Arl paused in his prayer to the Emperor at being offered a lho-stick. He regarded the proffered pack, and a flashback to his single experience with the things came back to him like a charging Ork. The savage recalled with terrifying clarity the cold sweats, the hot flashes,  and creatures that only he could behold crawling from every surface. "No. Thank you for the offer, though, adept." The guardsman said in a thick dialect of low gothic speech that was ponderous and slightly guttural. He offered a respectful nod to the Arbite, maintaining the sign of the aquila in respect for the uniform and the post Arl presumed accompanied it.<br/><br/>"I am Arl." The guardsman offered, thick arms lowering to rest against his trunk-like torso. He did not consider himself an especially large man; upon his homeworld he was only slightly above average, and having fought on the frontline beside the abhuman Ogryn, he was unlikely to ever truly appreciate his own mass. Though, if fate had smiled upon him, he would not be in their presence but upon some far-flung battlefield, transformed from the man in front of them into one of the Emperor's own Angels of Death, but the Master of Mankind had other things in store for the feral worlder.<br/><br/>As the elevator opened, he walked out, following the illuminated path. He looked upon the faces with plain-faced holy terror, quickly making a gesture of feral superstition to ward of evil spirits and muttering prayers to invoke the protection of the God-Emperor over his soul.