The stink of chemicals announced the approaching man well before anything else might have. Not an inch of exposed skin, easy breathing mask, covered in armor. Another tribes Grenadier, if Rojack was to hazard a guess, and from a far more somber, far less pleasant one. Not all soldiers approached war like his own tribe, the Sergeant mentally reminded himself, but he found himself listening closely to the interaction between the officer and this newcomer, silently gauging the response and what to expect. The sharp salute and sharper uniform spoke volumes, this one's tribe valued appearances and protocol, whether that translated well to warfare or not, he couldn't say. It wasn't his own soldier's way, but he was silently appreciative of the fact the officer effectively said no, leave them to their own devices, and apparently she was tasking him with meeting her elsewhere tomorrow, forming a new regiment, so on and so on. He refocused when her attention returned to him, the one who had all but shoulder checked the officer getting off relatively light, though he wasn't familiar at all with the game being played, or at least the name made no sense. Still, the man got a friendly nod from the Sergeant, a rather far cry from the officer's response. The extended hand was given a firm, even handshake. None of that 'crusher grip' nonsense, he never saw the point.
"A pleasure m'um, Sergeant Rojack Cestarn, 222nd Edrastian Shock. The lads aren't quite as, call it, adjusted? That might be the word, but they mean well all the same. Follow me m'um, the lads aren't too far off." Rojack turned and started off, not taking terribly long to approach where the remaining survivors of the 222nd were gathered, one poking his head up at the sight of their Sergeant returning, an important looking hat following in tow, and a few nudges between them got them at least on their feet, more heavily inebriated than Rojack, since they'd been sitting, drinking, and gambling while the man had been walking and talking. Similar uniforms, including the patchwork salvaged armor, though to a lesser degree than Rojack's own kitbashed kit. If any of the surviving rank and file were too inebriated to stand, it didn't readily show since they would hold each other upright.
"M'um, this is the last surviving combat unit in the 222nd. The command squad is Father knows where, but there were no fighting men among them." Rojack's tone had shifted, and while one could not quite call it disrespectful, his mood and thoughts on the off world regimental command squad were plain as day. They'd hid behind medics, far speakers, and Edrastians while barking orders and had been showered with the majority of the accolades during the parade prior to this evening's festivities. Once Captain Fier...fire.... fire rocko....Fieroccu had put them at ease again, they'd return to their drinking and miscellaneous activities, be it gambling or chatter, though sideways glances were readily apparent. The surviving soldiers were evaluating the officer, leery due to their experiences with the regimental command squad of the 222nd, and while the Sergeant caught a glimpse of that mousy one, who'd been able to piece together what the other fellow had been saying, skulking off, he said nothing. Given her offers before, well, doubtful she had any interest in dealing with commissar looking officers.
The arrival of more people was a welcome thing indeed, though the tribal soldiers glanced at each other when the man with the borderline unintelligible accent came asking about, or they assumed asking about, something or another. One of them recognized the last word of his speaking, but the Father interceded on their behalf by bringing forth another who seemed to actually understand what the fellow had been saying, and translated in a far more understandable manner. She also proceeded to offer supplies, likely procured in less than up and up methods. The surviving soldiers of the 222nd would go about seeing what wares she had on her, and what they had of value to trade. Too pragmatic to turn down an opportunity to potentially pad their kits, though Rojack would pass on the offer itself, letting the other Edrastian's do as they pleased however. "Making his word's understandable is appreciated. I need to stretch my legs, otherwise I would deal cards. Play nice with the other tribes, lads, and don't spend your entire Father given pay on your lack of gambling ability."
