[center][b]Roald Cliffbloom - Ratling Trailblazer[/b][/center]

In a ship full of strange Servitors and Squats and giant warrior women nothing ever seemed so strange to Roald as the sight of himself decked out in his dress uniform.  Every so often it was called for and every so often Roald put himself through the rigmarole of arranging everything just so.  Rogue Traders, this one in particular, had higher standards than some of the ruffians he had traveled with.  Sometimes he missed the laxer standards.

Most days his dress uniform lay waiting for the next time it would be carefully inspected, briefly worn, and then set away once more to await its next three to four hour tour of duty.  Ironed out with just enough starch.  Picked clean of any offending hair or metal brushing or deviant thread yearning for freedom.  Patches just precisely level and just precisely at this distance from one another.  Proportionally at least.  Ratlings only had so much space to work with.  Thankfully as a Ratling he hadn't much need to worry about the standards of Medals and Honors.  Having none.  

This careful arrangement was supposed to make everyone in the Imperial Guard look uniform.  Like one unit, one body expressing one purpose and one movement, His.

Roald looked like a fucking OD Green Orangutan Sausage.  A small one.

He marched through the ship to meet the others, passing the Servitors and giving them a distance slightly beyond respectful.  Who knew when or if one of them might decide he was slightly less Human an Abhuman today.  He made sure to bathe and deodorize and all of that, even so.

Arriving to greet the others he made a beeline for the other Abhuman and settled in, working out any remaining wrinkles in his uniform and cursing whoever it was who had clearly been in a hurry when they guesstimated how long the sleeves for a Ratlings dress shirt ought to be.