Klaus had left the armory some minutes back, having taken the time to show Ari how to properly clean and maintain her sidearm, which, after a few test shots, proved that it was as accurate as Klaus' laspistol. Currently, he was in his room, which was well-appointed with the trappings of nearly sixty years of combat against Orks, Tyranids, Chaos, and worse. One of his trophies, currently leaning against his desk, was a dead Venom Cannon, the organic weapon having starved to death and rotted, leaving only its exoskeleton as a silent reminder of the threat.<br/><br/>A tattered war standard from the Word Bearers leaned against the opposite wall, with an Ork Power Klaw laying on the table below it. Beside the Klaw was a small case, lined with red velvet, and showcasing his array of medals; campaign ribbons, citations of Valour, several 'wounded in the line of duty' medals, and a dozen medals for killing as many creatures as he could.<br/><br/>He looked up when the Servoskull bounced off the grating covering the ventilation shaft, the proximity to him allowing it to relay its message and carry on as it saw fit to, letting Klaus get up from his seat, and, after a moment's thought, he peeled off his usual fatigues, and dressed in his semi-formal attire; a classic blue-green uniform and officer's hat. Instead of taking his laspistol with him, however, he opened a plastisteel box that lay under the table where he had placed the Klaw, and pulled out a hellpistol, a fully-automatic version of his usual sidearm, and well-known for its ability to put holes in most types of armour.<br/><br/>Strapping the pistol's holster to his belt, he stepped from his room and headed aft to the Officer's mess, not at all surprised that most of the other officers had arrived before he had. However, the new placement of the seating did cause him to raise an eyebrow, as apparently the place customarily reserved for the Executive Officer, ie. Himself, had been replaced by a large throne for the most recent addition to the ship's 'elite', the Adeptus Ass-tart.<br/><br/>Mentally Shrugging, he sat down eight places from the head of the table, leaning back in the chair so he could plant his heavy boots on the crossbar running the length of the table's underside as he lit a quarter-pound Lho-stick and blew several smoke rings into the air. "Men. Ladies. Xenos."