>He knew what he was, a sociopathic warmonger. He was no mindless slayer, but he had killed innocents that were in his path and slaughtered men who had tried his patience.
>Once, a Guardsman had dared to touch the pommel of his sword. It was a brutal thing, a thick-bladed gladius, but the hilt had a large flawed emerald in the pommel and this had caught the trooper’s eye. He wasn’t attempting to steal it; the man could scarcely have drawn let alone lifted it. He was reaching towards something beautiful. Renyard had killed him. Then and there, a cross-cut blow with the selfsame sword that had severed the upper and lower portions of the Guardsman in a diagonal. He had gone on to murder the trooper’s comrades, his entire squad, as a salutary lesson for others. No one had challenged him afterwards, not even the regimental officers. He had merely gone on his way, untroubled, his actions as automatic as repairing his armour or sharpening his blade. It had not been the first man he had killed for a slight, nor would it be the last.
>A warrior of the White Consuls Chapter had challenged him to an honour duel after Renyard had made some insulting comment about his provenance. A sword thrust through the Space Marine’s gut rammed upwards and into his hearts had ended the contest whilst the challenger was still mid-utterance. He hadn’t lingered to face the consequences; his deployment was imminent. Again, he gave it little thought. Just another fool who thought battles were glorious and war could be honourable.
>A veteran of a hundred wars, Renyard’s roll of dishonour was long. Flint-grey hair, hard blue eyes, the Belisarian technologies had done little to soften his looks. If anything, the myriad scars were more pronounced. Not for the first time did Renyard wonder at just how bad things were if warriors like the Marines Malevolent were being offered advancement and reinforcement.