Lisbeth was not usually a woman predisposed to cruelty; causing excessive pain without killing was a waste of precious armament and time, and generally there was always something else more urgent to deal with - typically, staying alive. This time, however, she felt differently. It was not anger; she knew anger. Anger burned and boiled inside and gave an animating spirit to a person's movement; this was something else. It was a grey-green slime that sat in Lisbeth's heart and sucked everything towards itself. The weight of the boltgun in her hands did not demand to be raised, and her hands did not curl into fists. Looking at the traitor struggle and hearing his [i]language[/i], Sister Dominicia found herself puzzled. There was something amiss, and that made her uncomfortable. [i]Blessed is the mind too small for doubt, child,[/i] she reminded herself, and closed her eyes, drawing her focus inwards onto the voice of the Emperor. For a few moments, she was at peace.

It did not last. Her focus was shattered by the screams as Alexandra's blade sliced through the second finger on the traitor's hand. Any lingering twinge of mercy or pity was swept away by the realisation that this man could have been the one who fired the shot that killed Persephone, or any of her Sisters. That sucking sensation returned, and she could not even muster the energy for a scowl, staring at the supine guardsman with an almost disinterested look across her face. [i]Newer, brighter lights.[/i] This spark would soon be forgotten - and it was not worth remembering. [i]As will yours. As will all ours.[/i] 

Why would He say that, of all things? That piece of scripture was one of the first learned within the cloistered walls of the Scholae Progenium, but what was the relevance here? It must have been something she had missed, something obvious...something that would have to wait. The words circled inside her head, as the hospitaller relieved the heretic of his fingernails. 'Newer, brighter lights' were about to occupy everyone's mind in a minute; a shrouded light from somewhere near the prisoner made lisbeth level her gun at the heretic. What she had thought was a las-beam disappeared, and all that remained were two thin, wispy plumes of smoke rising like flowers from the eyesockets of the [i]former[/i] prisoner. 

"A good heretic," she growled, the bilious swamp in her heart slowly bubbling. "There are plenty more where he came from. My lords, should we begin to move? Heresy grows from idleness, and we all have good reason to..." Her voice trailed off as something caught in her throat. Lisbeth swallowed hard, and reminded herself to make sure she would repent for allowing herself to become so distracted by the consequences of the battle. "There is much to be done," she finished, half-heartedly. 

[i]Newer, brighter lights.[/i]