Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-32600226-20181231192754/@comment-27830834-20190105052924

Kaylock retrieved his pistols and belt, cradling his firearms to his chest like a pair of newborns.

"He dinna mean it starshine, yer prime kit, now an' always." He whispered, before spinning both weapons with practiced ease into their respective holsters.

Sitting on the edge of the table, Kaylock took in his new "companions", such as they were. The contempt, bordering on hostility really, was nothing new; he'd been spending more time than he was comfortable with turfside lately and everyone down here seemed to have a driveshaft up their collective rear. Always so touchy about personal space, tone, possessions, and all that, the spoiled sods. As if they would ever last a day deckside with an attitude like that.

Take the Mamzel Bando: a stiff-necked Guard ramrod and no mistake. Easy on the eyes though, in an exotic, dusky sort of way.

The Space Marine was... big. Really big. Was it just the armor or was there an Ogryn-sized turfer under that helmet? Kaylock ran his oversized eyes over the curves and contours of the powered plate appreciatively. Stars and slag, if he could just get his hands on a pauldron he could pawn it off for a new freighter, easy.

The quiet one, Shoto Kiri-something? Kaylock didn't know what to make of him. He was inked, which was good: a man with no ink was a man with no history. That stare though. Same glass-dead eyes as though Darkholders from Fleet Lamprey, like they were planning to strip you for spare parts.

Well, like Pa used to say, Kaylock mused. Hold an' prospects stay bare 'less you put something innit. He barely glanced at the map: turfer schematics never made much sense to him anyway. How did they expect to get anywhere with that much open space?