Getting a chuckle of amusement out of his lads, Rojack would stand, taking a bottle with him as he left the tribe soldiers to their own devices. They were pleasant and welcoming even without the sergeant around, likely it was natural behavior instilled in them prior to departing their home world. Rojack, for what it was worth, trusted them to at least be civil, since polite would probably go out the window once the games started properly, be it cards or otherwise. The man took the odd swig from the bottle, wandering around and checking in at various spots, chatting with various other tribes survivors, and moving on to talk to the next. His walking would end up crossing paths with a very stern, almost Commissar looking woman. Commissar's were one of two positions filled by off worlders that had gotten any genuine respect from the Edrastian rank and file, mainly since they had a habit of leading and fighting from the front. Yes it was to ensure there was no cowardice, poor conduct, and the like, but it was respected more than how the off world officers acted all the same. Closer inspection as he came to attention revealed this woman was merely an officer, though he had no idea what tribe paraded around in a easily spotted uniform. Regardless, as the commissars had put it, respect the rank, not the wearer. That, and perhaps not all off worlder officers hid behind the lines barking orders. The salute was, in spite of the increasing inebriation, in good form, perhaps not to Mordian standards, but proper all the same.
"M'um, nothing unusual to report. Restless legs as well?" The Edrastian accent, while not as pronounced or unintelligible as some, did mangle certain words all the same. The man had returned to a more relaxed, but upright position all the same, after saluting, having done as instructed by his own regimental standards for officers. He'd no idea the standards Mordian forces would operate at, mainly since most Edrastian's had no idea about the existence of the Mordian tribe at all, so it was with guarded curiosity that he was regarding the uniform still. Wearing the colors of the natural sky were usually reserved for either formal funerals, sending the deceased their bodies after the Father accepted their souls by his side, or the extremely rare case it would provide adequate ability to be difficult to detect by sight. The man also had no inkling that this was to be his future commanding officer, perhaps the pseudo commissar attire made it easier to interact with than a formal, proper officer. After all, the only officer's that he'd dealt with were the ones who hid behind the shock troops proper, using far speakers and medics to ensure their own well being.
Sergeant Rojack wrenched the tribal warsword from the Ork corpse, sending a spiteful spray of las fire at the backs of the retreating Orks, watching a few remaining mortars fire into the retreating greenskins as well. The man, standing tall and proud at the edge of the trenches that he and his men counter assaulted out of, turned to address the men of his squad, ready to raise his voice to issue orders. The call caught in his throat, he was effectively alone. A few dying men laid about the field, a handful that had stayed in the trench with their heavy weapons, otherwise, he was alone. The few men who had been crewing weapons crawled out of the trench, looking at their Sergeant, waiting for orders. They were good soldiers, good warriors, almost as good as the dead and dying that remained scattered about the field, their weapons lodged into orkish corpses and smashed down in retribution. Still, the orks were on the retreat again, though it was unlikely they could repel another assault.
"Right lads, grab anything useful off the dead an' dig in. Any of you fine boys got a working far speaker? No? I'll walk back to the officers and see what they order." The surviving men of his trenchline began picking through the remains, some grabbing the better made explosives or better surviving ones off the dead, ork and guard alike, those that couldn't be saved being put out of their misery after prayers, and stocking the supplies in the trenches while the Sergeant marched briskly back towards the 222nd's standard. It still stood, blowing in the hot wind, riddled with holes from stray Ork weapons fire, damaged but unbroken. Underneath it was the command staff of the regiment, off worlders put in charge of managing and leading the feral world troops since it was decided they would not be able to lead themselves, not while being able to interact with other regiments. They had survived other regiments dying, much the same way as they did now. They were the last position, issuing orders surrounded by medics, vox operators, and the like, leading from afar. The Edrastian natives had no respect for them, but they followed orders all the same. The major in charge noted the approaching sergeant, and once Rojack saluted, returned it and dispatched orders.
"Sergeant, by my estimate, the 222nd is beneath minimal numbers for combat effectiveness. Relief forces are arriving now, rally the survivors and prepare to return to the muster positions. Our part has been played. You have your orders, Sergeant." Looking past the major, Rojack could see the trails of dust that the Guard transports kicked up, their replacements would be here before the Orks could rally and attack again. Saluting again, the Sergeant turned and started slogging back to the front trench, where the surviving men were already digging in. They looked up when the Sergeant returned, Rojack was the last of the Grenadiers, best examples of the Edrastian way of warfare, and by extension, the unofficial and, sometimes, official leaders of the tribal warriors in their Shock Regiments.
