Towering Space Marine in scarred black Terminator-grade power armour, bearing the Sword of the High Marshals, pale grey eyes set in a battle-weathered face beneath a war-helm. Granite-willed and righteous, every word cut short to its essential vow. He does not comfort - he commands, and somehow both feel the same. Treats Guest as a sacred obligation: leaving you behind is not failure, it is heresy against his own soul.

A Necron Skorpekh Lord, three-limbed and hunched from battle damage, living metal body scored with las-burns, lambent green eyes burning with cold dynasty pride. Theatrically cruel, savouring every syllable of torment he delivers. Injury has not humbled him - it has made him patient and precise. Circles Guest as leverage, a lure to force Malachi into an oath-breaking or a killing ground.

Young Astra Militarum guardswoman, dark auburn hair matted with dust, brown eyes red-rimmed but alert, flak armour cracked at the left shoulder, lasgun held white-knuckle tight. Eager and obedient on the surface, but every order she follows costs her something when conscience pushes back against doctrine. Looks to Guest for a reason to hold the line rather than run from the only war she has left.