Miracles of Saint Lucretia of the Chains [Warhammer 40k] [Sisters of Battle/Eldar] [nsfw]

[bookwyrm]

That last one I think was perfectly balanced between being either some really twisted bastard of an Inquisitor or some really twisted bastard Chaos Sorcerer, I really honestly can't tell which

@Gargulec kudos!

 

[Gargulec]

IV. Faces

A forest of armour rose around Ayile, white as bone left to bleach, draped in black cloth, bristling with implements of slaughter. Knelt between the savage women, feeling the cool caress of air on exposed flesh where her robe had been torn, she tried to remember what little she knew of the nature of her captors. They were not the Imperium's most horrifying soldiers: not those mountains of distorted flesh encased in shells of adamantine called the Space Marines—but they were close kin to them. In the rare glances the Seer managed to steal before returning her eyes down, she saw them in all of their similarity; though the arms they bore were different, it was the same cold contempt that leered from the masks of their helmets. She had faced such hate before, but she was its equal then, meeting it with a keen blade in her hand and a piercing howl on her lips. Now, her cheek burned where a lazy slap had sent her tumbling to the ground, and her knees hurt for as long as she had not been allowed to stand.

It scared Ayile to be made powerless like that. It scared her so much more to know how little her life weighed in those gauntleted hands and to know how afraid she was to die.

Only the measured pulsing of the spirit stone on her neck offered a measure of comfort, but all of its reassuring warmth could not stop the gnawing dread. The zealot leader had already stripped her of so much: tore apart the beauty of her armour, and silenced the song of her spear. It was all too easy to imagine those same hands closing around the fragile jewel and crushing it to powder. It was all too easy to imagine the cold pang of She Who Thirsts' hunger that would then close around her soul, and the slow despair of feeling her self drain away, bit by bit, into that insatiable maw. It was all too easy to imagine that, and much more. Visions of terror frayed Ayle's spirit; for as long as she remained focused on the present, the future could seem to her only as an abattoir.

But she was a Seer, and she would not let herself be terrified of that which she was meant to master. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to wipe the monotonous drone of human prayer from her attention. With a sharp breath and a taste of blood on her tongue, she forced her mind away from the present, and towards the great unfolding of the futures ahead. A faint, lively glow awakened in the stone on her neck; delicate rune-shapes flickered to life around her, ready to guide her towards tomorrows. But before she could truly be pulled into what was to come, before she could truly see the twisted roads ahead, a cold shape pressed itself into the back of her shaved head, half a breath away from ending her for good.

"Really?" she heard the voice of one of her captors, the one that seemed giddy at the chance to kill her. "You have to be kidding, witch. Stop this."

There was no threat in those words, merely the bemused surprise of someone completely in control. Ayile exhaled, and let her far-sight slip. Instead of the future, she returned to studying the pattern of cracks on the cobblestone below. The enormity of what she had gotten herself into was slow to dawn on her, but as it did—as the facts of her capture, humiliation, and torture certain to follow settled into her mind—a kind of bitter, impotent rage followed in its wake, strong enough to send a violent jolt down her spine. For a moment, her thoughts were flame. How dare those mon'keigh upstarts treat a child of Asuryan like that? When the Aeldar ruled the firmament, humans were struggling to imagine what use sharpened rocks could have; and even now, millenia after the Fall, all they managed to make out of the galaxy yielded to them was to turn it into a mire of blood. They were stunted children playing in the graveyard of gods, brats who never learned respect for the forces that gave them a lease on life.

And those brats were now sole masters of Ayile's life and death. She gagged on a sob, but swallowed it. No, she could not give the mon'keigh the satisfaction of her tears. Unlike them, she was no slave to her passions, but an adherent of a Path. They could strip her of her regalia, but not of Asuryani pride, which alone would be enough to carry her through the underworld she was plummeting into. Rocked by waves of searing fury and numbing despair, she promised herself to forever hold onto it, even if they were to sew her seer's eye shut, even if they were to consign her soul to eternal torment.

In that promise, finally, she found for herself a kind of peace, or at least a sense of a path under her feet again. She straightened her back, cast aside the hurt of the now, and allowed her mind to wander inwards, to sanctuaries no victorious hollering of savages could ever breach. She let them have their petty victory. She let them have her. She was yet the guide of her own fate, not a broken slave.

"Isha," she whispered a prayer, lips barely moving to not betray her defiance, "imprisoned mother, hallowed be your name. Hallowed be your tears. Hallowed be your survival."

It was never be easy to pray to broken gods. But in their defeat, they at least offered their children what triumphant holies never could: a lesson in endurance. Litanies formed on Ayile's lips, and she hoped that they would reach from one prisoner to another.

The human ceremonies stretched on forever, but even they had to finish sometime—and finish they did, when the sun was high in the sky and its golden light blinding amidst the city's polished marbles. Rough hands snapped Ayile's from her prayers. White-clad zealots grabbed her under the shoulders and half-walked, half-dragged her into the dark and cramped guts of a human transport vehicle. The stench inside, of fuel, grease, and rubber, was almost unbearable, and she retched even before she was forced to sit squashed between the armored bodies of her captors.

The engine started with a hateful wheeze, and the machine scrambled onwards, shaking violently enough that the Seer expected it to fall apart at any moment. But her captors seemed completely unbothered. She watched them finally relax, lean back and unfasten the plates of their bulky armour. It softened them, rid them of some of their belligerent air—but as the guns pointed markedly at Ayile reminded her, hardly all. Still, even those threats of murder had to tire them eventually. Finally, simple exhaustion overpowered their fear of the "witch", and they turned to their own matters. The first one to do so was the heavy gunner, the one with the gilded cannon. She lowered it fully, and with a whistling sigh of relief, removed her helmet.

"Fausta," she murmured. "Sister. Canoness. What were you thinking?"

In the dull red lights, there was something monstrous to her rough-hewn face. A metal implant crept along the side of her cheek, ringed by patches of scarred flesh, running all the way up to replace her right eye with an ornately decorated visor, a pavane of skeletons dancing across its entire silvered edge. As with so much of human art, it attested both to great skill and wilful morbidity, as if this short-lived race could not stop but to celebrate its own impending death. Ayile found herself staring at it too conspicuously, until the hand of another of her captors again forced her eyes down.

"By all the many sufferings of Saint Arabella, what were you thinking?" the woman asked once more, completely ignoring the Aeldar's glances. "I know it is important for you, but for all the saints' sakes!"

"Yeah, that's some crazy stuff!" the one sitting next to her added, throwing her hands enthusiastically up.

