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6 mos ago
Current the spookiest soccer coach
7 mos ago
In the sort of mood to hack my wrists open and paint the walls
9 mos ago
#FREEDANKULA
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2 yrs ago
Hurt me.
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2 yrs ago
There is no adequate way for me to properly convey just how miserable I am right now.
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Even new scars about her neck and temple could not pierce the shield of quiet joy that she held before her, nor the slight kink on the bridge of her nose dampen her spirits. She stared back from the mirror with a simple, stupid smile that knew nothing but war and dauntless faith. A pale pink dress fitted poorly to her form, too loose about the chest and far too tight about the arms, stretched almost to breaking point over her thick limbs, hanging barely half an inch above the grating on the floor. Her skin was half-visible through the barely-there fabric, and the crown of white flowers in her loose, fire-red hair made her look more like a child than a dedicated servant of the Emperor.

The hushed giggle and whistles of passing crew did not bother Sister Dominicia; she barely even registered them. The concerns of laypeople and their strange attitudes toward the body were matters for wise scholars, not the sisters of the Orders Militant. Lisbeth's duty was to hear and to obey, not to become embroiled in the physical desires of those she was sworn to protect. A pair of ridiculous shoes in matching pink with a sharp heel forced her to take each step slowly, at times moving out her arms to maintain balance.

These were strange orders, but they came from one of His appointed servants, and so they were to be followed to the letter. I protect, and I ask only that you obey. Obeyance had never once been in question – Lisbeth was ready to die for her beloved master at a moment's notice – but her doubts lay elsewhere, much like the noble Confessor. Both had expressed concerns – the former about his role in the events of the last few days, and Lisbeth in her own abilities, and what the consequences for her sisters might be. For the first time in years, Lisbeth could hear her own footsteps without the clink-clink-clink of rosary beads, and their absence was a heavy burden to bear. Outside of her armour, with so much skin open to the elements as she made her way down toward the docking bay, Lisbeth felt naked, and ashamed. Even under orders, she was abandoning her duty to carry the mark of her sins and failures with her, and it was not a change that sat easy with her.

Naked, but not unprotected. “You are my shield and my sword, my protection and my light,” sang the young sister, the familiar hymn causing a smile to spread across her face, twisting the fleur-des-lis tattoed around her left eye. Even unarmed, the Emperor would not allow harm to come to Lisbeth or her compatriots. If nothing occurred, it was certain proof that His protection and guiding hand were infallible. If something did happen, it was because He allowed it to occur, so that his most faithful servants could confront the wicked and root them out. If someone died, it was either because their faith was lacking, or He was rewarding them for their faithful service with the greatest of rewards – a place in eternity by His side.

Old lessons beat out the lingering doubts, and the memory of Catherine's dead eyes staring up at the roof of the coridoor made way for the simple joy of a servant fulfilling their role in His great plan. “Good morning, Sister-Celestian,” hummed Lisbeth. “You look wonderful. I hope milord Governor will be pleased with us!”
@Big Dread are you still joining the HMS Enemy Without?
Every instinct in Lisbeth told her to fire. The creatures ahead of her were not human, and therefore were not part of His perfect plan. She had been trained, taught, and psychochemically indoctrinated to hate creatures like the loathsome Gruk, and yet no order to fire came. The Confessor spoke with them, and then with the Sister-Celestian. Even after they had conferred, no order came. All that came was the instruction to move out, following in the path laid by the pathetic creature, and a bilious poison rose up Lisbeth's neck and played on her tongue. There was no justification for allowing such beings to continue to exist, and yet her squad were following like sheep.

Or lambs.

He was a soldier. No, not a soldier. He was not a guardsman. He was a warrior. He followed his commands and he executed them to the best of his ability. His arm strained a little as he walked forwards, boots ringing out clear and defined even as he locked his glaive above it. By the Emperor, he would not falter in his duty, nor would he falter from the path of righteousness. In sacred silence he stepped forward, bolt shells whizzing past his ear.

Thump-splat The sound of the enormous Sister Caroline hitting the deck could not be missed or mistaken. Soon after, a second noise came as the squad's commander fell to the floor, bleeding from an ugly wound in her gut. “By the Throne, stay down!” Bolts flew overhead as she hunkered behind a heavy metal crate, popping blind shots back with Permanence while Crusader Therebus found cover. Stuck here, taking fire and unable to pierce the heavy armour of the heretic, they were just waiting to die. Alexa's booming vox-unit suggested chucking grenades, but the Confessor seemed to disagree, placing himself in the line of fire, singing His praises as he moved onward. Stirred by his example, Lisbeth scrambled over to the Crusader, shouting into the side of his helm. “His armour is too thick! If we charge him, our blades might have better luck – but if we stay here we're already dead!”

