Tell me a story

[Jacinda]

I have seen similar threads in other parts of our forum.  I thought about waiting until Monday to start this but I do not want to wait :)  Let's see how this goes.  Maybe Monday we could have a theme develop for yet another challange.

 

Tell me a story in 500 words or less; 750 words max!  It could be a simple quote, a prayer, or a slice of life scene from a Sister's routine.  You could tell a brief description of your DYI Order.

 

 

 

Of course I want to participate myself, so I give you ....

======================

"You have no authority here!  If the emperor wishes to brand me a heritic, let him come and proclaim it so himself." ~ The last words of Cardinal Alderoy.

[Aqui]

Canoness Saffron Sera of the Order of the Dauntless Spirit lunged at her opponent, seeing a brief lapse of concentration. The Chaos Marine was grotesque, it's frame distorted by a madness that made her shudder. It's maw was open, vile spittle expelled as it roared. Her antique Chainsword, Pious retribution screeched as it bit into the armour and fused flesh. Ichor burst from the wound, corrosive and foul smelling. Pulling her weapon away, the blood was eating away at the teeth. Rather than risking permanent damage to the relic, Sera aimed her custom melta pistol Belle's Hell and fired point blank at the slavering visage. With its head incinerated, the traitor fell backwards into the mud, sinking almost immediately. Turning, she felt another behind her. Realising in time that her Senior Sister was covering her, the pistol was lowered.

"Sister."

"Canoness, the enemy has fallen back." Pointing, the junior indicated their quarry's position.

"The fools!" the Canoness snarled. "Regroup! At their heels! Bring the Immolators forward!" and promptly charged.

[vonny]

Sister Maiko looked to her sisters taking refuge around her. Sister Raphaela, her freckled face completely serene despite the circumstances. Superior Eleanor, her pale skin marked with an expression of grim determination. The grey complexion of Sister Lily had only gotten worse. While still fit for battle at her age, the alien spores in the air had started to take a toll on her more than any of the others, and she coughed into her rebreather. That lesson was learned too late to prevent damage, and they had not had time to rest and heal.

Everything had gone so fast. The xenos invasion had started scarcely a week ago, and since then the sisterhood and the PDF had done all they could to defend this world and its population. Their last action had been to draw the attention of a swarm chasing one of the last evacuation convoys, and hope that they would draw off enough attackers for the convoy to make it to a dropship. They were all servants of the Emperor and worthy of a chance of rescue. 

They had drawn the aliens off, at least a number of them. Their rhino had taken a few hits, and the blessed machine had given out several kilometers later as the acid had slowly eaten away at vital mechanisms. They had footslogged the rest of the way to this cathedral while Sister Arabella and her Seraphim fought yet another delaying action- this would be their last stand, where they would make the last of their ammo count as much as possible.

She looked out through the large, reinforced wooden doors as she heard the Seraphim's jump packs. They had arrived here as well and would make their last stand with them. Behind them were the as of yet empty streets, earily lit by the purple sky above. The sky that had seen flashes of orange for the past hours. Undoubtedly the xenos was executing some new, vile tactic. At least, that's what sister Maiko thought, until she saw a fiery trail break through the purple mass that formed the sky - and then another, and another, four clustered together close to where the evacuation point was, and another four fairly close to the cathedral the sisters were hiding in. Drop Pods. The Emperor's angels had come, and together they would stand a chance to do more than sell their lives dearly. Together, they could drive the Alien back from the Emperor's holy soil.

Sister Maiko narrowed her eyes and checked the ammo count on her Bolter once more, and started praying the litany of the Emperor's retribution. Today would not be the day she died.

 

445 words. I'm not a great writer by any measure, but I still hope this would bring you some enjoyment

[Teetengee]

So I put this in spoilers because I think it might be a little long, also because of trigger warnings for abuse, torture, and assault, as it went way darker than I first expected it to.

