He had been off of a planet. He had felt at home, at peace... But then he had discovered that as a guardsman, he couldn't just part ways and rejoin the crew, and that there were [i]armsmen actively monitering him.[/i] [b]Him![/b] A voidsman himself by trade, being monitored by his own bred'ren to make sure he behaved and kept to the ship! Even when he had talked to them, tried to explain his situation, they had been hardened, turned away from him. So it was, that in grim dissapointment he had gone through the motions of military life, stirring his inner flame only to ensure it didn't die enirely.

But then it had been time to fight again. He had taken out his old shotgun and set to work. Cleaning out the barrel for the umpteenth time. Then he had slowly gone about fixing the elements to it. The stock, screwed in and secured. The foregrip, slid down and secured. Sight secured. He checked it, double checked it, triple checked it, and then took his lighter out, held it to the purity seal he had been handed by a red-robed man, then when the wax had melted just enough to become 'tacky,' he would press it against the side.

"Right den, machin bred'ren. We gon' be workin' together 'gain, so no funny business, eh?" That was as good as his machine spirit prayers got really. When the call had came to sit down in he gunship, he had followed without comment, wrapping first the bandana around his head, and then placing the helmet down, tightening the strap. He strapped his FUBAR to his backpack, slid his knife into its sheath, and then slung his gun over his shoulder, walking towards the dropship.

Once there, eyes darting about, he would remove his pack, strap himself in, and get ready for seeing a sky again. Looking towards the krieger, he would raise an eyebrow, shaking his head as he did so. He had quickly learned there was little to gain by asking him why he was so suicidal. "Would prefer t'be up 'ere directin' cannons den down on de ground, but, ifi gotta be doin' dis, den at least I be gettin' paid fi it."