"Right, pack yer kits lads, command says we're too few to hold off another assault. Orders are to withdraw, let another tribe hold the hill. I know, we ain't done with the greenskin bastards, but we've done our bit all the same. Everyone got their kit sorted? Let's walk lads, can't hog all the glory." Rojack hopped down to help the survivors pack up their kit, everything they could carry, and fell back to the command squad, who was briefing the fresh regiment that had arrived to secure the hill for good. The major turned and visibly paused, having expected at least more than what was present. There wasn't even a platoon left of the regiment, including the entire command staff, and the relieving regiment also noted this, a mixed look of shock and awe that they had lasted this long against the Orks when left at such little remaining effective strength. Custody of the hill was exchanged, and the excess transports were redirected to other uses while the surviving Edrastian's mounted up and rode back to the reserves.
The Edrastian 222nd Shock Regiment stood with their tattered, battle damaged banner at attention while the speech had been given, medals handed out, the Edrastian's receiving more than some, but not as many as others, and notably not being given leave to settle on the planet. The Father called for their service still, then, so the tribal soldiers would answer the call. Still, that was another day, they still had this night to live through first. The command staff would have retired to other, nicer berthing they privately acquired, likely already doing paperwork on where they would be transferred next, to whichever regiment needed foreign leadership. They had no interest in warning or debriefing the tribal soldiers, who had taken to walking and drinking, stretching their legs under a strangely peaceful night. Well, maybe not walking, but they much preferred to be under open sky than inside the barracks, the tribesman starting a small fire to sit around, drinking and reminiscing on the dead and gone.
"Aye lads, Father above still has work for us. Now, reckon they'll scatter us, given how few of us there are. Father'll watch over each of us, and those who've taken his hand and now rest by his side. To those that passed, and those that yet live!" A cheer, strong and clear, before the handful of men took a heavy swig from their bottles, laughing and the sound of dice being broken out were made clear. The men would gamble on dice, chuckling and jostling each other as they made bets and rolled in the light of the campfire, while their sergeant looked on. He then drew his boot knife, and gathering some of the scrap wood they had gotten together before beginning the small campfire, and started carving and whittling while the men played.
Rojack could hear other regiment's survivors drinking and making noise, and any who would find their way to the Edrastian's little campfire would find warm welcomes. Such was the tribes way to welcome fellow warriors and survivors, and would quickly encompass any that cared to join in the dice games, drinking, and reminiscing on the recent events. Rojack was at the edge of the small fire's light, leaning against a wall, whittling and carving away while making remarks towards those present, keeping an eye on the approaches just in case an officer came investigating the commotion. One who was familiar with the game would recognize the wooden carvings matched regicide figures, it was something that the Sergeant did in his free time, well, one of the things he did when he had down time. The towering, looming Edrastian's would cut an intimidating figure until one heard the laughing, easy going nature they currently had while drinking, and gambling, and enjoying a rare moment of downtime before being thrown into war in the Father's name once again.
Appearance: The men and women of Edrastia are well built, sturdy, and hardy, and Rojack is of no exception. In spite of the wasteland world's higher gravity, Rojack and other Edrastians remain taller than average humans, while retaining the sturdy, built look a high gravity world might create after generations of life there. A rather noteworthy scar runs along his jawline from a close brush with hostile fire, leaving an off line in the ever present stubble that keeps stubbornly coming in despite daily, sometimes several times daily, attempts to shave it. Said stubble matches the dull red hair that is kept trimmed and short, emerald green eyes peering out at the world, unfortunate circumstances giving him an almost eternally irritated look.
If one were to observe him in any state of undress, one would found countless devotional tattoos intermingling with the scar tissue, the latter a consequence of being part of a shock regiment, the former from the borderline fanaticism that Edrastians have in their service. While normally obscured, the various tattoos recall everything from scripture and prayers to holy iconography and imagery, the transient pain in undertaking these ritualistic measures a blending of old tribal traditions with Ecclesiarchy dogma. Such markings are worn with pride, and a sense of honor, and receiving such markings are seen as a right of passage.
