Graff Witherwood was, as his family name might suggest, a somewhat scrawny fellow. His frame almost entirely failed to fill out already ill-fitting armor that he'd been provided with and his shape has led many to wonder how exactly he'd even managed to get as far as he had. The truth was complex concoction of dumb luck and it-really-isn't-as-bad-as-it-looks. He'd been through the same training as everyone else and firmly earned his place amongst this line-up of fresh, expendable units. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel out of place. This was, of course, a feeling that loomed over him nearly regardless of the situation, but that was beside the point.<br/><br/>Graff swallowed to calm his nerves and tired to let himself melt into the sound of Lieutenant Stonehead's rousing speech. He was successful but only manged to discover exactly how non-rousing the whole thing was. If anything it was downright disheartening. Graff's bright, aquamarine eyes started to fill with a certain, dull regret. This was all a very bad idea. But hey, he had to do his part, right? He tried to hastily conceive of a question, for it seemed like the only opportunity that he might get anytime soon. His gaunt face held a thoughtful expression for several seconds before that too evaporated and he fell into a sort of slump, carefully picking through his memories of nigh uncountable things that had been brutally explained to him on the process of getting here. Yep, it was all there and he really wished that it wasn't. Softly shaking his head to himself, he exhaled heavily and looked around at his peers. Surely they'd have something nice and insightful to inquire about. Yes, surely.