​     “Ssssoo, tell me, where isssss the relic?” hissed the creature before her. It’s prehensile forked tongue darted in and out licking at her wounds. Aila could feel the ache in her arms from her suspension. She could feel the ache in her body from the hooks that held her there. She knew she was going to die.
     “I grow impatishhhient of your refussssalsss, a-dep-ta ssso-ri-i-taaa,” Bacchin accentuated the last syllables with a jab from his knife in her belly ending with the dagger digging between her lowest two ribs with a slow twist. Aila gritted her teeth and grunted in pain. She focused on the being in front of her, looking for any kind of way out.
     At eight feet tall and three and a half wide at the shoulders, even if he was untainted she would never have a chance of overpowering him alone, especially in her current state. The foul symbols and garish colors of his defiled armour began to shift in her vision, though whether they were actually changing or it was just the effects of whatever drugs laced the knife she had no way of knowing. His feet ended in short talons, somehow muscles had grown down to them from his shins. He wore a tabard of skin streaked in blood. Around it were strapped various weapons, few she recognized, although Aila was eminently clear on their purpose. Raising her eyes to his chest she saw that one half was some sort of mesh cutting into his flesh. The other still bore an eagle in cruel mockery of this creature’s past service. “Blasphemy,” she muttered.
     “What’s that my little bird, chirp louder I can’t HEAR YOU,” Bacchin shouted in her ear so loud she felt a small trickle of blood escape while her ears, and the room, rang. He danced away from her swirling and cackling, the sounds of his steps beating a mad bass drum solo across the floor like some grotesque child. As he spun closer his arm snapped out and grabbed the knife in her torso, ripping it sideways and scraping along the bone till freed.
     Aila screamed as the knife shaved down her bone. He ran forward and punched her in the exposed region of her right side again and again. She could feel her bones shattering and her kidney pulped as his frantic staccato of blows shook her like a flag in a storm. The force of his blows tore her right arm’s chain free from the ceiling and whipped it screeching across the slick floor. Finally he backed up, screaming in frustration. “I wouldn’t need to keep hurting you if you would jussst tell me what you know!” he barked out. The glint in Bacchin’s eyes and his cruel smile were slowly replaced by a confused expression when he noticed her quiet choking laughter.
     Spitting out teeth and blood, Aila raised her head with a grin almost, but not quite, as monstrous as his. Lifting her right arm, she pointed to a grenade affixed to the eagle on his chest. Bacchin looked down to his chest, then his belt, then back to Aila with a snarl. “Purge the unclea-” her words were quickly silenced by the explosion that tore Bacchin to a thousand pieces. He peeled like a lemon before coating the room in a mix of shrapnel and flesh. The force of the blast destroyed what remained of Aila’s bonds and sent her hurtling across the stone. Ichor sizzled on her skin as she struggled to get up. Coughing up a foul black fluid and fighting fatigue, pain, and drugs, Aila half crawled and half slid to her armour in the corner of the room. She scanned the room for options as she screamed her way into the suit. Finally standing at the center by merit of will and servos she steeled her resolve and pressed the activation rune on her power sword, “One down, five to go.”

 

[Aqui]

I think that after that I might have to revisit my DIY Order. It's waaaaaaay past time since I wrote anything for the story I started for them.

[Jacinda]

Thank you all very much! It is inspiring to me.

[*Furyou Miko]

Tee, uh... the grenade needs a little more explanation. Did she put it there somehow? Did she just pull the pin on a grenade he was wearing somehow? What happened?

[Teetengee]

Tee, uh... the grenade needs a little more explanation. Did she put it there somehow? Did she just pull the pin on a grenade he was wearing somehow? What happened?

sorry, I forgot to put in a line where he looks to his belt, I realized it afterwords

the idea was that she noticed it amongst his weapons and grabbed it when her arm was knocked loose, I'll go fix it.

 

Edit: Check the last paragraph, it should be more clear where the weapon came from, I hope, let me know if there is anything else you (or anyone else for that matter) think needs to be fixed.

[CommissarZac]

Here's some Fanfiction I was working on.  

 

[Warsmith Aznable]

 

Maybe Monday we could have a theme develop for yet another challange.

 

The assigned theme of other subforum writing threads helps immeasurably.

 

This is a thing that arose from an image that immediately popped into my head when I read the original post. It's a bit more than the 750 word cap, so it's spoilered for length.

 

 

It was unprecedented.

 

Sister Adelpha stood in the office of the Canoness, bolter at port arms, standing ceremonial guard beside the rather expansive wooden desk while the Canoness calmly informed the Bozella delegation they were about to witness an unheard of ritual. Worse, her unnecessary and unusual guard post beside the Canoness was nothing more than a simple and effective way to keep Sister Adelpha away from the proceeding, under the stern gaze of the Canoness herself lest she be tempted to interrupt. It was, after all, her former battle-sister, longtime friend, and scholam-mate who was leaving.

