[center][@Lady Selune][/center]

	The stink of chemicals announced the approaching man well before anything else might have. Not an inch of exposed skin, easy breathing mask, covered in armor. Another tribes Grenadier, if Rojack was to hazard a guess, and from a far more somber, far less pleasant one. Not all soldiers approached war like his own tribe, the Sergeant mentally reminded himself, but he found himself listening closely to the interaction between the officer and this newcomer, silently gauging the response and what to expect. The sharp salute and  sharper uniform spoke volumes, this one's tribe valued appearances and protocol, whether that translated well to warfare or not, he couldn't say. It wasn't his own soldier's way, but he was silently appreciative of the fact the officer effectively said no, leave them to their own devices, and apparently she was tasking him with meeting her elsewhere tomorrow, forming a new regiment, so on and so on. He refocused when her attention returned to him, the one who had all but shoulder checked the officer getting off relatively light, though he wasn't familiar at all with the game being played, or at least the name made no sense. Still, the man got a friendly nod from the Sergeant, a rather far cry from the officer's response. The extended hand was given a firm, even handshake. None of that 'crusher grip' nonsense, he never saw the point.

	"A pleasure m'um, Sergeant Rojack Cestarn, 222nd Edrastian Shock. The lads aren't quite as, call it, adjusted? That might be the word, but they mean well all the same. Follow me m'um, the lads aren't too far off." Rojack turned and started off, not taking terribly long to approach where the remaining survivors of the 222nd were gathered, one poking his head up at the sight of their Sergeant returning, an important looking hat following in tow, and a few nudges between them got them at least on their feet, more heavily inebriated than Rojack, since they'd been sitting, drinking, and gambling while the man had been walking and talking. Similar uniforms, including the patchwork salvaged armor, though to a lesser degree than Rojack's own kitbashed kit. If any of the surviving rank and file were too inebriated to stand, it didn't readily show since they would hold each other upright.

	"M'um, this is the last surviving combat unit in the 222nd. The command squad is Father knows where, but there were no fighting men among them." Rojack's tone had shifted, and while one could not quite call it disrespectful, his mood and thoughts on the off world regimental command squad were plain as day. They'd hid behind medics, far speakers, and Edrastians while barking orders and had been showered with the majority of the accolades during the parade prior to this evening's festivities. Once Captain Fier...fire.... fire rocko....Fieroccu had put them at ease again, they'd return to their drinking and miscellaneous activities, be it gambling or chatter, though sideways glances were readily apparent. The surviving soldiers were evaluating the officer, leery due to their experiences with the regimental command squad of the 222nd, and while the Sergeant caught a glimpse of that mousy one, who'd been able to piece together what the other fellow had been saying, skulking off, he said nothing. Given her offers before, well, doubtful she had any interest in dealing with commissar looking officers.