[@NecroKnight][@Bright_Ops]

John sniffed relucantly, nodding to the Felinid. He did his duty and gave the gift - that is until he was accused of being a worshiper of chaos. A deafening roar would escape him, one that (unbeknownst to him) any banshee would be jealous off for sheer volume. His left hand reached for his Hack-shotgun and would point it at his chest, whilst his long mono-blade be pointed at his throat, dropping the bottle to the earth. [color=Red]"Never associate me with such wretches!"[/color] He took a few heavy breaths before continuing. [color=Red]"You come from a world were such enemies have not been exterminated, and then dare to call me, a man of one of the holiest orders in the Imperium not only disloyal but a worshiper of chaos too?"[/color] He cocked the two hammers on the shotgun and pointed it at the beastman; it was not necessary to do so but it was a good sign of what was to come. As his hand shook a little he finally lowered the weapon. [color=Red]"It's not going to be a fun service together, is it...."[/color] he muttered. Turning a little he would stomp off unless interrupted.

He wondered what was for him next. The cat-person said something about needing a uniform. He wondered how that would be. After all, with so many regiments nothing would be true uniform. Still, he reckoned he at least had to smarten up. He went to the cleanest body of water he would find and washed his hair, and finally went for a dip albeit with his clothes still on. He would stick his armour back in his footlocker and put it once again on his back. 

Afterwards he went to the camp of the Frateris soldiers, and after some socializing graciously took a heavy stubber from one of them. It wasn't the same make but close enough and used the same ammunition he had with him. Finally he would spend some forty-five minutes looking for the remains of a shop or factory that had paint. Finally satisfying himself he cracked open a pot and would set about making his armour  green, with a slightly lighter green shade to make a hardly noticeable middle finger right on the breast-plate. 

Finally he would look for the corpse of a Guardsman who had more or less similar stature to him and intact armour. After all, he had to look right and poncey for the officers. He would be strolling through the death and destruction singing a prayer as he looked for a big-git like him.