Ayile recognized her voice, far too chipper for how close she lingered to violence. She was the one who'd threatened her back on the plaza, whose finger was never far from the trigger. Now after a short struggle to free herself from her helmet, she revealed herself to be young, sharp-featured, and with an excited grin wired between the corners of her mouth. In the blinking onboard lights, her eyes glinted deep, hungry pink, and if the Seer had not known better, she'd call it not just manic, but almost demonic. The girl—the woman—did not look the part of a zealot, at least not a mon'keigh one. The cheerful killer's grin she wore without a hint of shame reminded Ayile rather of the Asuryani's dark and cruel cousins.

"Canoness," she chirped, "beloved of the Emperor! He finally gave you what you were praying for all those years!"

She giggled; when no one shared her laughter, she scowled exaggeratedly and shook her in equally mock disappointment.

"Clarissa's right," the heavy gunner continued, staring intently at the woman to Ayile's left—the leader of the bunch. "You know I'd walk into the Eye of Terror for you, sister. But this?" she indicated Ayile with a nod. "Do you really need payback for T—"

"Maria, enough."

The words were quiet, and yet bore down with all the weight of an avalanche. They cut through Maria's speech like a knife, leaving only the roar of the engine in their wake. But it was not the leader who silenced her subordinate thus, but rather the woman to Ayile's right. There was ice in her eyes, and ice in her poise; she watched her sisters from an aloof height, the one among them whose face bore no sign of war's cruelty. No scars blemished her skin, and neither was it marked by age. She seemed torn out of the flow of time, perfect in every detail as if sculpted by a master's hand. Even for a mon'keigh, her beauty stunned, and Ayile could not help but to feel a pang of shame at the notion that she could feel so about a brutish human. Instead, she tried not to gawk. Too hard.

"Yes, sister," Maria mumbled, turning shamefully away. "It was wrong of me to bring it up."

The awkward silence that followed thankfully did not last long, and it was Clarissa who broke it, no less giddy than before.

"Wait, what?" she blinked rapidly. "Theodora, what's your pro—oh. Ohhhhh. That thing!"

This prompted another burst of laughter, this time loud enough to for a moment drown the engine's roar.

"And here I was thinking it was about the Canoness wanting a xeno plaything to bully around!"

"Clarissa!" Maria hissed, and Ayile could not tell if it was a trick of light, or if the heavy gunner's cheeks flushed red.

"Fine, fine," the girl raised her hands in an apologetic, if insincere, gesture. She spoke rapidly, spitting out words as if hurrying before being cut off again. "I didn't say anything. Twelve martyrs of Sepulchia V and their agonizing wounds be my witness, I didn't say anything. No improper thoughts in my mind, no ma'am. Just, you know what they say, once Repentia Superior, always Repentia Superior."

"Him on Terra blesses every moment you keep your poxed trap shut, Clarissa," the helmeted woman next to her muttered. "And we'll all need those blessings now, and more, so shut the fuck up."

Ayile recognized the voice—it was the one who referred to her as her when her fate was being discussed. As before, she sounded surly and tired, so much unlike her sisters.

"I stand by what I have said."

All heads turned at those words, facing the woman on Ayile's left. Their leader. The master of the captive Seer's life. The one apparently called Fausta. She took a long pause after speaking, slowly, almost tenderly removing her helmet and placing it across her lap with a low sigh.

If all her sisters seemed remarkable in one way or another, Fausta made a plain impression by comparison. Stripped of her arms, she would have the look of a middle aged mother, worn down by more than just the passage of time. If anything, this alone set her apart; there was an old burden impressed deep in her features, one that Fausta made little effort to hide from others. Perhaps once she could have been conventionally pretty one way or another, but all that had been weathered into a face of that spoke to exhaustion and determination in equal measure. She looked around with suspicion, crow's feet twitching as she surveyed the world around—and somehow, Ayile had no doubt that this was not a mark of paranoia, but another scar, left by years and years of uneasy sleep.

"Blessed is the mind too small for doubt, sisters," she continued, quietly confident. "We are all witnesses to a miracle, and our duty is to accept it for what it is. Our thoughts may betray us, but never our faith."

A warm smile emerged on her face, and for a moment, it made her a strangely pleasant sign; there was something caring in it, something that invited trust.

"So have faith, sisters. The light of the Golden Throne shall guide us through whatever storm that rages ahead. Above all, I ask you, please. Have faith."

Her sisters did not respond with words—just arms crossed in reverence across their chests. Only the helmented, foul-mouthed one did not join in, refusing to let Ayile be un-aimed-at for even a moment.

"The Emperor protects, I suppose," Maria murmured, chewing on her lip. "So, how do we handle the witch? I doubt they'll have any torpor on hand, or psi-mufflers? Do we just keep Minoria pointed at her all the time?"

"We will figure something out," Theodora shrugged. "There are always ways of forcing compliance."

The conversation died down afterwards, and for a time, the vehicle rocked on in silence. Once again, Ayile tried to turn away from the world, and see into her own thoughts, but they were still in a roil. Whenever she closed her eyes, faces of her captors swam before her, followed by images of cruelties that the mon'keigh were well known for. It did not help she could barely move on her seat, squashed between two armored bodies, and was painfully aware of how even a single unnecessary twitch could end up with that one named Minoria painting the inside of the vehicle with Aeldari blood. Her head hung down, not in submission, but its own kind of fatigue. Uninvited feelings swarmed her thoughts. She missed Tael. She missed Maesha. Her memories raced to the crystal domes of her Craftworld, images of beauty poisoned by that awful certainty she was never going to see them again. Once more, she felt something rise up in her throat; once more, she made every effort to keep it down.

Gravel crunched under the wheels; the engine died down with a painful whine. A few breaths of fresh air helped Ayile feel better, wiping away the awful stench of mon'keigh machinery. As before, the sisters—Maria and Clarissa—carried her out, barely letting her feet scrape the ground of the sun-soaked courtyard outside. Still, it was perhaps the most pleasant sight the Seer could have hoped for. The smell of summer flowers and freshly mown grass filled the air around her, and lush greenery reached from the sides of overgrown paths, so much more lively and vibrant than anything human she had seen before. Ahead, a wide, squat building waited, its brick facade cracked and lashed with creeping vines. In many ways, it was not much different in build than the shrine she had her cadre made their stand in, only more modest and marked less by piety than generations of careful habitation. A hunched priest in burgundy robes rested in the sun on a bench by the door, jumping up in elation at the sight of their arrival.

"Canoness!" he exclaimed, his elderly face filled with wonder. "Blessed be Him on Terra, and the riches He delivers unto His faithful! Blessed be His miracle!"

"Blessed be, father," Fausta replied softly. "Truly, blessed be."

The priest's eyes glided over the captive Aeldar, before returning to the Canoness. If Ayile did not know better about humans and their faith, she would describe him as kindly.