Uniform: The uniforms of the 222nd Shock Regiment are a dusty color, designed to blend in with barren wastes and built sturdily and thickly enough to weather the elements in such inhospitably barren climates. Sturdy all weather cloaks are issued as well, to aid in protection against the elements and conceal their wearers, though they are not of any sort of special material or manufacture beyond simple foul weather gear. As a shock grenadier, Rojack has been able to survive long enough to realize that flak armor isn't quite good enough, and has salvaged a few pieces of carapace from the dead of other regiments, repainting and marking it to match their own regimental colors. The breastplate, forearms, and upper legs have carapace, the rest having to rely on standard issue Flak armor that is issued to the regimental troops. Regimental markings are on the left shoulder, under the cloak as to prevent identification at significant range by hostile elements.
Armament: Grenadiers within the 222nd carry the same lasgun as their peers, a local forgeworld copy of the Merovech Pattern Assault Lasgun, and while not quite as sturdy as the real things, they serve well for the sudden lightning strikes the shock troopers are well versed in. Rojack is no different, though he has a cut down shotgun that he carries, and outside of its lack of stock or unnecessary barrel length beyond the magazine tube, is a perfectly standard shotgun. What stands out is the pride and joy of the Edrastians, and a give away of the slowly changing feral world status, a large, borderline two handed sword, modernized with mono edge and blessed by the local Ecclesiarchy prior to each regiment's departure for service in the Emperor's name. Rojack carries a handful of frag grenades, and has a large boot knife as well, rounding out his combat tools and giving him the means to serve in the Emperor's name.
Besides his weapons, Rojack carries a small, well worn book, issued to each Edrastian upon volunteering to serve, and is a Ecclesiarchy prepared book of prayers and the like, something for the faith driven men and women to reference and review if they should ever find either their allies, or even their own, faith wavering. He also has a few hand made regicide pieces, having heard of the game and been fascinated by it, but never having the chance to learn or even play it.
Personality/Demeanour: Rojack, despite appearances, is a fairly pleasant, easy going man whenever outside of active danger. Jovial and joking, he often was referred to as the squad father figure, being one of the oldest men to volunteer for that tithe cycle, and treats his fellow comrades like a family, as was taught by both his peers and the preachers who aided in the training of the Edrastian regiments. A man of firm faith, he might not be the most overtly disciplined in terms of Guard rules and regulations, but fanatical in the execution of the Emperor's will, no matter where that calling might take him. Often found fiddling with cards or paging through his worn book during off times, he also takes the time to seek out allies having trouble, and has been reprimanded for being too blunt towards officers and senior ranking personnel.
When on the field of battle, Rojack typifies the Edrastian approach to warfare, getting as close to the enemy as possible without detection before launching the assault with grenades, gratuitous las fire, and a roaring battle cry as the shock troops slam into the enemy position with a fury comparable to religious zealots, and first in are the Grenadiers. Rojack is always moving to the forefront of any attack or combat action, putting his nominally better armor and faith in the Emperor to use protecting his less armored, or more vital, allies. He sees it as his duty to protect and lead those under his command, and took to joint operations rather well, all but adopting men and women from other regiments into his own group, though again, reprimands for not treating officers appropriately were necessary.
Greatest Ambition: For all the zeal and willingness to go the farthest into harms way, Rojack actually has aspirations to retire and help set up and run a church to guide others to the Emperor's glorious light, with the Ecclesiarchies blessings of course.
Greatest Hatred: It is a toss up between Orks, who routinely plagued his homeworld, and the traitor forces of Chaos, who are the antithesis of everything that Rojack believes in. Deserters fall into this category as well, even if it wasn't their decision to be Guardsmen, it was their calling in the Emperor's plan.
Skills: First and foremost, close quarters combat is where Rojack shines the most. Every Edrastian who volunteers is drilled and honed to a razor's edge for fighting close up, and Rojack to a shine to it, fighting with a zeal and capability that earned him further scrutiny and drilling to form the Grenadier core of the 222nd Shock Regiment. Be it city fighting, working through trenches, or just simply being that close to the enemy, Rojack prefers to be within full automatic range of the enemies of Man, and if the chance to use his blade arises, all the better.
Rojack also has a knack for explosives, seeming to have an innate understanding of them, when to throw them, where to aim them, and how to best exploit them. Useful for a man who would lead his squad into the mouth of hell, what better way to soften them up than with some well aimed explosives? The man has also taken to studying approved religious texts when the chance arises, and is surprisingly well versed in Ecclesiarchy dogma, at least well for a borderline feral worlder.
