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Telaci Vast was not a fan of this ceremony. For a start, there was the fact that he looked very obviously out of place. He had never stood in parade stance in his [i]life,[/i] his gun was held very casually, he clearly wasn't in the uniform of the fellows around him, and more than that, there were perilously few [i]of[/i] those fellows. So many commissars had stared daggers into him that he was starting to wonder if he'd just be shot outright, but none of them had actually seemed to be willing to finish him off, so he supposed he was alright for now. Bloody commissars- that wasn't something he had had to worry about on the Graced Blade, that much was for sure. Hell, [b]he'd been[/b] in charge of discipline up there.

Also, there was the fact that he was receiving medals. This, to him, suggested that he would be attending more functions where such medals would be needed to be worn. He did not like this idea. Not in the slightest. It implied that he was to be stuck planetside for far longer than he had any intention of actually being on a planet for, and what's more, it implied he'd be doing more fighting on the ground. The greenskinned bastards he had battled weren't new to him... Well, they were new [b]in person,[/b] but not as a concept, but he really didn't want to find out what else there was out there for him to be thrown at.

So when he had two medals pinned to his chest, he felt mighty uncomfortabe. The only thing that kept him reluctantly standing there were the slips of paper in his pocket- when one of the idiots he'd been with had fallen poking his head out of the trench, he'd given him a quick once over and found none other than [i]triple alcohol rations.[/i] Up in space, these things were worth more than any credit, but he had a feeling he'd be drinking all of them today. A celebration of his last fight on Vernum. Or whatever this damned rock was called. 

When it was finally done, and they were being directed off to 'pick up their personal belongings,' he ignored it. He didn't [b]have[/b] personal belongings, because he'd crashed in from sodding space. Hadn't even received a mess kit yet, which had made eating the rations he had been given harder than hard. Still though, even he had to admit that rockrete structures with cots inside was a welcome sight, regardless of how little he had to slam down in that footlocker of his.

A trip to the supply quartermaster (as opposed to the weapon one, which he had stubbornly avoided out of fear of receiving a lasgun like everyone else) and he would learn that he had enough ration slips for a bottle of finer amasec... Or four bottles of cheap rotgut booze. He knew [b]exactly[/b] which one he was picking up, the sailor walking away whistling an old tune and swinging two bottles of 40oz liquor in his arms. Now this? This was what he fancied.

Outside, where the ground was mostly rockrete and dry, he could see campfires slowly igniting, people drinking, gambling, talking. Perfect, a little celebration going on, and he had exactly the thing to contribute. As he wandered through the fires, looking for one where he could pull up a pew, he would finally settle on one which seemed fairly welcoming. Vast, bulky soldiers sat around it, and judging by the tattoos that swirled across his body, the armsman would be willing to guess they were more of the feral inclination.

"Ev'nin bruvdems." He would say, squatting down by the fireside. "Nice t' see boys cracking sum and chillin', get me? An' no badman commissar nowehere." He nodded, content, before taking a swig of the potent liquor he had purchased. "Anywan up fi a game'a sumting? Any'ya know 'bout Voiddin? Ah, an any'ya got a fag fi me? Ain' nobody been welcomin' wit a lho."