Deus Pater (Exalted/40k)

Paper burns quickly; this was always its primary flaw. That people would entrust knowledge to such a fragile thing, knowing that one errant spark could end the work of a lifetime, has always seemed faintly ridiculous to you. Yet that was the decision made, and now you must stand amid the pyre of your conquest and live with the consequences.

Opening one hand, you catch a flickering scrap of parchment in your palm, watching as the elegant words on either side shrivel and fade before the encroaching flame. The library's light casts rippling shadows across the ground, a bonfire visible for miles, and you bow your head in sorrow. You had thought to protect this place, but instead your enemies destroyed it, knowing it would cause you pain. As if spite alone justified wiping out the assembled lore of generations.

You lift your gaze once more, eyes hard and heart of stone. No. You cannot let this continue.

…

The old man turns, and walks back into his church. You hesitate, knowing that you could reach out and draw him back with word or will. Yet… your hands are bound, for he will not see reason, and you cannot change that without killing all that he is. If he would rather die than embrace the truth, that is his choice to make, not yours.

You watch the building burn.

…

Your son snarls, clawing at your throat like a rabid beast, and it is all you can do to hold him at bay. His eyes are wide and shot with blood, his hair matted with blood and filth, his skin broken with knotted scars. It enrages you, to see him so harmed, but more than that it horrifies you to realize that the greatest wound of all was dealt to him by your hand. You have taken him from those he loved, and by now they have surely died without him.

You thought you were saving him.

You throw him back, clear across the room, and in the brief moment of space so provided turn and slam the door shut in your wake. The metal shakes beneath his fists, swallowing whole the echo of his rage. Perhaps the Hounds can get through to him. Perhaps he can find in them a family, to replace the one he lost, for you have forfeited all right to serve as such yourself.

…

The statue is a heavy thing, carved of marble and wrought thirty foot high, but in presence in dwindles when compared to the man it was made to represent. You watch, your face a mask, as the cranes whine and pull it from its perch. There can be no traces left, lest the curious ask their questions, and in the answers find that which damned your child beyond salvation.

You bow your head, and do not weep.

…

An angel lies with broken wings, and you cannot stop to mourn. You can only look upon him for a moment, wishing that his face was as peaceful in death as it should have been in life. Then you draw your sword and turn away, eyes fixed on the twisted form of the one who murdered him.

Why, you ask, and Horus' face twists in rage, as though the question itself gave insult. He stands against you, a burning galaxy at his back, and you do not understand. He was always the best part of you, the truest image of all that you ever aspired to be. You praised him and honored him and gave him all that was in your power to give, and yet…

He roars, pain and rage and hate expressed in a single sound, and battle is joined once more.

…

The boy is weeping as they strap him into the machine. He knows he will stay there until he dies, until all that he is torn away beneath the monstrous hunger that is your will, and the thought terrifies him. Of course it does. He is young, and brave, and intelligent… and cursed with the psychic gift, marked out from birth as nothing more than fuel for your fire.

You could comfort him, but it would be a lie. They call him a martyr, but there is no honor in a sacrifice forcibly taken. You have nothing but pain and sorrow to offer, and he deserves to be spared that much. You would spare him the touch of your hunger, too, were it possible… but you cannot do this alone, and without his stolen strength the beacon will go out, and uncounted billions will be lost to the darkness forever.

How long, you wonder, will it be before that thought is no longer enough to drive you?

…

The girl's body lies in state, cared for and attended to by those who would worship her in death as they scorned her in life. The marks of the poison that claimed her have been carefully cleaned away, but you will never forget how she died. The prayer on her lips, the way she begged you for aid as the toxins turned her lungs to mush… you could not save her. Not from the malice of those who call themselves your disciples. The most you could do was ease her passing, and now that she is dead, deny her killers a trophy to parade through the streets in support of their vile arguments.

You reach out your hand, and her body dissolves in golden flame, leaving only the outline on her burial shroud behind…

…

You wake, suddenly, and it takes you a long moment to understand where you are. You are not in the hidden chamber where the tests were administered, nor in the small cell provided to you or even back in your residence at the Cathedral.

You are in a crypt.

The walls are hewn from unworked stone, pocked with alcoves and low shelves and lit from above by flickering lanterns that smell of sweet ceremonial oil. In every space there is a body or an urn or a tiny morbid icon, and the air is so cold your breath escapes your lungs in silver clouds. You are lying on a slab, not yet committed to a grave but not far from it, and your clothes are the soft white linen of funerary robes.

