[h2] Cragdor [/h2]
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Cragdor was one of those chosen to bunk with the enlisted troops. It wasn’t much, but it was at least better than the cargo bay. He was used to sleeping in less than ideal places; throughout most of the Galaxy, Trandoshans were not often looked upon favorably by other species. Maybe it was their reptilian appearance that caused people, Humans especially, to feel a sense of fear and discomfort. Maybe it was their reputation for ruthlessness when it came to hunting and killing. Or maybe it was the smell; Cragdor had been told before that his people carried a distinctive odor, though that might just have been an attempt at insult rather than stated fact.

No matter the reason, Cragdor had found himself more often than not spending the greater part of most starship journeys in the cargo hold. This place was little different, though at least in this case, it was not done with malicious intent. There was simply more bodies than there were beds, which from a certain point of view was a good thing. At least the Scarlet Moons tribe was growing.

Cragdor had taken no offense. There had certainly been worse places he’d slept over the years. At least the cargo bay was dry, and there weren’t any tiny creatures waiting in the darkness to eat his flesh after he’d fallen asleep (at least none that he’d noticed). He had a blanket and a pillow too, which was always a bonus. Above all, he had the protection and favor of the Scorekeeper to keep him warm at night... at least, he hoped he did.

Cragdor watched as the NED lead the other soldiers out of the crew bunks, and a prickle of annoyance ran up his spine. A soulless machine masquerading as flesh and blood didn’t sit right with him. The Scorekeeper rarely cast her eyes towards droids, reserving her favor for the living beings. Droids that tried to act as a mockery of living beings always disturbed Cragdor on some spiritual level.

Despite his biases, Cragdor listened to what the droid had to say. Major Thiena seemed to trust the machine enough to make it a Lieutenant, and seeing as how Cragdor himself was only a Sergeant, he really had no choice but to follow it’s orders. He was not so foolish as to break the chain of command.

Once everything had settle back to normalcy, Cragdor returned to his ritualistic grooming. As part of his daily routine, he periodically took a knife to his dead flesh, scrapping away the flaking scales on his arms and legs. A nasty process, one that the rest of the crew no doubt hated, but a necessary one in order to achieve peak combat efficiency. Left unattended, the scale rot would begin to itch terribly, and he would not risk that distraction during a crucial mission.