[@Dannyrulx][@Rultaos][@agentmanatee][@NecroKnight]

"You people can't be serious," a loud and commanding voice spoke from beyond the campfire's light. The owner of the voice moved into view and revealed himself to be Commissar Ismael Castor, formerly of the Cadian 143rd. He was reasonably tall and built like a brick shithouse, the fabric of his Commissar's garb stretched around his muscular torso, and made even more intimidating by the huge, high-collared greatcoat that was draped around his shoulders like a shroud -- not to mention the variety of weapons strapped to his person. Most of the partying soldiers suddenly fell silent and froze in fear of a reprimand. Castor waited for a few seconds before he spoke again, dragging out the moment, until he chuckled and waved dismissively. "Carry on, you've earned it. But is that seriously a Squib over the fire? And what in the Emperor's name is [i]that[/i]?" he asked and pointed at the Ork head the soldiers were punting. 

In truth, Castor couldn't care less what these soldiers were doing. He just wanted a distraction from his own thoughts. The total decimation of the Cadian 143rd gnawed at him. He had spent fifteen years with those boys and girls, good years, and now practically all of them were dead. Castor knew that it was for a good cause and that this world, should the Imperium hold it, would host billions of souls and produce untold numbers of advantageous technologies to safeguard the realms of man. But still... so much death, and still, after all these years, no rest for him. Castor would undoubtedly be reassigned to a new regiment and start his work all over again. How did the saying go again? No rest for the wicked? 

"Oh, I see," Castor said after squinting his eyes at the Ork head. "It's one of those xenos. Hey, fellows, mind if I have a go? They killed a lot of my friends too."