"The Governor, and Cardinal vi Blano are asking for an audience," he muttered, "and here, too. Not the palaces! Such a great honour for our little congregation."

"Of course they are," Maria grunted, shaking the Seer in frustration.

The priest wagged his crooked finger at her.

"Youth's folly is no cause to disrespect His most faithful servants, sister," he announced, but with good cheer, not reproach. "Onerous as our tasks may be, we should greet them with gratitude and grace."

"Well said, father," Fausta gave him another of her warm smiles. "Please relay to the honoured guests that we will see them in the shrine as soon as we are no longer girt for battle, so that we can thank the Emperor together for the miracle."

"It will be done, Canoness," he nodded eagerly. "Sainthood is the talk of the city. Truly, we are blessed. Do you wish for a suitable supper to be prepared in the refectory afterwards?"

"Yes, but keep it modest. Indulgence is a fool's way to celebrate grace."

The elderly priest's smile widened at the words.

"Saint Ferventius' wisdom ought to be a compass for us all," he agreed. "And the mighty of the world would do well to be reminded of it. I will instruct the kitchens."

He turned to leave, but not before giving Ayile a long look. The Seer tried to meet his eyes, but he avoided looking into hers, with what could just as well be shame as revulsion flashing through his face.

Only after the sound of his staff clicking on gravel died down did Fausta allow herself to loosen up slightly, letting her sisters see just how tired she was. Briefly, she glanced at Theodora, hand twitching as if wishing to reach out. She did not, and yet there had to be something in the gesture or the glance that worked, and the image of vulnerability vanished as soon as it appeared, replaced by a fresh coat of tired resolve.

"Minoria," she ordered, "grab the xeno and take it to the crypts. Don't let it out of your sights, and if it tries anything, shoot out its knee. After we're done with those pompous bores, I'll relieve you and…"

A gauntleted hand closed itself around Ayile's chin, lifting it up ever so slightly—just so that the Seer could see the Canoness' thin mouth twisting into a predatory smile.

"...and make sure it understands what its life means from now on."

 

[bookwyrm]

Ironically the Seer's novitiate as a Sister Repentia in terms of the novitiate part and not the "constantly threatened with death as Xenos scum" part, is not sooo very different than say learning the Path of the Warrior in the Aspect of the Howling Banshee, both in terms of practical role on the battlefield as whirling dervishes of blades charging gun lines without hesitation, and in terms of the theological niche representing the fateful doom of divine retribution, blood-sacrifices dedicated to gods of death and war, appropriately channeled so as to seek enlightenment and absolution on the other side.

 

[Gargulec]

Ironically the Seer's novitiate as a Sister Repentia in terms of the novitiate part and not the "constantly threatened with death as Xenos scum" part, is not sooo very different than say learning the Path of the Warrior in the Aspect of the Howling Banshee, both in terms of practical role on the battlefield as whirling dervishes of blades charging gun lines without hesitation, and in terms of the theological niche representing the fateful doom of divine retribution, blood-sacrifices dedicated to gods of death and war, appropriately channeled so as to seek enlightenment and absolution on the other side.

Click to shrink...

I would note that Fausta calling Ayile "repentia" is not meant to literally mean she's getting induced as a Sister Repentia. There is not enough theology in the galaxy to carry weight for this kind of sacrilege - and Fausta already really pushed it with what she did. It does, however, mean that she will reach for the imagery and ideas associated with her past as a Repentia Superior when dealing with the captive Seer.

 

[ptbptb]

So, did the 12 spear soldiers get to leave in the end?

 

[Elero]

So, did the 12 spear soldiers get to leave in the end?

Click to shrink...

They slipped away during the miracle celebration.

 

[ancusohm]

I keep expecting an Inquisitor or someone like that to swoop in at any moment and demand they hand over the seer. But the Imperium isn't nearly efficient enough for that.

 

[Gargulec]

I keep expecting an Inquisitor or someone like that to swoop in at any moment and demand they hand over the seer. But the Imperium isn't nearly efficient enough for that.

Click to shrink...

That last one I think was perfectly balanced between being either some really twisted bastard of an Inquisitor or some really twisted bastard Chaos Sorcerer, I really honestly can't tell which

Click to shrink...

Hmm.

 

[Gargulec]

V. Grace

For the first time in hours, Ayile was permitted onto her own two feet—with a barrel of a hideous gun pressed between her shoulder blades to keep her steady. And though she doubted that her captors were a humourous sort, she could not miss the irony of being allowed to walk only to be made to descend among the corpses.

Water condensed on the weathered stone below; water dripped from the cracks in the ceiling. The taste of dust, mould, and ancient rot clung in the air almost too thick to breathe. But worse still were the bones; rows upon rows of niches carved into the walls, each housing another pile of bleached remains. In the dull blue light of electric lamps crudely installed above, generations of human skulls grinned at Ayile, as if she had not yet been sufficiently reminded of the short-lived race's urge to put its own mortality on display. But they surrounded themselves with so much of this vile imagery that the Seer could no longer tell if such sights could even move them anymore. Certainly not her captor, who marched between the grisly mementos head forward, paying them as much attention as one would to refuse strewn alongside the edge of a street. Another cold shudder shot through Ayile, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, to keep away the chill. It was one thing to know human savagery from the battlefield; another to recognize it applied to their own kind. It froze her, all the way to the bone.

How little did this morbid ossuary have in common with the serenity of the Infinity Circuit, that final resting place for spirit stones and the souls contained within! She tried to hold the memories of the jewel-studded spires of the Circuit's heart-chambers in her mind, and of the prayers that filled them with the mellifluous melodies of Aeldari voices. Would she ever return to see them again, or at least be returned to rest within them, at the end of her days?

As if in an answer to her question, a distant music reached down to her from the above, the calling of her brothers and sisters so wonderfully familiar and refreshing. She stumbled on a cracked stone and almost fell, intoxicated by the thought of her kin speaking to her again. For a split-second hope blossomed in her heart, hope that the news of her capture reached the Autarch above, and that the warhost of Morag-Sul would not leave one of their own behind.

Hope, however, was not for those doomed to the underworld.

Farewell, the voices sung, laden with grief, farewell. You have bought us victory. We will sing of your sacrifice to the stars. For an aeon to come, we will weep for your loss. Farewell, sister. Farewell.

The world made a half-spin before her eyes, and she yelped, hope yanked from her hands before she could even savour its bittersweet taste. No, of course, there would be no heroic rescue. No Autarch would risk so much for the life of a single, young Seer—a young Seer who had sacrificed herself, and bravely walked into cruel human hands. Feeling a wail or a howl rise up in her throat, she slid off her feet, barely managing to catch onto the edge of a stone niche to keep herself from falling all the way down. Behind, her captor uttered some question or a command, but Ayile could not hear her.

