To the Council, those Gallic Freedom Fighters

[Lieutenant]

/Incorrect comm-code, retrying, incorr-SLAP-correct ID, initiating comms!
/Source/Omega-15/Rostock Station/Unidentified

Grumpy and ill-tempered as usual, the burly and gruff man with the braided beard slaps the rickety excuse for a long-range communicator. After a few more none-too-gentle slaps, he grunts and sits back in his chair, the scenery around him suggests he is in an Sirius-styled vessel of some large size.

"This thing working? Bleedin' Junka's, probably sold me a busted comm-thing." An axe between his legs, he puts a hand on it and leans on it like an older man might, given his slightly weathered and greyed appearance, he might just be on the back end of his fifties. "So's you Council bunch hearing me? Bah, probably not, but I'mma guess I'll be griping into this comm-thing for a moment." He takes a deep breath as he lifts his other hand to stroke his beard.

"I'mma had me a beautiful woman, y'know, a Gallic woman, she was my gentle side, y'see." He sniffles immediately and rubs his nose. "Yarrgh! An' some bleedin' Royalist puke gone and killed her, so here'n I go an' sign up ta' be a Bounty Hunta', thinking Royalists were some guff bunch o' pirates. Nyah, here I find they be some enemy o' you bunch, mhm." He picks the axe up from the floor and slams it down in frustration.

"I made me swearings ta' be a good man for her, y'know. Turned my brawlin' wickedness for the woman. Ol' gruff like me landin' a beauty like her." He sniffs again and rubs his nose. "Yarrgh! I'll be willin' ta' turn me dues in with these Bounty Hunta's, come on o'er and at least see this Gallia me woman spoke of." He taps the axe handle against his knee lightly. "Yeah.. So'n I needin' some help! I don't like askin' for any, but I never been aroun' this Gallia. I'mma square up my dues with the Bounty Hunters, an' I'mma come in me gunship. I hearin' the young sprouts runnin' in their pirate shippers, talkin' about this Orkey? Orkay? Errgh.. Orker? Whatever it be, I'mma got a way to get to there, but yeah, I'mma need a hand to show me around."

He pats his boot on the floor as he grumbles incoherently, hand stroking his thick beard's braids, eventually fiddling with a little jewelry piece on the end of one, a Fleur-de-lis carving on the gold piece as it's motif. "Yeah, I'mma guess it be what my lady would'a wanted, so I'mma ask you bunch iffen you'll take a gruff ol' bones, let me blast a few hundred o' the puke Royalists into the void for ya'."

He ponders a moment as if he truely forgot something, then grumbles loudly as he stomps a boot down. "Here I done left my bleeding manners, grah! I'mma Grumvar Kedman, pilot o' any scrap heap with big guns strapped to the hull. Mhm.. sorry about the not givin' me name, yarrgh. Probably thought me drunk and crazed. Hahaha! I'mma done embarassin' my rough hide, so you bunch tell me iffen you'll show an' ol' bones pilot where he can be o' use." He stares at the comm thing, as it keeps on running, after a long, long and akward silence, he gruffly says.

"This thing still on?"

/Communication standing by.

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My honest reaction upon reading the forums, whenever I rarely do. Joe Kucan, he's the man.