 

A Sister of Battle had asked for, and received, permission to walk away from the Order.

 

***

 

A Sister of Battle could not simply walk away from the Order.

 

Colonel Dupin believed this to be so obvious that he was visibly surprised by Director Enzo’s insinuation that Canoness Ulyssa was not taking the matter seriously enough. The Canoness only arched an eyebrow and directed the delegation to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The solitary Sister standing at grim attention off to the side did not move to follow, he noted, and also did he note the Canoness deliberately pretend not to notice.

 

Dissension in the ranks?

 

Impossible to imagine, as strange as the situation was. Probably, the Colonel decided, there was some matter of personal discipline involved. These women, as otherworldly as they often seemed, were soldiers, and that was a subject he understood.

 

Coming to that conclusion made him suddenly feel immeasurably more at ease. He had not realized how tense the whole situation had made him until that point. Just a bunch of soldiers. Angelic, divine, blessed, holy... but soldiers still.

 

He frowned at Director Enzo’s back as the pompous jackass eagerly pushed past his own gaggle of hanger-ons and toadies to be assured of the most prominent spot on the balcony.

 

***

 

Sister Magaera wanted to stop and take a last look at the Fellowship Hall, but she knew it would not be allowed. Instead she kept the same brisk pace of the escorts to either side of her.

 

They were not technically guarding her, as she was not a criminal. She felt like a criminal, though. Since last emerging from the office of the Canoness no one had made eye contact with her, though she could feel their stares burning into her when her back was turned. No one said any words to her that were not strictly necessary. The last time she had been to the Fellowship Hall was for the first dinner following the request to release her from her vows. When she had then entered, everyone present picked up their trays and filed quietly out of the hall. She had taken her meals in her room in the days since.

 

That morning’s inventory of her wargear and residential issue as she cleared post had been the most anyone had spoken to her in days, and she hated herself for relishing even those terse communications, ignoring the spite and disdain that hung unspoken around each question and answer from her one-time comrades. It was strange when her escorts had helped her into her robes and armour, handed her her unloaded bolter and hung her power sword on her belt. A ritual normally full of camaraderie and cheer, with heartfelt prayers and good natured banter, reduced to a dull, silent pantomime. And still no eye contact.

 

The great doors of the Fellowship Hall opened and Sister Magaera finally hesitated as her eyes adjusted to the noonday light and she saw the entire Mission assembled in the courtyard. Instead of the usual squads assembled in U formation before the Ordo vexilla flying at the head of the courtyard, the Sisters of the Mission formed two long ranks running from the doors of the Fellowship Hall to the main gatehouse.

 

Those usually ornamental gates, normally reserved for the ritual parade of relieving of post when a fresh rotation of the Ordo came to the Mission, now stood swung wide open. Beyond was the neatly kept drive that served as a buffer between the Mission and the commercial suburbs surrounding. Transports of various types rolled indifferently past view, and daytime shoppers went to and fro with the obliviousness of those long grown accustomed to the Mission’s stern edifice.

 

The symbolism made her heart skip a beat. Sister Magaera thought she had come to terms with the situation, but her step faltered just this once when the full gravity finally and mercilessly became apparent. She drew in a sharp breath. It might have turned into a wail of despair she didn’t even know was in her but for the impatient hand that caught her elbow and jerked her forward.

 

***

 

“What is this?” Director Enzo was confused by the spectacle. He did not speak loudly, but his voice carried over the courtyard due to the deliberate architectural acoustic relationship the balcony was designed to have with the courtyard.

 

“The woman is being released from her vows, Director.” The Canoness said quietly, then nodded to a Sister Superior below.

 

Director Enzo felt annoyed. A military parade was not what he had been expecting when he had demanded satisfaction for the insult the bitch had given the Bozella Group. He was stringing together in his head the foulest, most demeaning insults he could calculate to take maximum advantage of the balcony’s ability to carry his voice when the first vow was released.

 

None of the Sisters below turned to look for the source, or even flinched at the sudden outburst of his giggling.

 

***

 

The only break in discipline was witnessed by Colonel Dupin, whose shrewd glance caught the tightening of Sister Adelpha’s jaw as she stifled a sneer. They made the briefest of eye contact, and in that moment he saw the situation clearly and gave her the slightest of sympathetic nods.