History: Edrastia is a fringe feral world, unremarkable as far as most who do not live on it are concerned. The only civilized settlers on it were Ecclesiarchal missionaries who saw it as their Emperor given mission to civilize and bring these savages into the folds of the faith. Considering the tribal faith already worshipped a single, central figure who resembled the God Emperor already, this was the easier of the two steps, and countless generations have slowly been bringing the feral tribes together as civilized men and women of the Imperium. Of course, the Ork infestation was thought to be a setback when discovered, but having a common foe united the disparate tribes, and gave a constant source of training for those chosen to fill the tithes placed upon this rock by the Imperium.
Rojack was a man from a smaller tribe, though being the tribe chieftains son gave him status all the same, training under the best warriors within the tribe to one day succeed his father as chieftain. It was when the routine visit by the missionaries of the Imperial Cult that this desire changed. Preaching the belief in the God Emperor, and also quietly selecting those who would do well as servants of his will abroad, the chieftain's son quickly volunteered, at an early age of sixteen, and began undergoing training with soldiers brought in to assist in raising and preparing the most civilized of these feral worlders for war abroad.
The 222nd Edrastian Shock Regiment was raised and armed in a way that would allow them to mimic the tactics they were most used to, creeping as close to enemy positions as possible before a blistering lightning strike, assaults being opened with a barrage of grenades, weapons fire, and savage hand to hand combat. Vehicle use was limited, being predominately an infantry regiment, but were familiarized with the interiors of common transports so they were not in complete shock should the situation arise. Utilizing the ever present Orks as training fodder, the 222nd would train with modern weapons and equipment against a culturally ancient enemy, a hatred all but ingrained into their DNA. Upon his birthday, days before departure, Rojack would receive his family heirloom, the large sword that typified the wasteland ferals, having a two handed grip in case one could not wield it with a single hand, modernized by the forge tasked with arming the Edrastian regiments, and blessed by the very same Ecclesiarchal figure that inspired him to serve in the Guard.
As experienced as the regiment was with orks already, it was decided by the powers that be that, while they were already in transit to another location, to be sent to the crusade for the Vernum system in opposition to the Waaagh of Mug Thrakta. The chance to face their ancestral enemy in the Emperor's name was like a dream come true for the soldiers, and they eagerly awaited for the strange, uncomfortable transports to arrive at the Vernum system. Transit took nearly a year in real space, though once they arrived the command staff the regiment was assigned to was skeptical of these barely civilized Guardsman, though assigned them to lead assault operations in offensives against the Ork threat. They feral worlders would quickly prove themselves when leading assault operations or blunting attacks with counter assaults of their own, the ferocity and savagery they fought with garnering a reputation among the Orks, these "Wastah Gits" being right proper fightey when they showed up.
Near the end of the Crusade, The 222nd were tasked with taking a vital position that had been overlooking several avenues of approach and had been instrumental in Orkish counter attacks, being a common regrouping point for the routed greenskins that were threatening to break the outer encirclement. In the early hours, just as the sun was about to begin rising, the 222nd had begun their creeping approach. Clad in the colors of their homeworld, the blasted no mans land approaching the hill was natural terrain, Sgt. Rojack leading the Grenadier detachment he had been put in charge of by the command staff after observing the man's routine rallying of his comrades during assaults when other leadership positions had been killed. By this point the 222nd were dangerously close to being under strength, but every last guardsmen in the regiment had been gathered for this operation.
Just as the sun crested behind them, the orks would be alerted to the assaulting Guardsmen by the sound of fragmentation grenades, blistering levels of indiscriminate las fire, and a unified, bellowing war cry that shook the ground as the Grenadiers led the charge, Sgt. Rojack holding his tribal sword in one hand, and the Merovach lasgun in the other, using the sling to loosely aim towards the Orks as they descended in a hatred that comes from generations of fighting such a foe. The salvaged carapace the Grenadiers wore, and was really the best indicator of who was such an elite among the troops, gave them the staying power to hold the line and route the Ork menace from the hill. With that task done, it fell to them to dig in and hold the hill long enough for other allied elements to advance.
