Loken approached at a steady pace.
As the distance closed, the outline of the Word Bearers Warriors grew clearer in his eyes.
Clad in dark grey Power Armour, the warrior stood tall and straight, his proportions perfect. Every joint and curve of his armour bore the marks of years of use and maintenance, yet there was no superfluous ornamentation, only fine scratches and scorching left by combat, testifying to his battlefield experience.
His stance was steady as a mountain, and he sheathed his sword with crisp, economical movements, displaying an almost instinctive efficiency and composure honed through countless trials.
Loken's gaze unconsciously traced the contours of the warrior's Helmet, trying to picture the face beneath it.
What would someone look like who possessed such skill, who had distinguished himself in a Legion as devoted to ascetic discipline and spiritual refinement as the Word Bearers, and earned a place among the ship's elite...?
He pondered this privately.
Perhaps he was bald, like so many ascetics who devoted themselves wholly to faith and battle, shaving away their worldly cares to face the Emperor and the battlefield in their purest state.
Perhaps his face was covered in crisscrossing scars, each recording a brush with death or a glorious victory, living medals of courage and resilience.
Perhaps he had cold, piercing eyes that had seen through life and death, a gaze that exerted an intangible pressure wherever it fell.
In short, he had to be the hardest of the hard, a taciturn veteran of a hundred battles who had perfected the art of killing and possessed a will of iron.
He might even have fought in some of the late campaigns of the Unification Wars, one of the ancient warriors who had truly clawed their way out of humanity's homeworld's bloodiest mire.
With these