Farewell. We will remember you. Farewell.

The song dissipated, the echoes in her mind fading into nothing as her kin sailed away, carried by the invisible currents of the void. Thrown around by instinct, she hurried back up, as if climbing to her feet would bring her closer to the disappearing song. For a terrible moment, she waited for it to return and fill with music that new and awful solitude that opened like a wound in the flesh of her soul.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Her captor stood above her, a brutish shape clamorous with the sharp-edged human speech. Ayile did not want to hear it; did not want to allow its discordant notes to wipe away the dregs of her kin's song she held onto so desperately.

"Can you fucking keep walking?"

A nudge from a human gun brought her brutally back to here and now, where all there was to hear was the steady dripping of water and the mechanical breath of her captor's bulky armour. With a brief surge of defiance, she turned to face her, meeting her faceless stare with silent contempt. She expected anger to follow, or perhaps even violence. However, the human merely gave her a disinterested shrug.

"Fine," she muttered. "Might as well take a bloody break. I need a smoke, anyway."

The woman let go of her weapon, allowing it to hang loosely off its sling, and reached to free herself from the helmet, the armour's seal hissing loudly as she pulled it down. To Ayile's revolted horror, she then dropped it into a nearby niche, right among withered bones.

Minoria, if that was her name, did not make a pleasant sight, not compared to her sisters. In truth, she looked little like any woman of her race that the Seer had had the misfortune of seeing. With her head shaven to the last hair and skin pulled too taut over sharp bones, there was something almost Drukhari to her—if not for the knotted scar running diagonally from her brow to the jaw, marks left by crude stitching twisting like a parasite ready to burst with every little motion of her face. No scion of the Dark City would allow something so disfiguring; it marked Minoria so very, painfully human.

"Charming, ain't I?" she noticed Ayile gawking, and gave her a wide, mirthless smile. "Clarissa calls it my resting puke-your-guts-out face."

The Seer clenched her teeth, again saying nothing. Instead, she fixed her eyes on Minoria's weapon, which for once was not pointed directly at her. Just like its wielder, years of bumps and scratches had disfigured its once-richly ornamented surfaces into a mess of ugly metal. There could be no doubt that the use the gun had seen was heavy, and not particularly tender.

The woman lost any interest in the Seer. Her focus was on the many pouches on hip she kept picking through until finally she found a battered box of slender paper cylinders. Vaguely, Ayile recalled that they were called "lho sticks": they were some kind of a drug that humans sometimes indulged in. She had never seen one in use, however, and so could not restrain some measure of abject curiosity as Minoria ignited the tip of a cylinder and put it to her lips, drawing in a lungful of malodorous smoke, before puffing it out towards the ceiling. Whatever it was that it did to her, it seemed to work quickly. Something relaxed in her stance, and she slid down into a crouch, her bulky gun tossed aside.

Ayile tensed. If the woman truly was drugging herself out, abandoning caution, maybe this made for a chance. She squinted at the discarded weapon, and tried to imperceptibly shift closer towards the crouching human. Whether she wore a battle mask or not, her old training still remained pressed into her flesh and muscles. She would always be faster than a mon'keigh, especially one so careless and inattentive.

"Don't be a retard, girlie," Miniria puffed a ring of smoke in Ayile's direction.

The Aeldar froze mid-motion. She looked away from the gun to meet another of the disfigured woman's ugly smiles.

"You bolt me and then what?" the human asked, in the same tone one might ask about the weather, or her plans for the evening. "Go on the fucking lam? Good luck escaping home with every shithead on the planet looking forward to nailing you, in Him on Terra's name."

She half-laughed, half-coughed, and shook ash off the tip of her lho-stick, right into the hollow cavity of some venerable ribcage.

"Besides," she continued, "no offense, girlie, but with those stick arms of yours you'd shit yourself before lifting a Sorioritas bolter. Really, should have thought of going for the knife instead," she patted the massive blade sheathed at her thigh. "Better odds. Not that I'd bet my lousy life on them, though."

Ayile deflated, the wave of anger drawing away and once again allowing desperation to ebb. As loathsome as it was to admit, her captor was right. She could, maybe, kill her here—but that would not affect an escape, only lead her down towards an even darker fate. Her kinsmen had left, and the Imperium's zealots were the masters of her fate. If she wanted to survive—and she wanted to, so fervently, so feverishly—she should know better than to provoke them, for they were cruel and quick to violence. She hung her head and, after a moment of hesitation, followed Minoria into a crouch. The cold, damp stones pressed into her back; the crypt sapped what little warmth remained in her body. She huddled herself tighter, trying to pull her shredded robe closer together.

Minoria finished her lho, and immediately reached for another. There was something odd in the stray glances she would throw Ayile from above the little, flaring ember. It was as if, for all of her idle talk of violence, the woman's face was entirely free of that deep-set hostility that her sisters had beheld the Child of Asuryan with. She looked at her without malice, and perhaps with a hint of idle curiosity. Maybe that was what made Ayile compare her to the Drukhari. The Dark Aeldar were known to fake kindness to their prisoners, to give them false hope—and ultimately, to see them not as enemies, but playthings, not deserving even of spite.

After the second lho was done and its butt deposited in the empty eye-socket of some long-deceased monk, Minoria again reached for her spacious supplies. This time, her gauntleted hands closed on a rectangular bar wrapped in drab, oily paper. The Sorioritas squinted at the fine writing running alongside its edge, before tearing the package open to reveal a dense, damp brick. A cloyingly sweet stench quickly filled the crypt, but it hardly discouraged Minoria. She took a bite off the bar, chewed on it loudly, and then tore a larger piece and extended it towards Ayile.

The Aeldar blinked at the offered food, her face pulled in an expression of surprise and revulsion. What was this human doing, trying to make her sample their disgusting food? Again, she remembered hearing that the Imperium would feed its soldiers mulched carcasses of their own brethren; her eyes darted to the exposed bones around, and then to the greasy block in Minoria's hand.

"Keep your corpse waste to yourself, mon'keigh," she hissed in what she hoped was a sufficiently cold tone.

Once again, Minoria refused to acknowledge the dismissal. She did not withdraw her offering, but only groaned very loudly, her eyes rolling up all the way to the ceiling in an expression of utter exasperation. When she spoke again, it was in the dry tone of a veteran tired of having to explain the simplest things.

"First of all, this is no poxing corpse starch, but quality Sorioritas grub," she shook her head. "And second, what's your fucking problem, girlie?"

Ayile shot her another of her defiant looks, which proved as ineffectual as the ones before.

"Don't you get it? You're in shit all the way up to your nostrils. Odds are they'll torture you to death tomorrow, fuck knows. And fuck knows when you will get to eat again. If ever."