He didn't need to find cover. He carried the cover with him, which in this case, as it had many others, was saving his life. He watched as the conversion field around the hulking chunk of admanatium strapped to his arm deflected shot after shot that should have felled him. "HERETICS," he called out, voice booming over the fire and joining in with that of the confessor. "YOUR LIES AND FALSEHOODS CANNOT STOP THE TRUTH!" He took a few steps forward, the hail of fire increasing in intensity as he walked forward. The observation of the sister next to him was correct of course, which was why he was moving up. "The end of this glaive is encased in the emperor's devastation condensed into the form of a power casing. If it touches his armour, it will cleave through it as water to sand." He turned to the sister next to him. "I will provide cover for us to close the distance, if you wouldn't mind, suppressing fire would be greatly appreciated sister."

“Understood. Make ready.” Lisbeth fired off the remaining rounds in her clip, before slamming a new one into Permanence, crossing herself with the aquila before coming up to one knee. “On my mark. Three.” She breathed out, emptying her lungs as she cleansed her mind of fear or doubt. “Two.” She breathed in through her nostrils, her eyes closed as she recited a catechism against the fear of death in her mind. “One.” She tensed her thighs, ready to spring out, her nerves trembling with excitement and anticipation. “Mark!”

The words rang through his head and he pushed forward. He kept his head down, focused more on acting as a human shield than as an offensive force. He heard the boltfire rattling around him, every direction a hail of bullets and red-tongued guns, marking out the rockets of depleted uranium. As soon as he heard the sister behind him scream, he burst forward.

Death to the disbeliever!” screamed Lisbeth, and all at once her inhibitions and self-preservation vanished, firing away from behind the cover of the massive crusader and his enormous shield. A bolt glanced her shoulder and deflected away into the dark as she emptied Permanence. and let the weapon hang by the strap around her other shoulder as she tore Persephone from her scabbard, firing the ignition rune and sheathing the air around the blade in dancing bolts of blue energy. As the pair neared, she screamed again, this time wordlessly, all sense swept away by a tsunami of righteous fervour and the urge for revenge.

"By bolter shell, flamer burst and melta blast, the mutant, the heretic and the traitor alike are cleansed of their sin of existence. So has it been for five millennia, so shall it be unto the end of time." He declared the words authoriatorially. "LET ME DEMONSTRATE, HERETIC." His shield burst forward, and he watched the power-armoured opponent with a trained eye. Drawing his arm back, his glaive lanced forward, just as his peripheral became occupied with the howling sororitas.

Breaking away from Marcus, Lisbeth charged the heretic, both hands wrapped around her weapon as rounds flew towards her. A shot grazed her left thigh, the blasting mechanism firing off early and scorching the white paint off the engravings across her armour and knocking her off her stride. That was poor timing from the sister. Emotion... Useful only when channelled correctly, but only when it was channeled correctly. The sister now was half-lost... He dearly hoped that the taint of one of the dark gods had not befallen her, such was the rage. His spear was neatly dodged, his shield taking the brunt of the return even as the arch-traitor was hammered and sliced at by his companion.

With the wound in her head re-opened, Lisbeth's system was buzzing with adrenaline and her vision was completely tunnelled, with only the destruction of her target on her mind. Full of rage and spitting curses that would shame a sailor, she threw her shoulder into the massive armoured figure's gut, her tiny frame driving in like a torpedo. While her weight made little impact, the two-handed blow of her blade did much more work, the energy field around the honed plasteel slicing neatly through the armoured power cables that ran over the surface of the hardened shell the arch-traitor wore. The blow knocked the wind from his chest, and forced him to bend, just close enough for Lisbeth to headbutt him. The sick crack of bone from within her skull told her that her nose was now broken, and blood began to flow from both nostrils, but the disoriented warrior was now the only subject of her obsessions.

Fuck – daemon – traitor!” Each word, split between guttural noises, was spat with all the hate and bile Lisbeth could muster, punctuated by another blow of her sword, before she eventually cast it aside and balled her armoured fists, crying out in insensate rage as she pounded away on the traitor's face. The leader of the traitors returned blows, delivering punches to Lisbeth's gut that stripped the air from her lungs. As she flinched, the muscles in her torso reflexively contracted, and her last meal spouted from her mouth, splattering along the deck, but her blows continued, even as the strength in her shoulders failed her, and eventually, coated in blood, vomit, grease and dirt, she rolled away, spent.

If he told the truth, it was rather difficult to actually fight. The woman was a whirl of emotion and trouble around him, hampering his attempts to be able to actually do anything. As he fought, he noticed her and what she did, only pausing in his steady but sure assault as she hurled herself at the traitor with such force that she managed to stun him. He watched as she threw aside all dignity, mild disgust on his face, but used the opportunity to ram his lance deep inside the man's chest, avoiding the sister's mass with ease. When she stepped off the body, he gave the lance a twist- causing a cracking sound to come from the beast's ribs, and then extracted the humming end of his blade.

A few moments passed before she dragged herself up again, stretching to grab her sword as she rose. Half-bent, her shoulders drooping, wheezing away, resembling nothing so much as a brutal proto-ape. “Who – next?”

