The Ronin (Warhammer 40k art)

One did not need to travel far through the planet of Caalmuth to find a multitude of odd characters. Owing to the worlds position as a borderland in the far reaches of the Eastern Fringe finding Kroot mercenaries, the occasional Drukhari slaver and other far more strange species alongside the mostly human population was part of the norm.
But a lone figure striding through one of Caalmuths rugged streets still managed to attract both human and non-human eyes. This space-port-city was no stranger to the occasional astartes arrival. The 'angels of death', like the majority of this worlds visitors, had provisions to restock, information to buy or slaves to sell. Most of the visiting marines however had their power-armor adorned with the crimson coat and charcoal fist of the Red Corsairs; Caalmuth being the main hub for one of their fleets mysterious expeditions into the little-known parts of the Fringe.
The warrior making his way forward however was clad in bone-tinged ceramite, his legions insignia covered under a tattered piece of black cloth on his left shoulderplate. Those few denizens of Caalmuth that knew what to look out for also noticed the winged 'Imperialis' skull on the marines chest-plate; a symbol of the battle-brothers loyal to the Corpse God. A few of these specimen had passed through Caalmuth in the past. And almost every time that meant trouble.
But it was not only the marines outward appearance that drew attention. His left hand firmly held onto a chain which was attached to a metallic collar clasped onto the creature that accompanied him. This thing was of a small and impish stature with skin colored in a sickly green hue. With each step it took the imp yelled out to its captor in a gurgling voice that was thick as sludge:
-Bruvva marine... Bruvva mariiiiiine!
The imps voice cracked as it tried its best to keep up with the angel of death.
- Bruvva marine! Where him goin' bruvva? Nurling tiiiiiiiiireeed...
The creatures whining was cut short as the astartes yanked the collars chain with a quick and powerful motion that hurled the imp forward. The marine had up to this point not even graced his prisoner with a glance, and he still held his gaze firmly forward as he spoke:
- Be quiet, fiend. Or shall I perhaps return you to the Inquisitorial cage I scraped you out of?
The imp put its hands over its mouth as it let out a soft, whining sound. It certainly did not want to go back to the "mean people", as it called them, and their bright lights that could somehow hurt its rotten, necrotic flesh.
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To be continued? Maybe...