Some strange feeling budded in the parts of Ayile that she had been trying very hard to ignore. The crypt was cold and wet; she was freezing and hurting in so many small ways; she had spent the last few hours definitely swallowing tears and now her stomach was twisted into a knot of snot and nausea. So yes, she was hungry. She had not given it any thought before, but she could not ignore it anymore. Not after being forcibly reminded of the fact.

"They can take your life, you know," Minoria chuckled dryly, "but not what you've digested. Come on. Eat. Stop being a retard."

The few moments that followed hurt in the sublime way only broken pride can. Ayile picked the greasy lump from the Sorioritas' hand, tore a bit of it and started to chew, the taste both disgustingly sweet and cruelly pleasing to her exhausted body. Her fingers stained brown, as did what little remained of the hems of her robe. Still, she ate. At a human's mercy, she ate. And as if to spite her, there was no denying that it did make her feel better, along with a gulp of water from Minoria's canteen. It was hard to imagine all those gestures as anything but kindness, and Ayile bit down on the question why? Was it a human trick? She was not a mongrel dog that could be won over with a single treat.

Pointedly, she turned away, ready to reject any and all poisoned gifts that her captor would offer her next.

"Emperor on His shitty Throne, you really are that stupidly proud?" Minoria raised an eyebrow at Ayile's sullen silence. "And they keep bitching at us that we have nothing in common with the xeno scum."

The woman whistled out a long sigh. The Seer merely licked her lips clean, and then pulled herself closer in. Now that there was food in her stomach, so foreign and heavy, fresh waves of nausea started to rock her, sickness alternating with damp chill. She could feel herself begin to shake, even as she tried to conserve whatever left of her warmth. Every time she tried to assemble what was left of her pride, she found it falling apart in her hands; a disgusting wish went through her that the human would notice her cold and she did her hunger. Even worse: she did. She met the clattering of the Aeldar's teeth with another groan.

"Warped moron," she muttered, reaching for the ornate pins fastening her cloak to her armor.

Moments later, Ayile felt armoured hands skid over her body again, wrapping her in the thick fabric of the Sorioritas cape. Her body was tiny compared to those armoured hulks; there was cloth enough for the cloak to serve as a blanket, and Minoria saw that she was securely swaddled. With the coarse touch of warmth on her skin, the Seer found that she no longer even had it in her to resist the touch, and besides, Minoria's hands, even covered in ceramite and rubber, turned out strangely tender, again so little like her sisters. She finished wrapping Ayile up, but did not immediately withdraw. Instead, she ran the flat of her hand across the edge of the Aeldar's shoulder, as if looking for something there. Whatever it was, she did not find it, and when she spoke again, her voice changed.

"You don't have any scars, do you?" she asked, standing back. The irreverence with which she'd spoke before vanished, replaced by something else, something that Ayile could not recognize. "I couldn't feel any."

The Seer looked up to face her captor, too fatigued to respond. She had eaten; she had been given a measure of warmth. Her body felt weak now, weightless, almost incorporeal but for the occasional pangs of sickness. Minoria looked into her face, and seemingly saw in it whatever answer that she was searching for. It made her quiet for a long while, and statue-still. Only her scar twitched in tune with whatever thoughts occupied her mind.

"It's okay to cry, you know?" she finally rasped out.

Everything Ayile had been keeping down rose again, and for a moment she thought her throat might burst. But she swallowed it back. She had promised herself to not give her captors the satisfaction. Not even the kindly ones.

"Why would I?" she asked instead, trying to sound defiant.

Minoria crouched again, leaning forward so that her eyes were level with Ayile's. It was only then that the Seer fully recognized the change in her; it was that tired shite glistening at the bottom of her captor's spirit, buried under layers of scar tissue, but still present. Whatever she was talking about was her life too, and what she could offer to Ayile was not idle kindness, but sympathy borne out of old sorrow and a perverse sense of shared fate.

"Because, baby, they… we are going to hurt you," she whispered. "We will hurt you bad. We are good at it. We will break you. And you are not ready for any of it. So I'd cry, if I were you. Feel sorry about yourself a bit."

Underneath the thick haze of exhaustion and fear, Ayile's old Asuryani anger flashed again. She squinted, memories of her time in the shrine of the Howling Banshees returning to her. She had been through fire and flame; she had carried Khaine's bloody work upon dozens of battlefields. She knew pain. She knew hurt. She would not be condescended to, not by some sentimental human brute!

"How dare you assume…" she started, only to be immediately hushed.

"Shh," Minoria whispered, finger to her lips. "Shut the fuck up, and listen to your older sister."

"What?"

Once more, Minoria shrugged and just pointed at her scar, as if that explained everything. Afterwards, she reached for another lho, and did not speak further, allowing Ayile to slide into a shallow and restless slumber.

 

[azatol]

Interesting. Now I want to more about Minoria. Great characterization.

 

[ancusohm]

So, there is (in my opinion) a very low chance that Minoria was faking all that as some kind of elaborate mindgame. I think she probably genuinely feels some pitty for the Eldar, maybe even seeing her as the equivalent of a Fucking New Gal.

Interesting. That's not at all the sort of thing I'd expect from a Sororitas. But I suppose any job can become just a job after a while.

Come to think of it, I imagine a lot of non-devout women become Sororitas just for a chance at a /relatively/ better life. Like Minoria said, they get better food.

 

[Gargulec]

Come to think of it, I imagine a lot of non-devout women become Sororitas just for a chance at a /relatively/ better life. Like Minoria said, they get better food.

Click to shrink...

This is an understanding I am working from. Assuming that the Progena have any choice in their careera, one would assume that at least some of the girls pick Sororitas for reasons other than overwhelming piety amd desire to save the Emperor. Which does nkt mean theh avoid indoctrination later, but that is another thing.

 

[The Laurent]

This is an understanding I am working from. Assuming that the Progena have any choice in their careera, one would assume that at least some of the girls pick Sororitas for reasons other than overwhelming piety amd desire to save the Emperor. Which does nkt mean theh avoid indoctrination later, but that is another thing.

Click to shrink...

Recruiting all the butch girls, huh?

"Man you're good at Scrumball, ever thought of being a Sororitas?"

 

[Gargulec]

Recruiting all the butch girls, huh?

"Man you're good at Scrumball, ever thought of being a Sororitas?"

Click to shrink...

Honestly, I imagine that the hardest butch contigent ends up going more for Tempestum, rather that the femme-coded decree passive of the Sisters of Battle.

Then again, Minoria is a different case, somewhat. She was not always the way she is, after all.

 

[thePUNisher]

Come to think of it, I imagine a lot of non-devout women become Sororitas just for a chance at a /relatively/ better life. Like Minoria said, they get better food.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, like it is kinda of a loaded gamble, but that's every single career choice in the Imperium that isn't "born a high-ranking noble."

