"Good morrow, Night Lord" came the slow, even, mocking drawl of the prisoner as the tall, dark shape of the traitor Astartes slipped into his cell.
The prisoner sat on a cot opposite the Night Lord, stripped of his weapons and his armor. His body was lithe and lanky, reminiscent of the warp-addled forms of Slaanesh Noise Marines. His flesh was pale, almost white, what little hair on his head a shocking purple color.
What was most curious about the Astartes, aside from his actions, was his face- it seemed as if he or an enemy had played a cruel joke, exending his smile by forceful, messy surgery. Whoever did it was a diabolical surgeon- most Astartes would have healed from such a trivial wound.
Even as the Night Lord noted that disfigurement, the prisoner smiled. As he did so, mechanical hooks attached to implants on his temples pulled, extending that smile into a painful rictus grin.
"Shall we get started, then?" the prisoner drawled.