Orphiel made his way across the deck, although his gait was unhurried. He approached where the lasguns were arrayed, laid down haphazardly, almost as much as the Crag's stock armoury. The lack of order aside, he could discern nothing wrong with the weapons, bar a few bumps and dings. He could almost hear the used-weapons trader passing it off as character. The idling was deliberate, so he could absorb what was being said, yet he declined to be drawn into it.
He made sure to give the other Marines room and stood level with them so not to concern them with live weapon discharge.
He took aim at a crate some 60 metres away.
+They definitely need getting used to. Perhaps I have fat fingers?+ he smiled under the helm.
He tightened the stock into his shoulder guard, clamping the pauldron over it.
He marched a few metres closer, realising he was overcompensating for the lack of bulk in the frame of the weapon.