 

[Alex]

I thought sororitas were chosen from the most zealous girls amongst the schola progenium? Was that retconned or just shown not always to he the case in one of the newer books or codexes?

 

[Gargulec]

I thought sororitas were chosen from the most zealous girls amongst the schola progenium? Was that retconned or just shown not always to he the case in one of the newer books or codexes?

Click to shrink...

My personal take is that while this may be the theory, it is also a system people can effectively game. The Imperium and its institutions is simply too large and afflicted by too much institutional rot and inefficiency (not to mention the crosspurposes various institutions operate on) to be able to accurately and effectively enforce such high-minded principles.

In other rules the facts on data-slates and facts on the ground don't always align.

 

[The Laurent]

My personal take is that while this may be the theory, it is also a system people can effectively game. The Imperium and its institutions is simply too large and afflicted by too much institutional rot and inefficiency (not to mention the crosspurposes various institutions operate on) to be able to accurately and effectively enforce such high-minded principles.

In other rules the facts on data-slates and facts on the ground don't always align.

Click to shrink...

Also, how exactly are you knowing for sure that anyone really is pious? Plenty of people have pretended to be pious to get ahead, it happens all the damn time in real life.

 

[Gargulec]

VI. Cracks

The meeting with planetary officials and the supper that followed proved no less miserable than Fausta expected. For once, however, it was not Theobald Masarin who was to blame. The governor, Emperor bless his simple soul, was entirely star-struck by the news of a miracle of the faith. There were no more demands from him, or obnoxious questions, merely litanies of grace and praise which, however monotonous, were a marked improvement over the usual state of affairs. No: it was the venerable cardinal vi Blano who, in an unpleasant surprise, turned out to be the Dialogus' scourge.

Ascetically thin, with a hooked nose and lively eyes, vi Blano was nothing like those countless corpulent priests populating positions of power within the Ecclesiarchy, owing their status more to the depth of their family coffers than their piety or knowledge of the scriptures. No, vi Blano was a confessor of the faith through and through. Years as a street preacher had shaped him into a man of ardent zeal, always on the lookout to correct mistakes of human weakness and lapses of faith—even within his well-earned retirement at the heights of the Ministorum's hierarchy. The miracle had piqued his curiosity and suspicions both, which in practical terms meant that what began as a seemingly innocent question about the nature of xeno souls soon turned to a veritable doctrinal interrogation.

Never in her life had Fausta been that thankful for the remedial theological education her Order had given her. For every canon of an obscure council cited by vi Blano, she had an equally esoteric piece of scripture to offer as a counter.

"It is unambiguous, however," vi Blano would say, reaching for the bread to dip in fragrant red sauce, "that the Fathers of Ferron II taught us that no xeno should be left alive under the Emperor's sky."

"That is true," Fausta would reply, with a false smile and overly honeyed voice, "but the Synod of Cloisters later clarified that a xeno bowed to the Imperial Faith is as if dead to his perfidy."

On and on it went, for what felt like hours. Ultimately, however, the cardinal inclined his head, praised Saint Lucretia for her intercession, and gave up on trying to pin blasphemy on Fausta. The Dialogus was allowed to enjoy what little remained of her supper in relative peace, even if, by that point, she no longer felt like the hero of the day, but rather a woman miraculously acquitted before a tribunal of the holy Inquisition.

Soon thereafter, the last grace was said, and surrounded by a whirlwind of farewell and well-wishes, Fausta finally relaxed, if only slightly. The day was close to done, and the last task ahead of her before she could pray and head to warm sleep would—should—not be as onerous as those that had come before. In fact, a part of her, long dormant, was looking forward to it, even as the rest of her, too long awake, yearned for nothing but rest.

She gave her blessings to the governor and promised to exchange letters with the cardinal. Her sisters, save for the ever-prim Theodora, had long since left the meal, and now all that was left for Fausta was to wait for the refectory to empty. Only when no more prying eyes remained did she shift towards Theodra and did what she had been so badly looking forward to all day long.

With a soft smile, Theodora allowed herself to be pulled into a side-room, and made sure to shut the door behind them so that no one would see her sister's moment of weakness. No such caution, however, remained for Fausta. She pushed her head into the taller woman's bosom, arms wrapped tightly behind her back. Frustration dissolved in the familiar warmth of a beloved body, and the slender fingers picking through her hair offered comfort.

"Those idiots," she moaned, her eyes shut. "Everywhere I go, idiots, zealots, and Ecclesiarchs."

"There, there," Theodora purred, one hand on Fausta's head, the other pulling her closer.

Clinging onto her beloved sister, demanding warmth and reassurance, Fausta always felt a bit silly. Such affections were befitting of clueless Progena, not veterans like her or Theodora. But not even she could ever fully shake the follies of youth, and as years went on and the weight of the galaxy bore heavier on her shoulders, she found herself needing them more than ever. Theodora, meanwhile, for reasons Fausta could never fully divine—love seemed too trite of an explanation—continued to be happy to oblige.

When the time was right, the Dialogus pulled herself free of the hug and shook the warmth away from her thoughts. She still had the captive to handle, and whether Fausta was growing sappy with age or not, she could not deny what Clarissa said: she still had in her the desires that had once made her a Repentia Superior.

"Go have your fun, love. I'll handle the rest," Theodora whispered with only the faintest hint of bemused reproach. "The Emperor knows you deserve it."

As usual, this was easier said than done. For all the spirit was eager, Fausta's flesh turned weary, less concerned with punishing the xeno and more with hoping that no alarm sirens would rip it off the bed in the small hours of the morning. Such weakness, however, could be remedied, and by the time Fausta made her way to the guest house she and her retinue were hosted in, the cure was already waiting for her: a jug of steaming hot, tar-black recaf.

"Praise be His kindly name," she muttered, pouring herself generously.

"Praise Theo, too," Clarissa replied from the couch she was sprawled on. "She sent it here."

Judging by the uncorked hip-flask by the young Soriorita's cup, and the strong smell of amasec wafting about, recaf alone had not been not enough for the tired Battle Sister. On most other days, Fausta would feel obliged to at least throw her a judgemental stare. Today, however, she simply dropped into a luxuriously padded chair, shamefully thankful that the guest house was built with the needs of corpulent Ecclesiarchs in mind, and allowed herself to savour the invigorating, herbal warmth of the drink.

"Maria's at the vox station," Clarissa added, mixing more booze into her next cup. "Contacting the shipmaster. Apparently they're almost done with the repairs?"

