Just as suddenly as it had all begun, it came to a close. The fizz-hiss of lasgun fire and explosions all drew to a hush, the industrial noise of the planet's works and the sound of boots rattling on the ground replaced the noise of battle as a group of Guardsmen filed past, led by an esteemed-looking figure. [i]Pride. You would do well to avoid a similar conceit, my child.[/i] Sprinting past them, she rejoined the Inquisitor, slightly charred but apparently none the worse for wear.

The groans of the wounded could not mask the whispering doubts in Lisbeth's mind; the Governor was under suspicion by His holy inquisition, and was therefore guilty, and the only question was to what degree his guilt ran. Were this not enough, he had - personally - arrived to deliver the Inquisitor and the arriving party from attack by traitors bearing the same uniforms as his own troops. What better way to hide one's own guilt by puporting to be a righteous servant? Surely, the Governor should have had far too many affairs of state to take care of to personally greet the Inquisitor, even in times of peace. Why would he take such a risk to come here - unless there was no risk at all? Already, Sister Dominica could see a web of heresy and suspicion whereby the Governor would set up his servants to die for him, allowing him to ride to the rescue of the very people sent to root out the heresy, and buy time to secure his evil grip over the people of this world. 

No doubt the Inquisitor already saw all these threads of deceit, but Lisbeth felt compelled to give what reassurance she could; faith was strongest when surrounded by the faithful. Reloading her bolter deliberately,` she whispered, craning her neck to try and reach the elevated ear of the Inquisitor. "My Lord, this is [i]suspiciously[/i] convenient. The man you are sent to investigate comes to your aid personally? I would..." The short warrior-sister trailed off, her eyes caught by something behind the inquisitor. Slumped behind a pile of bullet-holed barrels, the black-armoured form of one of the sisters of the Order of Our Thrice-Pierced Martyr, three holes punched into her armour, still smoking. 

Quite forgetting herself, Lisbeth dashed over, coming to a stop on her knees beside her broken form. Before her, Sister Persephone lay, and no amount of shaking could rouse her; she was quite dead, and her gauntleted hand fell limp as Lisbeth held it in her own. [i]Do not be saddened, my child,[/i] spoke the voice. [i]She is now in my arms.[/i] Though she had seen death before, Lisbeth had never yet lost one of her own Sisters in battle, and even the knowledge that Persephone had assured her place in the pantheon of martyred saints was not enough to comfort her. More than anything, she wanted to wail, to scream, to curse the name of the heretics who had stolen her Sister from her and to beat her bloody fists against the floor - but it was not the time for mourning. Vengeance would have to suffice. 

[i]Vengeance.[/i] Lifting the rosaries from Persephone's body, Sister Lisbeth swore silently to atone for her failure to save her, tying them about her thigh and pulling herself back upright. There were orders to fulfil. Ignoring all those around her, she followed her instincts, her ears almost visibly pricking, searching for - aha! 

A groaning survivor, trapped beneath the body of one of his fellows! Without a sound, Lisbeth pulled him out by his collar and dragged him back toward the Inquisitor and the rest of the party. "Inquisitor!" Her voice echoed through the docking bay before she dumped the heretic at his feet, planting a foot on his shoulder and pressing him into the ground, kneeling with a sneer. "Tell him [i]everything[/i] he wants to know, or I swear on the Emperor's name, I will break every bone in your body and flay the skin from your flesh before I let you die," she said, in a quite matter-of-fact tone, blinking quickly to hide the moisture from her eyes.