Manfred looked away from the Warmaster as it seemed, oddly enough, that someone had stumbled out of the armor. And from what he could tell, with almost total certainty, it wasn't one of his. His men armor had faded to gunmetal grey, the regular seraph wore their usual scale, and the Vigil and other Pact elements had their own distinctive dress codes. Even their irregulars wore bits and pieces, both of their own and replacements and re-purposed armor from all the regiments. His own armor, more or less, save the winged helmet with the noseguard, as opposed to the full-plate, was standard for Krytan captains. The dark scales of the waterproofed cloak went better with the tarnished gunmetal of his armor, once polished to a mirror sheen, but the air and poise of the man, left hand resting easily on his blade, right arm with his helmet hooked under it. "What the hell?" he said, raising a questioning brow to the Warmaster, before heading over, waving one of his Sergeants over. He saw pickets from the Vigil already approaching the man, rifles in hand, and some of the engineers had stopped working and were glaring. They'd never -fought- the enemy yet...this would be their first sighting of one.
"Halt! Identify yourself!" one of the pickets called out. Manfred would have approached just behind and to the right.
"Who are you?" Manfred asked. "You aren't one of mine."