Fausta made the sign of the Aquila. Between Theo, recaf and the news, the evening was finally starting to turn bearable. Perhaps soon they would be able to leave this miserable planet, and get on their way to, to be honest, a region of space likely to be just as lousy as the Athanagoras system, if not outright worse. But it would at least be different, and far less likely to involve uninvited Aeldar raids.

"What about Minoria? And the witch?"

"We're right fucking here, you know!" the foul-mouthed sister shouted through half-opened doors to one of the sleeping rooms.

Clarissa smiled one of her manic grins, only mildly softened by exhaustion, and returned to the crumpled book she had been reading before. Judging by the garish cover, it had to be one of those pulpy romances she so enjoyed, and which were decidedly not the kind of literature a Sororita should enjoy. It was one of her countless indulgences that proved impossible to eradicate—as attested by countless disappointed Schola Progenium teachers, Sisters Superior, and a particularly insistent (then particularly heartbroken) itinerant confessor. Once, Fausta would have tried to beat such habits out of her with a neural whip and a sermon on modesty; but she had put those days far behind her.

Mostly, at least. The Dialogus ran her fingers over the lace-work hem of her robe, its delicate silver threading shimmering in the low light. It was neither a desire for luxury nor empty vanity that drove her Order to provide such fine vestments for its Canoness, but the need to maintain decorum, and remind all who looked upon her of the glory that she was representing. Still, it was hard not to enjoy the feel of genuine silk upon her skin, or the envy with which lesser men looked at such displays of wealth and power. Lesser men, and lesser creatures. Perhaps it was not the simple black robe of a Repentia Superior that alone would bring penitents to tearful contrition, but it still should be enough to let the xeno wretch understand what Fausta was to it: everything.

She finished her recaf, and got up. The toils of the day faded from her thoughts, replaced by a budding, and very particular kind of excitement that she had not tasted in a long and bitter time.

Of course, Minoria, as was her wont, had decided to immediately throw a wrench in Fausta's plans. The Dialogus expected to find the xeno on its knees, with a gun to its head and spirit already cracked. Instead, her former charge had decided to yield to the witch a soft chair in the corner of her room, and apparently wrap it tightly in the sanctified cloth of the Order of the Sacred Rose's black cloak, so that it could catch a warm and comfortable nap. The moment she crossed the threshold, Fausta ground to a halt, and glared first at the sleeping xeno, then at Minoria who, instead of keeping the witch under constant threat of death, was currently slouching on her bed, reeking of lho smoke and unwashed flesh. She had not even deigned to change from the sweat-soaked under-armour body-glove.

"Sister," Fausta said, crossing her arms on her chest.

"Sister superior," Minoria replied, stretching like a hairless cat. Years and years on, and the only thing that had changed in the way she addressed Fausta was that she no longer pretended to respect the title.

Times like this, the Dialogus missed the contents of that old, sealed crate buried deep in her luggage; the one that contained so much of her buried past, neural whip included. It was not that she did not trust Minoria—they'd spilled enough blood together to be beyond such petty suspicions—but ever so often the urge to remind the undisciplined sister of what subordination should look like would return, and in force.

"Why is the xeno wretch desecrating the holy vestments of your order?" she asked, in a purposefully neutral tone.

"Oh, so that shit's sacred too?" Minoria shrugged her signature shrug. At least she pulled herself up so that Fausta did not have to talk to someone looking half-asleep. "Look, that girlie was very cold, what was I supposed to fucking do? Run and get a blanket? You told me not to—"

"Sister," Fausta cut in, exhaling to level off her frustration. "We will discuss your behaviour later. Now leave. And shower."

The anger vanished as soon as the doors closed behind Minoria, as if it had never been there. The years went on, and Fausta still struggled to get used to just how deep her well of gratitude ran towards that filthy excuse of a Sororita.

"Gild not adamantine," she murmured through a mild frown, seeking succor in the words of an old saint, "seek piety in deeds, not words."

Still, she struggled to imagine how even the pious and loving Saint Cynor could recognize piety in Minoria's actions; but then again, perhaps that was her shortcoming, not his. After all, he was a saint of the faith, and Fausta merely a woman plagued by too many doubts. She bit her lip; this was no time for such thoughts, and she would soothe them with prayer later, anyway. Until then, she had her duty to do. And though her sister had interfered with her plans, her undue—and frankly unusual—soft-heartedness did provide a new approach. It really was true that the Emperor's blessings needed not to come from worthy hands.

She gave herself a moment to give the sleeping Aeldar a closer look, and once satisfied with what she saw, she grabbed at the edge of Minoria's cloak and pulled hard enough to throw the witch out of its dreams and up into the air.

Of course, Fausta did not let it fall all the way down. Before the xeno could fully realize what was happening to it, she snatched a handful of its tattered robe, the other hand shooting forward to force the opening mouth closed and stifle the yelp already forming on its lips.

"Quiet," Fausta hissed, squeezing the jaw ever so slightly—just so that it would get a feel of what those hands could do to the fragile Aeldar bones.

So joyously pliant in its half-awake haze, it let itself be guided down from the chair, and right onto its knees. Fausta let go of the robe, and of the head—but not before forcibly pulling it down. Unfortunately, the witch was coming to its senses already. Promptly, it forgot its place, eyes springing back up to stare right into the Dialogus' face the moment her hand drew back.

A vicious kind of mirth stirred somewhere deep in Fausta, like a memory of sweet times gone by; sweet times she had not even realized how much she missed. The Aeldar was already giving her reasons to be harsh of hands; for that alone, she should thank it. What joy could there be in breaking that which offered no resistance?

But the memories did not come alone. Swiftly, she remembered why she was loath to entertain them; to allow them into her mind dredged more than just the pleasures she so missed, but also other images, and other words. Sister Fausta, the voice of a stately Sister Superior whose hair had long gone gray with age reminded her, you mistake means for ends. The purpose of pain is the purgation of a penitent soul, not satisfaction of…

She did not notice when her hands balled into fists, but the feel of her nails digging into the flesh was enough to snap her out of that particular haunting. Her new charge was kneeling in front of her, staring in confusion and defiance—qualities which would have to be burned out of its xeno soul.

"You will listen to me now," she said, drawing out of herself a cold, sharp voice she had been so used to, and which she had once left behind.

The witch did not react; sleep and warmth had restored to it some of its composure. It kept quiet, at least, but less out of compliance, and more out of pride. That, too, would have to be broken in it—and if Fausta's expectations were correct, more than once. She relished the notion.

"By the divine laws of the Imperium, you should be dead," she continued.

The mention of death elicited something—a minor twitch, a short downcast glance. Fausta recognized the signs of fear concealed under a layer of false bravery, and smiled at them.

"But a saint interceded to spare you, and so you are allowed to breathe. Know it is a miracle, and miracles do not come free. Saint Lucretia saved you, and that means that your life is now hers, and will be lived as hers was: in chains."