 

No discipline problems, but a problem avoided well in advance with the shortest of possible leashes. This ceremonial guard was the disgraced woman’s buddy, he realized. He knew she could not acknowledge his sympathy, maybe even despised him for it, but he could not help but feel a kinship with a soldier struggling admirably to swallow all the complex emotions that obedience and duty demanded but supplied little relief for.

 

No simply walking away, but he was thankful at least there were no actual drums at this drumming out. He felt dirtied by his association with the priggish Director and stiffened his spine, swallowing his own complex emotions to present the honourable face of the PDF to the assembly of the Mission.


Such harsh ritual was nothing new to him, though. Only the fact it was of the Adepta Sororitas made it a novelty. He set his face into the most impartial, detached mask he could, and it was a well practiced one.

 

The proceedings below continued uninterrupted.

 

***

 

“You will not show unyielding defiance in the face of His enemies.” The Sister Superior intoned with restrained emotion as she reached for the helmet resting with familiarity in the crook of Sister Magaera’s arm. She jerked it clear of Sister Magaera’s startled automatic response to maintain a grip on it, then cast the helmet to the ground. As Sister Magaera watched it roll beside the feet of the rank of Sisters to her right, the first ten Sisters on either side turned their backs on her.

 

Her escorts nudged her forward, and after three meters the Sister Superior reached out again and roughly unclasped Sister Magaera’s sword belt.

 

“You will not pursue His enemies with righteous fury.” The Sister Superior hissed as she dropped the sheathed power sword at Sister Magaera’s own feet. Sister Magaera did not want to, but her unyielding escorts shoved her forward, and she was made to step over the blade as the next ten Sisters on either side of her turned their backs on her.

 

“You will not show unflagging devotion to Him.” The chaplet was torn from around her waist, and the polished brass beads scattered and rolled across the concrete.

 

“You will not armour yourself with undying faith in Him.” The escorts, ready with the appropriate specialized hand tools, simultaneously disengaged the locks and couplings of Sister Magaera’s power pack, which fell with a cracking thud to the pathway behind them.

 

And so it went, as each vow was released another piece of wargear was cast away while ever more of the Sisters of the Mission turned their backs as she passed. This proceeded at a steady pace until Sister Magaera stood in the middle of the courtyard, centered before the balcony, one ragged sock trailing loosely from her toes, the other pinched in the discarded sabaton of the power armour that lay strewn along the path behind her. All that was left to her was her loin cloth and her undershirt.

 

She stood before the Mission priest and his acolyte. The acolyte tore Sister Magaera’s undershirt to expose the Aquila tattooed over her heart, and the priest produced a thin, glowing brand and touched it to her skin in quick, short strokes until the flesh had melted an angry red that permanently obscured the symbol.

 

She did not cry out then, but did flinch when the Sister Superior pinched the flesh beneath her right eye and used her combat knife to slice off the small bit of skin with the fleur-de-lis tattooed upon it. The combat knife was sturdy and thick, yet had a razor edge. The cut was quick and clean, without cruelty beyond duty in the shallow stroke. The blood welled up red across the raw pink of the exposed wound, mixing with the remnants of the tattoo pigment and pouring down her face. The priest tore what was left of her undershirt away in his bony hand and brusquely dabbed at the bright red liquid. The acolyte smeared a dollop of greasy prometheum jelly over the wound to stop the flow, then handed the bloodied rag to the Sister Superior to carry away so that none of the woman’s blood would sully the Mission grounds.

 

***

 

The Colonel at first felt he should politely look away. This former soldier was not a criminal, he had to remind himself. A problem child, probably; a scapegoat, assuredly; but not a criminal. He knew it was old fashioned, but he did not feel comfortable with such personal shaming when it came to women. Even if that woman was so obviously dangerous.

 

Ignoring the leering grin of Director Enzo, the Colonel turned his own critical eye upon the woman. She stood all but naked before the priest and the acolyte, shamed before her peers, facing an uncertain and undoubtedly harsh future. But the Colonel’s practiced eye saw an unexpected reserve of willpower in the woman, and felt drawn to look deeper.

 

There was no unnecessary fat upon the woman’s body. Skin that was scarred and burned by the hateful vagaries of long campaigns was stretched tight by muscle. Not the vain hulk of a preening body builder, but trained engines of power honed and dedicated by deadly function and pure utility bundled under her skin like thick rope.