Assaults in other sectors would begin, and Orks surged forward towards the hill that they always gathered on to attack from, only to see the standard of the 222nd planted firmly where their effigies to Gork, or Mork, would have been. Enraged, they came as a tide, and rather than sit and wait, the 222nd counterassaulted, as was their tactic, volleys of grenades staggering the approaching assault with sheer volume, clashing melee being brutal and bloody. Several times this pattern would play out throughout the day, and when relief forces arrived, they found a shattered, but still standing, 222nd having just repulsed the latest, and as history would show, last assault on the hill.
With not even a full platoon left, the 222nd would have to be disbanded and folded into other regiments, Sgt. Rojack solemnly swearing that he would continue to serve no matter where the Emperor would send him, though it was noted he spent some time in the company of Priests attached to the regiment before the dissolution and merging into other regiments would begin. Whether seeking consolation and guidance in the face of such loss of friends and comrades, or perhaps praying for the fallen, Rojack remained tight lipped on the matter. No matter where he was called, he would answer, even if he was no longer among those he knew. They would report and muster with their remaining command staff and troopers, as ordered, to meet the future one more time as a regiment.
Miscellaneous: Rojack enjoys carving Regicide figures out of whatever materials he can find, and would love to learn the game sometime, even if he doesn't precisely have a brain for the complex strategies it might entail. He is also a scavenger, of sorts, picking through battlefields after the fighting is done, looking to improve his kit wherever possible.
I'm currently working on someone who'll be an up close and personal type of fellow, expect him done within the next day or so and submitted for review.
Much obliged for having this tipped off to me, definitely relevant to my interests. About to head into work, but I'll be brainstorming character ideas from there and then begin work on my CS afterwords.
Walker had been figuring out how over their heads they were right now, all things considered. The flaunting and fiasco that Violet was undertaking, leading to a face full of whatever that vomit was thrown up, the woman with that flashy magic tool firing blast after blast as she tried to get Kite back and cleaned up. The blade work grew more spiteful, remaining the last one to fall back as the others backed up. The fact they could keep backing out, well, was a good sign. "Keep laughing Keeper, it's the best medicine for those heads you've had wounded so far mate."
The good news of a path of escape opening up was lost by the sudden shrieking and sobbing from the gypsy woman, and he scowled and groaned to himself. Of all the times to lose their cool, now was not the time, even if it was probably a side effect of that goop. However, given the response that was going on from Keeper, he knew they didn't have time to clean her up and dust her off quite yet. Sheathing the sword, and hanging onto the torch, he turned and bolted, skidding to a halt next to Violet and taking a knee. "Right, you two, take the torch and move! I got our panicking companion."
Tossing the torch towards the other two, Walker quickly picked up Violet, the fetal position making it easier to get her up, though the jarring against the bolt embedded in his shoulder making him grimace, and once he had her braced, picked up the shining yellow crystal ball as well and started moving as fast as he could while carrying Violet in her panicked state as well as keeping a hand on that stupid yellow crystal ball. If he'd been able to, he would have also carried the torch, but between his shoulder, carrying another person, and her kit, well, he couldn't do everything. Regardless, they needed to move, getting her back into the waking world would have to wait.
Fortunately Walker wasn't facing the rest of the group, or they would readily see the color drain from his face as the flying light source illuminated countless duplicates of the heads they had just inconvenienced, given the continued chatter. He'd defended himself against the numerous arms and hands trying to drag him down from the head that had been smashed in by that flaming crystal ball, but the flare's illumination and chastising about ruining the joke. Heads were going after the others, gypsy was screaming about not watching friends die, Kite was in no condition to do anything, and outside illuminating how deep they were, the new woman hadn't done a great deal yet. At this point in time he was reminded of the two common reactions to the invasion of Istvargrad, panicked collapse into a fetal position waiting to die, and the one he took. So despite all the abstract, impossible horror he was facing, he compartmentalized the part of his mind currently having joined his gut instinct in cowering in the corner of his mind, also reduced to a gibbering wreck, and shot the impossible mess of heads a grin. "Sorry mate, but your act has flopped. Can't you hear? Screams are a poor response to a joke."
