[hider=Marguerite Von Vissenbach - Defrocked Sister of Shyalla]
“Sister Marguerite, this really is the last straw!” Abbess Hildegarde roared, her impressive jowls quivering in rage. The portly abbess punctuated the point by slamming her ham sized fist down on the dark oak table. Inkpots jounced at the blow, dispersing a fine mist of black droplets across the mornings correspondence. 

Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Novice of the order of Shyalla, fixed her eyes determinedly on a spot just over Abbess Hildegarde’s shoulder. She was a trim girl with pale blonde hair and sharp blue eyes,  though she tried to appear appropriately contrite and submissive the slight upturn of her chin and gleam in her eye conspired to ruin the illusion.

“How could you! You spoiled hateful brat. Graf Von Hammerstein is a patron of our order and his son was an honored guest of our house!” Gertrude Harker, an older novice with a pinched looking face and slightly buck teeth snarled, her dark eyes glittering with malice.

“That will be quite enough Sister Gertrude,” Hildegarde interjected, though  the admonition was pro forma rather than any expression of disagreement with the sentiment. All three women were in the Abbess’ study. A luxuriously appointed room, by the rather severe standards of a Shyallan House, with hanging tapestries depicting the various mercies of the Goddess and woven rugs to cover the cold stone floor. A large polished desk piled high with, now, slightly ink dusted scrolls dominated the south side,  and an illuminated window of stained glass casting a rainbow aura around the porcine Mother of the House. A brazier burned in a corner, though its heat was scarcely necessary with Hildegarde’s temper to warm the room. Marguerite crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Graf Von Hammerstein pays us so that we will send someone to treat his pox and his gout when he eats too much, which, judging by his twenty one stone and growing, is way too often. His son is a malingering coward who only visits us to ogle the sisters, drink our wine and keep himself as far from the battlefield as he can manage,” Marguerite snapped intemperately. Hildegardes jowls quivered with fury, she did after all have a particular insight into the portlier side of Imperial society, but it was Gretrude who spoke first, her cheeks flaming red with rage.

“You dare impune the honor of such a man as…” Gertrude spluttered. Marguerite waved her to silence with a dismissive gesture.

“Oh do shut up, the only reason you even care is because you’re too busy spreading your legs for the good gentlemen to bother with your…”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Gertrude flamed, her face turning beat red and her eyes widening with maniacal fury at the completely justified accusation. 

“You dare to accuse me of…”

“Sister Marguerite, that will be...” Hildegarde tried to interject her words tumbling over Gertrudes but the Novice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the shouting.

“I don’t mean to imply that Gertrude has been keeping company with the young lord, not only with him anyway, she shares her bounty with all mankind I have heard, she is like Shyalla in that regard.” Gertrude let out a strangled cry and leaped across the intervening space, driving her fist into Marguerite’s stomach. Both novices went down in a tangle of white robes, clawing at each other with fingernails and spitting curses like wild cats. Gertrude was moved by fury and had the element of surprise, but Marguerite who had grown up with three brothers recovered quickly, driving a knee into her fellow Novice and rolling atop her, driving a fist down into her jaw with strength borne of frustration of a year and a half of abuse from the older girl. Her fist connected with the tip of Gertrude’s chin and bounced the other woman’s head against the woven carpet, the smiling face of Shyalla all that stopped her from cracking her skull against the flag stone. Triumphantly lifted her fist for another blow.

“ENOUGH!” Hildegarde roared, loud enough that a jar of some kind of dried herb jumped from a shelf and shattered against the stone floor filling the air with a pungent, vaguely astringent scent. Both Novice’s froze, Marguerite with her fist raised and Gertrude with her hands lifted in a pathetic attempt to ward off the younger Novice’s blows.  The scowl on the Abbess’s face was so severe that it appeared to be sucking her pudgy cheeks up under how brow line.

“Sister Gertrude,” the Abbess hissed through grated teeth.

“Get out of here at once, I shall deal with you later.” Gertrude began to struggle beneath Marguerite’s pinning thighs, recovering faster than her attacker. Belatedly Marguerite lowered her small fist and let the other girl free. White robes, now smudged with the dust that the coal fire deposited on the rug, whispered as Gertrude scrambled to her feet and half ran from the room. She had lost one of her slippers in the scuffle, but if she had noticed she wasn’t inclined to try to retrieve it. The large wooden doors opened and closed behind Marguerite leaving the Novice alone with Abbess Hildegarde. The portly woman’s face had grown noticeably stoney.

“Novice Marguerite,” Hildegarde rasped, the throbbing vein in her right temple bespeaking the herculean effort she was making to control her temple.

“In the year and a half since you have come to us, I have summoned you to this office twenty seven times to deal with your insolence, insubordination and troublemaking.” Marguerite began to object but Hildegarde held up a pudgy finger in barr.

“I disapproved of taking you in at all, but given that you had already sullied your reputation with that dueling business I felt it was a chance to demonstrate Shyalla’s Mercy. That was a mistake.”

Marguerite began to object. It hadn’t been her idea to enter the convent and people really were overreacting to that whole duel thing. Not to mention her father had paid them a handsome some to take her in.

“I really dont think…”

“YOU. WILL. BE. SILENT!” Hildegarde roared, literal foam was appearing at the corners of the Abbess’ mouth now and her face was the color of cherry brandy, her eyeballs produced frog like from her rage contorted visage. The bit of each word like the snap of a drum. The Abbess reached into a draw in her desk and, for a moment, Marguerite had the absurd notion that Hildegarde was about to pull a pistol on her, instead the Abbess drew forth a leather bag that jingled with the clink of golden marks. She tossed the pouch to the ground at Marguerite's feet with a metallic jangle.

“That is your endowment less the cost of a years room and board,” the fat Abbess sneered. Marguerite had the momentary and worrying sensation that the older woman could read her mind, though if that were the case she would have been here more than twenty seven times.

“Take it and get out of here,” she commanded, gesturing to the door imperiously. 

“You can’t just…” Marguerite began to object. Hildegarde’s face contorted with rage to the point it was scarcely recognisable from vissages of demons Marguerite had seen on the walls of the Temple of Sigmar in Nuln.

“I am the Abbess of this House, you insolent pup! You are dismissed from Shyalla’s service,  now take the coin and get out of here. If you are still in the building when the gong strikes for noon, I will have Sister Gertrude and her friends whip you out of town with rose bushes, I swear it by Shyalla Tear!”

Murguite gulped visibly then scooped up the pouch and scrambled for the door. There was no doubt in her mind that Hildegarde would make good on the threat, and probably take a great deal of pleasure in doing so.

“Ranald’s bloody balls,” she muttered to herself as she dashed towards the main gate. What was she supposed to do now?
[/hider]