 

Her posture was centered, her stance was solid, her shoulders were loose, and her eyes regularly flicked to check her natural blind spots, even as she forced her face forward, away from her former battle-sisters as they turned their backs to her by squad. This was a woman unconsciously ready at any given moment to respond to an attack.

 

She had the odd, initially hesitant, but completely fluid and controlled gait of someone long used to compensating for the amplified movement of power armour. Despite her natural grace and disciplined athleticism there still existed the telltale oddities of movement that came with reset and pinned bones, rebuilt joints, and cultured muscle replacement. Cutting across the marks of bullets and blades were the thin, white scars of the trained surgeon’s scalpel and the thick, red scars of field expedient medicine. She swayed further to one side than the other when she walked, ever so slightly favoring one knee over the other. Her body was not so trained as an object for show, but a well worn tool of savage purpose.

 

Even bleeding and disgraced, her visage retained the seraphic beauty that seemed general issue to the women who rotated in and out of this Mission, but her hands alone would have denied any other life one might have imagined belonged to such a pretty face. Reddened, calloused skin stretched over swollen, uneven knuckles. But for her hands one might excuse any other blemish upon her body and take her for an professional athlete or an acclaimed dancer. The bent fingers fluttered slightly every time the natural swing of her arms as she walked led them to the vicinity where her pistol and sword used to hang, and the Colonel saw in them an incompleteness without weapons to caress.

 

Above all, her body was possessed of a deadly certainty. She stood in nothing but a loincloth and a single absurd sock. The priest before her was naturally tall, a grim sack of bones with a wild, grey beard, and his vestments increased his imposing stature. He stood ramrod straight and looked down upon the woman with a face perpetually fixed as if he were smelling something foul. The acolyte was broad shouldered and had a solidness in his arms and neck that belied his expanding belly. Both were evidently warriors, both of authoritative bearing well used to commanding and being obeyed, possessed of no fear or doubt. But the Colonel intuited, as only a man of his years of service and combat command record could, that this woman could destroy both of these veterans with her bare hands before anyone could raise their voice in alarm.

 

The comfort of a well understood situation slowly faded, replaced by a nagging concern that he could not articulate into a coherent thought.

 

***

 

“Who is that?” Director Enzo demanded. “What is she doing? What’s happening now?”

 

He had quite enjoyed the slapping. Following her painful humiliation before the balcony, the disgraced Sister had plodded the rest of the distance to the ceremonial gates. Twelve Sisters had broken ranks. Each had stood before her and whispered a bitter curse before drawing back and delivering a vicious slap to Sister Magaera’s left cheek.

 

“What are they saying?” He had asked.

 

“They are numbering the years she spent with the Ordo.” The Canoness had frowned, loath to explicate the matter to the man. “Twelve years since she came to us from the Scholam. Twelve years of sorority she now denies.”

 

The new comer, though, was different. Lingering just outside the Mission stood a Sister of Battle dressed for travel, the dust of the road upon her plain traveling robes and a duffle bag lumped at her feet.

 

“That is Legatine Honouria.”  The Canoness said. “She is returning from a temporary duty assignment.”

 

The Bozella delegation watched as the Legatine waited patiently for former-Sister Magaera to pass over the final line denoting the ritual boundaries of the Mission. The gatehouse guards passed Magaera as if she were not there, each slowly pushing one of the large, iron gates closed. Magaera stood before Legatine Honouria staring at the ground, while Honouria knit her brow with an unasked question.

 

“This isn’t part of the ceremony?” Director Enzo asked, becoming agitated.

 

The ceremonial main gates closed and were locked with a clatter of bars and jingle of keys, the gatehouse guards returning to their posts. The Superior on castellan duty marched to stand before the gatehouse and address the assembly.

 

“The Mission is secured!” The castellan shouted.

 

“Fall in!” The Sister Superior who stood with the Mission priest in the center shouted.

 

The Sisters reformed into squads in the customary U shape before the Ordo vexilla, and someone shouted for a roll call. The women in the squads began to sound off followed by Sister Superiors calling out numbers to the administering Superior in a cacophony of military drill.

 

“What is this?” Director Enzo asked. “Is that it? What about the other one?”