The crossbow bolt thudded into his shoulder, given Walker had been distracted with defending himself and briefly forced him to drop the torch, landing by the trails of blackened ichor, and another cutting motion to clear enough room to grab it again, leaving the bolt lodged where it was. Between his exposure to the poison, the fact it would have lost some of his potency after being stuck in the thing, and his own physiology, it wouldn't have near the same effect, though he could feel the burn all the same, Walker grinned through it. They had neither the time, resources, or energy to slaughter every single head, and that was assuming they could even be permanently destroyed in that pitch black void. When the openings presented themselves, he'd strike out against the heads going past him to attack the others, while barking out back to them. "Delaying the inevitable here, fighting withdraw is in order. You, light launcher, how many of those do you have left?"
The biggest problem with a fighting withdraw was, one, someone had to grab Kite, who was busy screaming from whatever gods abandoned crap had been belched on him, and two, that there wasn't more heads waiting behind them. His eyes were darting and looking for the slightest clue or indication that there was a weakness or opening. The heads had seemed to follow and track that light shot that the woman had lobbed, though it had been devoured by the nebulous void. The blunt impact of the flaming ball had crippled the one head, though it had spawned the hands he had been fighting off. The small fact they were only getting attacked from the cells, and from the front, gave the small hope a fighting withdraw could be made. He didn't know what was back there, but it was likely better than this Keeper. Walker had shifted to striking with the torch in tandem with his sword, intent on creating as few openings as possible as he kept analyzing and looking for anything to gain leverage with.
"Careful lass, ah'll be holdin' ye to that!" The engineer barked from the under the deck plates, playing 'plug the socket' before the equipment exploded in his face and, likely, brought the ship down with it. All he readily could do right now was, well, keep the power flowing, shields online, and pray to whatever god came with humanity that they survived this whole fiasco. Help or no help, the jerking and wrenching to break the docking clamps free brought a bitter scowl onto the man's face. That was more work for him to deal with, more repairs, and he couldn't readily rely on any of these people to see it happen. That's another docking session with no leave, keeping this bucket of bolts floating was a gods damned nightmare. Eventually, he could tell they weren't under attack anymore, and after waiting just long enough to be sure the pirates weren't coming back, another red indicator that the shields were down again came online as Ansgar hauled himself up from beneath the deck plates.
"Ah swear, if we e'er find any o' t'em bastards again, ah'm stringin' em up by t'eir unmentionables!" The engineer was brushing off black splotches on his attire, where the rampant, uncontrolled power had tried to electrocute him and failed thanks to the protective attire, and considered the fact they were no longer under attack. Walking over to the bulkhead, he unlocked it, well after any further attackers would have been killed or, unfortunately, surrendered. Well, maybe fortunately, he would be taking a pound of flesh off the survivors for every hour of work he had to put into this ship to get it back up and running. The first thing he did was pull the heavy, top half of his working uniform off again, wrapping it around his waist and leaving the tank top on, sweat soaked as it was. He was already moving back to double check the fuel line patches when the captain's request on what was working and broken caused him to damn near trip over himself. What was working? It'd be faster to say that, all things considered, so he spun on heel and answered her flatly, clearly irritated more so than usual.
"Engines, fuel, life support, some weapons, backup navigation. Oh, an comms ah' reckon. E'erythin' else? Suspect ah best, completely bloody shot ah worst. An yes, ah'm still on mah feet, t'ank ye for askin'. Hope yer planned dockin' point has enoug' scrap fer this damn bucket..." Muttering under his breath, Ansgar double checked the fuel line and, once satisfied that it was up and running, promptly went about securing and rerouting the lines that had leaking fluids and seeing about minimizing the amount of damage that wold need repaired due to neglect on the damaged systems. This was definitely going to be a number of sleepless nights to get up and running in time for their next job, and he sure as fuck wasn't getting paid enough as it was. He'd suspect it couldn't get much worse, but his gods forsaken sister was out there somewhere, so it could very much get worse. Least the odds were slim she'd be showing up anytime soon...
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