The battlefield smelled as it looked, the stench of dead filled your nostrils as if it were a necessity, and the waft of spent ammunition and burning buildings also drifted through the air. Even after such a battle, noise seemed relatively distant, albeit anything seemed quiet as long as it didn't threaten to burst your earbuds. The sounds of bolter fire and Necron lasers were distant... but another noise seemed far closer.

Turning around, you'd see a Sister of Battle, one from the Order of Our Martyred Lady, stumble over a newly formed mound of rubble, her dead Sisters and even some of the Ultramarine fallen litter the hill, with them scattered around elsewhere too. But this Sister had a limp, she was holding her side as she bled from it. Her helmets face slid up to allow herself to get what was closest to fresh air... upon seeing you, she froze, but seeing that you didn't glow off green, she relaxed. Speaking out in a calm, but weak tone, as if she forgot about the wound she bled from, but not her body.

"I am Sister Harrow of the Order of Our Martyred Lady... and you?"