 

“All assigned Sisters present and accounted for!” The administering Sister Superior snapped a smart salute up at the Canoness.

 

“Dismissed!” The Canoness barely needed to raise her voice above conversational level, but the order boomed across the courtyard. Within seconds the courtyard was emptied, Magaera’s discarded wargear the only evidence of the recent assembly.

 

Just beyond the gate the delegation could still see Legatine Honouria and Magaera. Finally, Legatine Honouria removed the plain, brown traveller’s cloak she wore. She threw it over Magaera’s shoulder and fastened the clasp at Magaera’s neck, protecting her from further shame. The Legatine placed her hands on Magaera’s shoulder, and for a moment it looked as if she might embrace her, but whatever unspoken regret there was remained undemonstrated. Honouria retrieved her duffle bag and walked past Magaera without looking at her, passing into the gatehouse through the service door beside the ornate gates.

 

“That is unacceptable!” Director Enzo fairly screeched. He had dearly enjoyed the idea of the wretched woman forced to wander naked and bleeding into the city, with all the associated humiliations and dangers.

 

“Legatine Honouria is on temporary duty assignment until she signs back in at the staff duty desk.” The Canoness turned away from the courtyard and returned to the chair before her desk. She almost sighed, but held it back. “What passes between her and any civilian she might meet before that time is a matter between her and her assigned unit.”

 

“Well that’s just nice and neat, isn’t it?” Director Enzo flopped into the overstuffed leather chair situated near the desk but diplomatically not directly before it. The Colonel of the PDF remained standing while Director Enzo’s subordinates and personal flunkies from the  Bozella Group milled about the office. Sister Adelpha remained, bolter at port arms, her face an expressionless mask.

 

“Director Enzo,” The Canoness held a formal tone, but one tinged with strain. “The woman in question is no longer associated with our Ordo or this Mission. On top of the damages already agreed upon, can we agree that this means further responsibility for the insult delivered by the woman in question is also no longer associated with our Ordo or this Mission?”

 

“Well, it was such a shocking breech of discipline.” Director Enzo drawled, pretending to study imaginary dirt beneath his manicured finger nails. “It makes one wonder what sort of an outfit you’re running up here. I suppose, though, that no matter how hard you try a few misfits slip through the cracks.”

 

“It would seem so.” The Canoness tersely replied.

 

“Oh, I don’t blame you, madame.” Director Enzo sighed, then smiled indulgently. “‘The woman in question,’ as you say, is now beyond your concern or jurisdiction. I suppose I am satisfied with your timely response, at least. Zero tolerance, and all that.”

 

“We have the Ecclesiarchal recommended levels of tolerance, Director.” The Canoness smiled. It was a feral smile that showed far too much tooth. “Granted, it is not much, and it is fast wearing thin, but I recommend you appreciate that it exists at all.”

 

“That’s what I like about you, Canoness.” Director Enzo laughed. He did not offer further qualification, but stood up to take his leave. The Canoness rose and along with the Colonel offered a polite bow as the Bozella Group delegation swaggered from the office.

 

“On behalf of the Lord Commander and the Planetary Defense Force,” Colonel Dupin snapped a salute to the Canoness, “I appreciate your cooperation to resolve this potential political disturbance before it had a chance to escalate.”

 

“And I appreciate your mediation, Colonel.” The Canoness returned the salute. “We are grateful for the Lord Commander’s patronage, and endeavor to make our presence here mutually beneficial.”

 

There was a moment of awkward silence while the last of Director Enzo’s flunkies lingered for a moment before finally shutting the door to the office behind him. The atmosphere was immediately less tense, and the Colonel sagged a bit and massaged his temples. Only Sister Adelpha remained rigid.

 

“I’m sorry it had to come to that.” Colonel Dupin gestured vaguely in the direction of the balcony. “Director Enzo knows all of the right people, and the Bozella Group has their hands in too many strategic pies for the Lord Commander to brush off such an obviously pissant complaint.”

 

“It could have been worse.” The Canoness admitted without hesitation.

 

“I have no doubt.” Colonel Dupin agreed. “I’ve had to sign death warrants for less serious offenses. None of my soldiers ever got up the wrong side of someone like the Bozella Group, though. Bad luck for her. That’s all.”

 

“There is no such thing as luck, Colonel.” The Canoness shook her head. “There is only His grace.”

