She's Quite Well Built, With a Scarred Face and a Stern Expression

Your eyes move along her form, noting the long pale scar that runs down the left side of her face from her forehead to her cheek, a reminder of a wound long since healed and a great icebreaker at parties. When you meet her soft blue eyes you could swear that you see a spark of recognition, but that quickly fades to disappointment as she sees that you don't seem to know who she is. The rest of her body is mostly concealed by her armor, but you can tell that she's powerfully built, with a body that's less been developed so much as _molded _for the purpose of murdering as many heretics and xenos as possible. The fact that she could probably bend wrought iron with her bare hands is a nice side benefit, of course.

Despite her somewhat stocky build, you'd hardly call her bulky, and the custom-forged 'breastplates'-put in quotes because some jackass decided to take that literally, though you can't deny feeling some measure of envy for the lucky soul that performs the measurements for the suits-seem to indicate that she's not exactly lacking in the chest department. It occurs to you that you've been staring at her in silence for several long seconds now, and your view of her admittedly attractive form is quickly substituted with the far less attractive metal of her bolter's barrel. Not that you would be surprised if a few of the more eccentric members of his regiment found the latter more appealing- you've always ended up stuck with the weird ones.

You hold up your hands in a placating gesture, trying to think of a sentence that won't be punctuated by the sound of a pulled trigger, but you don't manage to make much progress before she speaks. "Strip." She commands, eyes colder than a Vostroyan's vacation home. You respond about as intelligently as you can manage. "W-what?" You get out, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She presses the barrel against your head. "Strip." She says again, finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Naturally, you strip, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Your cheeks only turn redder as she bats away any of your attempts to cover up and circles you repeatedly, looking over your body like a particularly curious piece of meat. Not once does the trigger leave your head during the whole ordeal, but she eventually seems satisfied. "No symbols." She mutters as she takes out what looks like a rather decorated piece of parchment, probably not intending for you to hear her.

Slapping the piece of paper onto your bare skin, she waits for a moment as if expecting something, then takes the paper back. "So, you do not bear the taint of Chaos... but your cowardice cannot be excused." You open your mouth to protest, to explain, but she doesn't give you the chance. "Your wounds will be tended, and then you will be judged." She says coldly, though you almost hear a tint of regret hidden in her words.

Then she hits you in the back of the head with her bolter.

'Damn,' You think as the world fades to darkness, 'And the headache was just starting to get better.'