You rise, slowly, and find that you are not alone. There is a woman on the far side of the chamber, seated on a low stone bench with her head bowed in uneasy rest. She wears the pristine silver armour of the Argent Shroud, and from her shoulders hangs a heavy cloak of white edges in soft black fur. Her face is a craggy thing, worn and scarred by decades of violence, and what little hair she has is cut into a narrow strip that runs from brow to neck and leaves the rest of her scalp bare.

"Sister?" You say, coughing as you force the words through a throat that feels hoarse and broken, and no sooner is the word past your lips then the woman wakes. Her brilliant blue eyes snap open and she rises to her feet in a soft whine of servo-motors, her chin a solid foot or more above your head.

"Cardinal Ignatius," she says, her voice hard and clipped and touched with gravel, the same voice you heard command you in the testing chamber, "you yet live."

"Was that in doubt?" You say dully, feeling slow and foolish even as you speak. You shake your head and take a few tentative steps, noting how unsteady you feel even taking such simple movements.

"For a time, yes," the sister says, watching you walk with an expressionless gaze, "after the initial round of questioning I made the choice to push the tests further. Between the psychic probes and the drugs, your heart gave out more than once. Eventually the Medicus advised me that your mind would not survive another revival."

You blink, then looks down at your arm, seeking the source of a prickling sense of recent pain. Pulling the sleeve of your robes up you find that the skin beneath is scarred and marked, lined with dozens of sharp white lines that would surely be scars if not for the short time frame.

"I… see," you say slowly, letting the linen drop back into place and raising your gaze once again, "were my initial answers judged insufficient?"

"Yes… and no," the Sister says, plated fingers balling briefly into fists before she visibly forces herself to relax, "We determined within a matter of minutes that you were not a daemon, nor were you any kind of witch known to the lore of the Adeptus Sororitas. The possibility of a specialized infiltrator remained, but in truth the reason I pushed so hard was that I did not wish to accept what answers you had provided at the outset."

You tense, aware that this woman is effectively confessing to having killed you multiple times rather than accept the truth of the matter before her, but if she wishes you further harm it is unlikely there is anything you could do to stop her. The sheer power implied by that broad frame, the experience hinted at by that collection of scars…

"Forgive me, Sister, but I do not know your name," you say cautiously, "your words suggest you held authority in this matter, and yet…"

"Yes, I suppose we never did meet with my head uncovered," the Sororitas says with a nod, "I am Galina, Canoness-Preceptor for the planet Sanguis."

Making her the woman in charge of every Sororitas on the face of the planet, if you understand the ranks correctly, and thereby explaining both the scars and the wrinkles around her eyes. You nod, shallowly.

"I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, Canoness, but given the circumstances…"

"Quite," Galina replies, flashing her teeth in a smile more befitting some kind of deep sea leviathan than any human, "I would not blame you for holding something of a grudge, but any apology I make would be insincere. Given the stakes… which I suppose I should actually explain, instead of hinting at indirectly."

"It would be appreciated," You say, folding your arms and trying not to feel like a pouting child before this absolute giantess of a woman, "as would an explanation for why we are speaking in a crypt, as opposed to literally anywhere else."

Galina barks a laugh at that, harsh and booming like the weapons she must wield in battle, before disciplining herself once more.

"The two facts are connected, as it happens," she says, "tell me, do you recall the memories that we brought to the forefront of your mind?"

"Some of them, certainly," you say cautiously, "I was not aware of their existence before the test began, but…"

"It is not unprecedented," the Canoness shrugs, "There have been many cases of Saints receiving visions that seem to be from the perspective of Him on Earth, and I am given to understand that the Blood Angels carry the memories of their own progenitor with them to this day. No, what drew my attention in this case was the precise contents of one of those visions. Do you recall one that featured a woman's corpse, taken to the Emperor's side?"

You frown, easily able to read the weighty intent of the Canoness' words despite the casual manner in which they are delivered. Slowly you nod, dragging your thoughts back through the morass of half-recalled words and images dragged into the light by a psyker's ungentle hands.

"I do. A warrior in service to the Emperor, I believe, from the iconography," you say slowly, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the Canoness' words, "slain by poison and laid in state. He… I believe He did not wish for her death and her corpse to be used as a weapon by those who slew her. Why? Does the description match a story you know?"

"Quite accurately, in fact," Galina says calmly, "tell me, do you recall who killed her?"

"...the Emperor believed it to be someone who should have been loyal," you say, knowing that you would have to be blind to miss the significance of such a request but unable to place why it would matter. Unless… "An official of some sort, I would have thought, a lord or a governor or…"

"A priest," Canoness Galina says, and in her frozen tone in a rage to shake the stars. You take half a step back without even realizing it, suddenly extremely conscious of the threat this woman could pose. "A lying, treacherous, murdering priest..."

"Canoness!" You snap, your voice echoing from the catacomb walls, "Control yourself, and for the love of the Emperor talk to me. Who was that woman?"