 

“As you say.” Colonel Dupin offered a bow and made to take his own leave. He hesitated with his hand on the door latch, then turned to face the Canoness one last time. “That woman. She was no ordinary line trooper, was she?”

 

“No.” The Canoness did not meet his eyes. “She was not.”

 

 

I'm kicking around a couple of ideas for the follow up. I have a general direction for it, but the details only coalesce as I write.

[MrFlutterPie]

The air of the battlefield swirled around in a chocking fog of foul magicks as the pysker unleashes another blast vaporizing an immolator before it could bring its heavy flamers to bear on the target. The explosion rains down hot fragments of  armour plating showering Sister Lexia as she drops to cover behind a ruined wall. She utters an Ecclesiarchy sanction curse as she slams home her last magazine into her bolter.  Gently leaning over the wall she watches the rogue psyker approaching. Thumbing her bolter to full auto, she whispers a prayer to the Emperor to guide her aim. Sighting the witch she gently squeezes the trigger resulting in the bolter’s machine spirit emitting a mourning wail as it starts to glow in an unnatural unholy light. Realizing what is happening she throws the gun to ground as it shatters like brittle glass.

 

The pysker approaches her position  its empty eye sockets staring through her sending an unnatural chill down her spine.  Without hesitating she draws her chainsword charging the witch. A beam of foul eldritch fire lashes out at her slamming into her breastplate shattering it. Gasping she falls to the ground blood spilling from her gut. The pysker continues to approach the dying sororita its head cocked in amusement. For the first time it spoke “Death has come for you and this world. Are you prepared to receive it?” Sister Lexia grits her teeth as her vision starts to go blurry. She takes a shallow pain filled breath as she lay on the ground in a pool of her own blood.

 

Looking up at the creature defiant with fire in her eyes  “I am the servant of the god Emperor who gives me strength.” Slowly she starts rising to her feet. Reaching down she grasps her chaplet ecclesiasticus around her waist.  Gritting through the pain she declares “Faith is my shield.” Gaining strength she slowly steps towards the witch. With a cool seething  anger she spits “Contempt is my weapon.” With that Sister Lexia reaches down to her ruined armour breaking free a damaged shard still inscribed with holy symbols and protective wards. “And I will not suffer the witch to live!” Lunging forward with a snarl she stabs the bloody armour fragment into the witch’s own torso. “Listen to me creature and know that you are defeated for you face the Adepta Sororitas and we shall never rest until the last of your kind is scoured from the galaxy!”

 

With that she gives her makeshift weapon a savage twist. The creature emits a high pitch scream and falls to the ground as its bubbling ichor leaks from the gash in its stomach. Sister Lexia stood for several seconds of which felt like an entirety over her vanquished foe before dropping to her knees. Praying she asks the Emperor for protection, only so that she may continue to serve him. With her last prayer uttered she collapses to the ground as a dark shape approaches her.  A long needle blade pierces her neck as she blacks out.

 

--------------

 

 

 

“Hospitaller report!”  The superior approached the shattered body of her fellow sister. The Hospitaller finishes withdrawing one of her myriad chirurgeons tools from the shattered sister’s body. Kneeling over the fallen sister the Hospitaller looks up and exclaims “She’s alive. It’s a miracle! She has faced the witch and survived. Praise be to the Emperor!”

[BitsHammer]

Decided to give this a crack. Because why not?

 

 

 

She was the last Adepta Sororitas on Triton Six. Heresy had come to the rural agri-world and now she was alone.

 

The small shrine she had called home with her squad seemed larger now that it was empty of the others. With a heavy heart she looked over the simple wooden pews as she limped to the front of the room, stopping next to the basin of holy water that had been prepared before they had left, each of them anointed by the now dead Father Titus before they had left the shrine.

 

As she walked in she released the Eviscerator that had once been carried by Superior Selah had once carried on her hip at the door. It’s once ornate case now pitted and scrapped stared accusingly at her back from where it leaned against the wall. Her breath was ragged as she struggled herself free of her silver power armor. The tabard was pulled free, its white outer fabric was stained red with the blood of Miriam who had been cradled in her arms not an hour before as the woman died. And with Miriam’s death she lost the only Sister she’d known since their days together at the Schola.

 

It was her inability to pull the trigger that had killed Miriam. It was her delayed reaction as the child had walked up, bundled in that vest. It was only the will of the Emperor she’d survived the explosion like she had, only with burns on her once pristine armor and robes. And it was by his will she acted now.

