away useless responses, including the panic that wanted to break out at the sight of the dead pilot. Sure, the captain could do the job and, sure, they didn't see eye to eye, but that didn't mean the man wished ill on the woman. Well, not seriously. Still, responding to death of crewmembers would come later, right now he was doing diagnostics on the rest of the ship systems while waiting for the closest this bucket of bolts had to a medical professional to arrive. He didn't attempt to interfere with the still form of the, now likely former, pilot. Even if she was alive somehow, he knew enough about serious injury that moving her would be a bad idea. How Kevej looked, well, he couldn't spare a glance right now. Too much information to process, too many problems to worry about. Like not getting shot out of the sky. He had half a hope the bastards would try to board them, oh he would get his pound of flesh out of these pirate bastards for undoing all this damn work he'd done getting this heap up and running proper.

Veritas Lux Mea

Ansgar Staudinger

“Attention all hands, we’ve got a little bit of unfriendly behavior. Teg, get to the port turret. I’ll man the starboard. Socket, get me warp right now. Andrea, evasive maneuvers."

"Oh, aye, ah can just work a god's damned miracle an' magic everythin' back to normal!" The sarcasm was dripping even through the comms, though this was also audible over the sounds of the mechanic grabbing the necessary tools to effect rather abrupt emergency repairs, so it was apparent he was obeying the orders. Grabbing a large pipe, kept on hand for emergencies, he hauled it over to the ruined fuel line, continuing to mutter and grumble under his breath, ignoring the attack on the ship until he could get things running only so he could bitch the vultures out good and proper instead of half assing it while working on something else. With a grunt he wedged the pipe, just a touch too large, into place, and began welding, a pair of goggles protecting his eyes from the sparks. The rumbling and hits from the enemy ship caused the pipe to shudder, nearly giving under its own weight, but with some quick welding and judicious application of duct tape to keep it in place, he was able to get the fix patched into place.

"All 'ands! Fuel line repair is in, give 'er a go. An' if I start hollerin', well, y' won't 'ave time to notice if I do." Ansgar had a handful of patch kits and the welder on hand still just in case he needed to jump in and fix something in a hurry. Plus a fresh roll of tape, since the last one had been used up on the pipe job. If it wasn't for the fact that it would both be ineffective and restrict him from fixing engine damage as it came up again, he'd try to put a few holes in the bastards chasing them. With that, he braced himself and had to trust in his patch work, and the fact this old bitch of a ship was a lot tougher than some might credit her at a glance.

Warhammer 40k: Enigmas of the Warp

Ansgar kept his silence when the planetary governor made the 'show of force' by sending escorts to guide the gunship into the atmosphere and towards the planetary governor's personal headquarters, a massive complex of classic Imperial Gothic design. That was something that the Kreiger never truly understood was why there was such an obsession with building higher and higher into a planet's atmosphere. They were massive, easy targets, that would draw attention from any sort of planetary invader. The mention of close quarters fighting potential got a brief nod from the Krieger. Between the heavy duty shotgun he carried, various close quarters kit, and carapace, he was very well equipped for close quarters fighting. "If they intended to intelligently eliminate us, it would have been a strike before we landed. If they try to do it once we're landed, they are being 'subtle' at the expense of success."

Once the shuttle was landed, Ansgar rose from his seat and unslung the shotgun, he always carried the weapon even in 'safe' areas. Natural state of affairs, and he would be choosing to follow the party, likely positioning himself alongside whoever took the lead. Likely the Sister of Battle, but he would not judge all the same. The planetary governor greeted them as locally posted Arbites were tending the gates. That was a concerning development, having them personally posted instead of private guards was an indication the Arbites were possibly already under the personal thumb of the Governor. He had nothing to say to the man, as he was not the one personally dealing with him outside of necessity, he would leave the talking to the more socially adept among the retinue. Unless the governor wanted to discuss how much of a target he made his personal headquarters into. Maybe.

Warhammer 40k: Enigmas of the Warp

I'll try and have one out either before I sleep, or sometime during Sunday.