Canoness Galina stares at you for a long moment, as though weighing up the full weight and measure of your being. You wonder what it is she sees in you. Regardless of the answer, eventually she speaks.

"Her name was Silvana," she says at last, "Sister to Alicia Dominica, Living Saint of the God-Emperor, and above all else, the founder of this Order."

You blink, taken aback by the sheer magnitude of that fact. Every priest of your rank and learning knows of Saint Silvana, of course, just as they know the names of every one of those original Daughters of the Emperor who stood before the Golden Throne and went on to end the Age of Apostasy. Each of the six Orders Militant that comprise the core of the Adepta Sororitas claim spiritual descent from one of those heroes, and you have no doubt that the woman across from you was all but raised on stories of her liege-lady's deeds.

"...ah," you say, the very pinnacle of eloquence, "What do the official histories say, regarding her demise?"

"Saint Silvana died of poison, delivered by a death-cult whose name and nature have been wiped from the history books," Canoness Galina says in a sharp, clipped tone, "Prior to her demise she was known for her altruism and stoic faith, for she believed that deeds were worth more than words and the finest deeds were those that helped those less fortunate than oneself. Such attitudes won her few friends among the Synod, but in the wake of her passing a motion was passed by unanimous acclaim to recognize her as a Saint and honour her in song and sermon the length of the Imperium."

"...and in so doing, placate those who might have blamed the Priesthood for her death, fairly or otherwise," your voice is hollow, but your heart is filled with certainty. To think of any other explanation feels uncomfortable, as though you are trying to reconcile two contradictory thoughts, the suggestion clashing against your inherited memories. "Her body vanished, did it not?"

"Leaving behind only the imprinted shroud that my Order took as namesake, yes," Galina nods, "which leads us to one final test. Here."

She steps closer, moving up to stand at your side, and looks down at the slab upon which you lay, which now that you look closer…. with a grunt, the Canoness lifts the lid of the marble coffin clear, setting it down with surprising grace against the nearest wall. Within the space revealed lies a slender, withered shape in ornate robes, pale hands folded over its chest in death.

"The process of testing you killed one of the psykers," Galina says simply, her voice betraying a complete lack of care for any involvement she might have had in such an unfortunate end, "and witch or not, they were a servant of the God-Emperor in life. I would see them return to his side in death."

You look at her for a moment, understanding the full scope of that request and what the evidence so provided would mean. Then you let out a breath and reach deep within your soul, drawing out the spark of divine fire that burns there still. Golden light surrounds you, a shimmering halo that outlines your white-robed form, and you reach down to lay one hand against the pallid flesh of the deceased psyker in the coffin.

You focus your will, and the corpse dissolves in golden fire… just as the body of Saint Silvana did, five thousand years before. Just as with her, the passing leaves only the robes… and on their surface, the faint marks of an ashen silhouette.

Canoness Galina watches this in silence. Then she nods, and kneels before you, eyes still level with your chest.

"Cardinal Ignatius," she says, her voice cold and solemn, "the Sisters of the Argent Shroud are yours. Call to us, and we will kill as you command."

Article:

Congratulations. You have secured the fanatic loyalty of approximately one thousand Sisters of Battle, who now see you as the best way to get revenge for the politically motivated murder of their patron saint five millennia in the past.

You will remain at the convent for a few days while Canoness Galina brings the rest of her sisters up to speed and you finish recovering from your ordeal. Choose one of the following activities to pursue during that time:

[ ] Combat Training. The Adepta Sororitas are some of the finest warriors to be found anywhere in the Imperium. See if they will consent to providing you with personal tutelage in the arts of violence.

[ ] Know Thine Enemy. You would be a fool to think your only opposition will come from within the Imperium. Consult the Sororitas and learn what you can of the daemon and the fallen, along with how to fight them.

[ ] Words as Weapons. The Sororitas are not all frontline warriors, and with the aid of their non-militant Sisters you may gain a much stronger understanding of the less overt threats likely to interfere with your great work within the bounds of the Sector.

Once you have recovered and are fit to leave the convent, what is your priority?

[ ] Faith and Coin. Contact Deacon Amelia and get a full assessment of the state of Sanguis' economy, infrastructure and bureaucracy. You must know the tools at your disposal before you can work with them.

[ ] Twisted Flesh. Sanguis has its own populace of mutants, oppressed and enslaved by the pure-born majority. Reach out to them, and bring them into your flock in truth as well as name.

[ ] Warp-Born Mind. As your recent experience reminded you, there are psykers on Sanguis, not least of which are the astropaths responsible for interstellar communication. Visit them, and speak frankly, as likely none have done before.