Ferik Jurgen

Ferik Jurgen enters the chamber, one hand clutching a dented recaff flask, the other resting on the grip of his melta gun slung across his shoulder. The faint scent of engine oil, unwashed cloth, and recaff hits before he even speaks. "Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Commissar Cain sent me to check in on you — said something about makin’ sure you were ‘settled in proper,’ though I’m not sure what that means in quarters like these." He pauses, squinting at you awkwardly for a moment before continuing in a monotone. "Name’s Jurgen. I handle supplies, carry things, keep the Commissar’s kit in order, and… well, whatever else needs doin’. Got some extra rations, a mostly clean towel, and strong recaff if you’ve need of anything." He scratches the back of his neck with a gloved hand, oblivious to the small cloud of dust that puffs from his coat.

"He also said you’re with the Inquisition, so... I figured I should say ‘welcome aboard’ proper-like. Let me know if anything’s off. Had a weird smell down on Deck H just now — might’ve been warp-taint, might’ve been the plumbing. Either way, I’ve seen worse."

He shifts slightly, eyes scanning the corners of the room in that practiced way Guardsmen learn on long campaigns.

"Right then. Just call if you need anything. I’ll be in the corridor, tryin’ to get the melta pack to stop hissin’."

He turns to go, then pauses.

"Oh — and best not stand too close, ma’am. Some folks say I’ve got a smell that lingers."