Warhammer 40k: Enigmas of the Warp

"By all means ma'am. I've no problem talking about anything I'm not forbidden from speaking of. I may probe you for information as well, if the situation warrants it." Ansgar returned the soft smile with a brief, polite nod before returning to a neutral, and more comfortable, seating position. It left him staring at the opposing bulkhead, mulling over the fact that he hated flying. Every descent, atmospherically, had ended with the craft in question being in no condition to return back to its hanger. Be it from anti air fire, or the sheer stress of entering into the atmosphere of the planet as it was twisted and tortured by the forces of Chaos. Her lack of reaction to the tyranids told him enough, she had never faced them, and he considered her blessed in that regard. He'd been informed that the lack of sanctioned psykers, upon the arrival of his regiment, had been because most had gone mad and required summary execution for their own safety shortly after the splinter fleet arrival. Something about a shadow that the tyranid cast over the sector. A high cost campaign, given the tyranids were the least of the problems, but that was considerations for another day, for now, further briefing was being given.

The briefing raised all sorts of red flags in the Krieger's head when considering the situation at hand. Likely infiltration by the forces of Chaos in the various echelons of the government. After action reports had indicated, before his reassignment to this retinue, that it had been internal infiltration and corruption, like a cancer, and then it erupted into the system wide conflict that drew in the Ordos Malleus. A slowly tightening grip on his shotgun was the only betrayal of his inner thoughts to those perceptive enough to notice the subtle tightening of a grip, and the sound of his gloves over their entry into the planet's atmosphere and descent. Using a central point of power in the system as a spring board to corrupt and invade the rest, this time to include the Imperium farther abroad? All the signs pointed to another retreading of his not so distant past.

"Ma'am, how much singular power does the planetary governor still hold? Coupled with that, how steadfast are the local guard and arbites forces? PDF should be written off if we suspect infiltrators have already arrived. If the planetary governor relies on a network of individuals of note, we have to identify the most vital to planetary operation and security and ensure they remain loyal." The krieger was already mentally planning a worse case scenario. Guard and Arbite forces, proper Guard, not PDF, could provide instrumental manpower in a worse case scenario where martial law and lockdowns would need to be implemented. Which was where the Arbites came in then as well, as they would be able to utilize the Guard manpower in forming effective cordons and lock downs. Coupled with having to look into ganger and other activity, and evaluate whether they were corrupted by Chaos, or simply criminals that could be employed as irregulars. Facing against the tyranids had forced the Guard commanders to employ irregular forces, who were more than happy to do so once it was apparent the tyranid wouldn't be taking prisoners.

"Also, we are not exactly equipped for subtle, undercover activities ma'am. I pray you have a plan to address that, or the sight of a Sister of Battle, mercenary, the tallest psyker in the sector, and the shortest krieger in the sector is going to rumble things rather quickly."

Veritas Lux Mea

Ansgar Staudinger

If it wasn't for their captain stepping in, Ansgar might have marched right up to the bridge and gave that damn fool a proper talking to. And shove one of those damn fool trinkets of hers so far up her arse that she'd have to open her mouth to crow over the damned things. Seething in his thoughts as he was, the pat on his shoulder by Teg got a glance from the typically irritated mechanic. She wanted to sift through the mess and see if she could figure out the details of what blew their fuel line in half? Sure, long as she stayed out of his damn way, far as he was concerned though, the damage was done and it wasn't likely that, even if the bastard who had shoved a bomb in their fuel lines had left a calling card, it would have survived the fuel and explosion itself. "Aye. fine, jus' stay out of m' way. Th' Lass 'as a point, ah need t' get us runnin' full speed. Not like th' arrogant cabbie in th' bridge'll be any use fer t'at."

With that, the mechanic casually turned on heel, leaving a feint trail of ciggarette smoke in his wake as he marched his not so happy ass back into the engine room. Putting the smoke out in an ash tray that he was, begrudgingly, forced to use that had somehow not gotten knocked down or shattered, much to his annoyance, he strapped a rebreathing mask back on before climbing back up to the now ruptured pipe to start digging around and figure out what he could do to get the fuel flowing again. Reminded him of a book his old man chattered on and on about that had not somehow survived the transition over to this place. Muttering under his breath about 'spice' and such nonsense, he kept crawling about the ruined pipeline, getting an idea for what he could do. Sure, the Lass might not be too pleased with him welding underway, but if it got the fuel going, what did she care? Well, at least this time.

Continuing to mutter and grumble under his breath, Ansgar crawled back down, grabbing spare scrap metal he kept on hand for just this sort of occassion, as well as a welding kit and pair of goggles. No sense ruining his eyes, he had to see to slug that damn pilot in the face for being a thot pain in his ass. Or on general principle. Both? Both was good. Right now he had work to do, and that mercenary best hurry her ass up because he wasn't going to wait long. Mainly since he had to get this ship back up and running and he really didn't need the Lass, or that damn fool cabbie wannabe, yelling at him over the coms. Again.