 

Free of the power armor she knelt in front of the small altar and pulled a small knife from belt that now lay next to her. Pulling her dark hair back she sawed through it, roughly cutting it short before scraping the blade along her scalp, small cuts springing forth as she crudely shaved it clean.

 

The hair removed she turned the knife on her robes, using it to cut the hems as she tore it into wide strips. Only the tabard portion remained untouched as she loosely attached it back around her waist. Some of the strips she used to wrap her chest, others where used to wrap her feet.

 

Slowly she stood, her body burning from the effort, and her thin fingers gripped the smooth ceramic vessel and looked at her own now alien reflection, her mind trying to adjust to her new appearance. Somewhere inside of her the words began to form, and she let them tumble out.

 

‘With this I wash away my life, and place it in the hands of the Emperor. May he judge my sins and in my death forgive me for them.’

 

With a swift pull she lifted the basin over her head and poured, the cold water washing over her, the pain in her body flooding from her as it ran down her body and onto the floor. With a feeling of purpose filling her now she turned and made her way to the door. She no longer felt the fear of being the last Battle Sister on Triton Six, as she was already dead now. It was only a matter of where she would finally be claimed by the Emperor.

 

As her hand wrapped around the Eviscerator’s handle she tried the trigger rune, the weapon’s teeth roaring with righteous anger in reply. It was time for her to bring the Emperor’s wrath to the heretics, or die trying.

 

 

581 words and it would have probably gone longer if I hadn't reigned myself in. I apologize for errors, it's just my only draft for this (as I wrote this for this thread in one go).

[*Furyou Miko]

Mr FlutterPie, you should spread your text out a little to make it easier to read. Also, you need to watch your tenses - the first little bit is in past tense, then everything else is present. Either is acceptable, but you do need to stick to one.

Fulkes, you'll find that if you write it up in a word processor (save it!!) and then copy it by hand into the thread box, you'll already be on draft two and much improved for relatively little extra work

Now that this is the second post of mine critiquing someone else's work without posting any of my own, I guess I really should shape up and attempt to prove my credentials...

The Great Work

Sister Indicia of the Sacred Tome let out a satisfied huff as she finished the last brush-stroke and squeezed her sable brush out. Screwing the cap back onto the little pot of vinegar, she stowed both in their places on her belt before stepping carefully across the pattern she had just finished inscribing, placing her feet by memory to avoid disturbing any of the invisible lines she had spent the last hour and a half creating.

A slight scowl marred her face as she pushed away the whispers that promised ways to improve the circle using sorcery. She had no use for sorcery, for sorcery was the work of the Enemy, and only the God-Emperor among humanity could safely wield its powers.

Standing in the middle of the pattern, the Dialogous looked down at the unfortunate bound at her feet. Middle-aged, balding, with an Administratum stamp at the base of his skull. His name was Armandus Dumo, named for the great cardinal of Avignor. He had lived an uninspiring life, plucked from the Schola Progenium for his lack of talent, trained by the Adeptus Terra, and toiled at a data loom for forty years... and now he was going to die because of a random chance that had lodged itself in his brain.

“The Emperor thanks you, Mr Dumo, for your sacrifice this day.” Indicia told him in the local gothic. Then she began to chant, high gothic words spilling from her lips as she invoked the Emperor, his Angels and the Wayward Sons. She lifted a blank arcanabula above her head. As her chant rose, the holy power gathered and took the book's weight, allowing her to lower her hand to the control panel for the modified Medicum Ministora on her right wrist. Selecting the program from a list, she lowered the device to Dumo's head, just over his temple where the skull was thinnest, and clenched her fist, sending the pneumatic needle deep into his brain.

As Armandus screamed, the book above them began to fill. Indicia had no way of knowing how many pages the man held captive in his mind, but the ritual would ensure that he remained alive until they had all been extracted... in the end, a page or a chapter, it was still a step closer to recompiling the Emperor's Great Work.

Words - 390

[BitsHammer]

I wrote it in a word processor and then copy and pasted it via shortcut keys because it was late as heck when I did it.

 

EDIT: I also apologize if the names aren't that good because I honestly suck at naming people and things. If I was in charge of fluff at GW all the Marines would likely be named Steve.