Even without her armour, Lisbeth couldn't feel anything but utterly secure in His light, utterly certain in His protection. She had almost stepped out of the aircraft rather than jumped, and rolled easily across the floor to stand, half crouched, as she accepted her orders with a silent nod. They would be the Emperor's judgement, silent and swift, rather than his flaming sword today. She envied the Confessor, already injured in the course of His duties, but pressed on anyway. [i]All things come in their time[/i], she reminded herself, as without a word she moved into the complex. 

She raised her arm in a closed fist, the signal to halt as she peered around a corner - two guards were posted by a door - if not the armoury, then likely some other important section; how very typical of the enemies of the Emperor, to pretend at such great schemes and then give away their key position in an act of obviation. The problem was how to draw them away for long enough to get behind them, the distance too great to despatch them without giving enough time to raise an alarm. The other end of the coridoor was within sight, but to attack from that side would have it's own dangers. A pincer movement, then.

Shuffling back slowly, not even making a sound with the brushing of the fabric against her scarred skin, she addressed her sisters in almost inaudible High Gothic. "Two targets. I will go back the way we came and turn against ourselves, until I am at the far end of the coridoor. On your signal, Sister-Celestian, I will strike from the far side while you strike from here, and with His grace we will each fall upon one before his brother in treachery can make a sound. Sister-Celestian?"

One thought stuck in Lisbeth's head as she read the dark-skinned warrior's face for a reaction. [i]I wish I still had my sword.[/i]