"What I believe the sister means to say... Who will receive the Emperor's redemption now?
Finished my part, @Irredeemable is just going to polish off the last details and then we can move on!
Mr.Reem and I are working on that post - I'll spare you all the 'oh she's dead I'm a bit sad now' bit until we get a calmer moment!
Sorry to lose you dude :(
Ow. As impressive as the stitching and the swift work of the cement on her armour was, Alexa's talents were not an all-purpose panacea. Lisbeth might have been fit to fight again, but she was not enjoying the stabbing pain every time she thought about moving. Making a mental note to punish herself later for the sin of weakness in the face of pain, not to mention indulging in fear, she leaned on her sabre, dragging herself up to her feet as the fight wound down, just in time to see the final shot fired by Sister-Celestian Victorine. "Victory. Praised be His grace, and not our strength, for it."

Amidst the broken bodies, she caught sight of an Armsman, frozen in death struggling with some betentacled mutant, and that same terrible feeling of failure that had haunted her dreams since she let Persephone die dragged her spirits down into the gloom. This time, His voice was no comfort, and His words of reassurance were blocked out by the silent recital of the prayers she had memorised so long ago as a child. Wiping the side of her head, Lisbeth's armoured fingers ran over the tattoo around her eye, and she remembered one of the vows she had made upon entering the Order Militant. Suffer not the witch to live. With those words ringing in her ears, she raised her sabre to her shoulder, and felt new strength enter her limbs. The traitors had taken blood, but they could not destroy her spirit.

"Sister-Celestian, I will have the traitor's head before I take a single step off this ship, or I will die in the trying. We must not allow him to escape to spread his sin to another world. He must die."
I'll post either this evening or tomorrow morning. Being shot has not sapped Lisbeth's urge to murder heretics!
Since we've had lots of badassery so far, I thought I'd change things up and have Lisbeth respond to being shot the way a niave young nun should!
Lisbeth's limbs were heavy with fatigue, but righteous anger spurred her on. She was about to vault her cover and fall upon her next target when the Sister-Celestian's order came, and her body obeyed almost without thought, turning her back to the enemy and falling in line. The pleasure of finishing the wounded would fall to the humble Navy ratings - lucky creatures that they were. With her fist still full of xeno skull, she jogged with the rest of her squad, falling behind as her short legs and her exertions conspired against her. By the time they reached the genetorium, she was three or four seconds behind the rest of the team, with even the wounded Confessor outpacing her. No doubt Victorine would berate her for her weakness, and quite rightly. Weakness is the mother of heresy, spoke the familiar voice at the back of her mind, as she rounded the corner and crouched behind a smoking piece of machinery, spitting hot steam and electrical buzz as the sound of shot and shell ricocheted around the room.

Get up, Lisbeth. There is work yet to be done. Gasping, Lisbeth was able to pull one leg up so she was kneeling, but soon fell back down. Get up. Or will you meet your creator on your belly? Lisbeth was only able to spit a laboured "...can't," reaching for one of the grenades about her belt. Biting down hard on cold metal, she ripped the bomb's pin out with her teeth and flung the frag grenade above her shoulder, though what effect it had was a total mystery. Gulping down hot breaths tainted with the taste of burning and the chemical sting of expended shells, Lisbeth laid down Persephone and her trophy, sliding the blade into the scabbard and tying the head onto her vast rosaries before unshouldering her bolter, clutching it tight to her breast like a lost child. "From the lightning, and the...tempest," Lisbeth wheezed, repeating the words which had stirred her heart so many times before.

Rise, spoke the voice, and this time Lisbeth answered, pulling herself up with a hand on the hot machine. Drawing a bead on a slight figure wielding a shotgun, she fired two bursts, blasting the woman's arm away at the shoulder. Buoyed by her small victory, she grew a little taller and her arms a little lighter, turning her bolter toward the huge power-armoured figure and-

Crack. Crack.

A hot sting in Lisbeth's chest and left shoulder quickly grew to a sharp, radiating pain. Lisbeth's knees buckled as her strength failed her again, and she sunk back behind the humming generator, dumbfounded. It took a few moments for her to look down at the two holes in her black armour, her white robes staining red as blood began to spill out from her shoulder and just below her fifth rib. Shocked, she put her hand to the wounds, her armoured gauntlet coming away with a hot crimson dripping from the tips of her fingers. A snake uncoiled within her gut, and a wave of fear washed over her and drowned all rational thought. You are dying, Lisbeth. Those words ran through her head and broke the dam holding back absolute terror. She heaved forward, hacking up the remnants of her last meal over the deck as she held back tears. Do not cry, little sister. Do not show them fear. Do not distress your sisters. The last time she had heard those words, it had been from her training matron during exercises after breaking her arm - it was vital that the group pressed onwards to victory. One life was nothing compared to the holy mission of the Ecclesiarchy. It was all Lisbeth could do to lift up her voice in song, hoping to inspire her sisters on to victory.

"Death is struck, and nature quaking,
All creation is awaking,
To its Judge an answer making."
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