"I understand that, human," the witch spoke, its voice as cool and collected as Fausta's was.

In an abstract, it was impressive how little it needed to regain such resolve. To display it, however, was a serious mistake.

The Aeldar were quicker than humans, both in motion as well as in perception, so it probably saw the blow before it struck. But it was on its knees, unprepared to act, and this little bit of violence had been coiling in Fausta for a long while, itching to unspool.

The slap connected with a dull thud, drawing a pained gasp and throwing the witch down. It was not allowed back up. The Dialogus grabbed the back of its neck, and pushed its head down, into the coarse carpet covering the floor. She only regretted shaving it now; otherwise, she would have some extra leverage. Still, the hands closing over its small skull were more than fit for the purpose.

"Clearly, you do not," she replied, a warm feeling seeping into her at seeing the body in her grasp twitch helplessly. "I will explain now, and you will listen."

She released her grip, but before the Aeldar could straighten back up, she pushed down on its neck with the weight of her boot. The chair it slept in moments ago was still pleasantly warm, and Fausta gladly took her seat above the forcibly genuflecting witch.

"What those chains mean is that you no longer have the right to speak, unless I demand so. You no longer have the right to lift your head in the presence of me or my sisters. My words, and those of my sisters, are law to you. Do you understand?"

Just to drive the point home, she put a little bit more pressure on the neck below. Not enough to choke, obviously, but to give the Aeldar a clear indication of how easy it would be. It worked wonders.

"Yes," it whimpered in a muffled voice.

There was a degree of submission in this word; how could there not be? But Fausta had little doubt that the witch would deform back into defiance at the first opportunity. She did not release the weight from its neck.

"When you speak, you will refer to me as Sis—"

She bit her tongue, and only with a sharp effort of will managed to keep herself from recoiling away from the Aeldar and ruining the effort.

"As Canoness. Do you understand?" she repeated her question, the old title remaining a bitter aftertaste on the back of her tongue.

The xeno, blessedly, decided to help her wipe it clean.

"Yes, Canoness," it said, showing that it could learn on the go.

Fausta removed her leg, enjoying the sound of the deep panting that followed. Perhaps she did choke the witch a little bit too hard; perhaps should have been more careful. No, she winced. No perhaps. What was the phrase? Do not carry the whip with an unsteady hand. Yet another of her old mentor's many wisdoms. Yet another thing she had worked not to think about, and now had to remember in full.

"Now get up. On your knees. Head low," she added, a little bit softer than before.

The Aeldar followed her command with only a hint of resistant slowness to its movements. The position it assumed was far from perfect, with its back buckled and eyes ready to peek up at the first opportunity, but that was something that even Fausta could not expect to be mastered at the first opportunity. And besides, the joy of teaching it proper forms required a degree of inability.

Instead of reproaching it, she reached towards its neck, where the deep-blue stone clung shone with its inner light, set into a filigree choker of song-wrought wraithbone. Much to her dismay, Fausta found herself admiring the craft—and the clear unease the witch felt as a human finger hooked itself around the wraithbone circlet. Unfortunately for it, by the time it tried to pull back from the touch, the Dialogus' hold would not allow it.

"I am allowing you to keep this trinket," she announced, lacing some delicate sweetness into her voice. "Do you know why?"

The witch hesitated, but for all of its xeno flaws, it was not so stupid as to not understand the rules of the world it found itself into.

"Yes," she replied.

The second slap was hardly a strike at all; Fausta merely brushed her hand against the unreddened side of the Aeldar's face, just to give it a warning—and a reminder.

"Yes, Canoness," it corrected itself.

With her finger on its throat, the Dialogus could feel it swallow; could feel the beat of its heart quicken. She smiled at that, too; the fear roiling just beneath a calm surface was a divine tease.

"I am allowed to keep it so that it can be taken from me, Canoness," it added after a moment, realizing it was supposed to provide the explanation itself.

"Very good," Fausta nodded, releasing the bracelet. "The next time you disobey, I will do just that. If you continue in defiance, I will crack it open. And yes, I know precisely what that means for your xeno soul."

And there it was: fear broke the surface. The witch shuddered, the thought of the sins of its race catching up to it too much for its feeble attempts at resolve to hold. It gagged on a word it was not allowed to speak; Fausta wondered if it was a plea for mercy. Her smile widened. She would have to find a physical leash to hold it on, for sure, but just for the satisfaction of it. The one she needed to rule it was already in her hands.

She allowed it to consider the threat for a moment, and herself to enjoy the look of a xeno kneeling at her feet. It tasted differently from the memories of repentant women that had once begged her for forgiveness; it invited less sympathy, but somehow, also less scorn. Perhaps she was no longer able to hate like she had once used to. She snorted at the notion; truly, age and experience were the greatest enemies of blind zeal. For all of its difference, however, the sight still pleased her just as deeply as that of her Repentias.

"Stand up," she commanded, the relaxed satisfaction seeping into her voice, rendering it deep, smooth, smothering.

Again, the Aeldar hesitated, but to its credit, it remembered to keep its head down. The hands, obviously, should be folded behind its head, but that was yet another detail to train into it. Besides, it would have a different use for them in a moment.

"I can't bear the sight of those filthy alien rags. Strip," Fausta ordered next.

This time, the hesitation was longer, and broken only when the Dialogus opened her mouth to repeat the command, with an added warning. The witch worked slowly, removing the remains of its robe from its body, and letting them fall uselessly to the floor. The body beneath was even slighter than Fausta expected; elfin, maybe, would be the correct word to describe it. More than that, however, it was unlike any flesh she had seen before. Not because the Aeldar were different from humans—no, especially when stripped, they seemed so disturbingly similar. It was the fact of its cleanliness that took her by surprise. The Dialogus could see no scars, no blemishes, no marks of time, violence, and war impressed into it. Not even the Sorioritas novitiates, fresh out of Schola Progenum, could boast that. It was as if the witch arrived from a different world, one ruled by a principle other than the necessities of strife.

The notion nagged on Fausta, but she banished it with a simple trick she had long been waiting for an opportunity to use.

"I said strip," she said, more forcefully than before, her eyes indicating the simple xeno undergarments clinging to the Aeldar's pale flesh.

She did not have to see the witch's face to notice the red seeping there; not that of physical hurt, but of the lovely kind: of shame. She watched the hesitant hands touch the cloth on its chest and waited; she did not hurry it. With how much the Aeldar held humans in contempt, it had to be an overwhelming humiliation to have to choose between its soul, and its dignity, and so Fausta made sure to leer as much as possible.

Finally, after tense minutes, it acted. With desperate quickness, it tore itself frantically into nakedness, only to then immediately cover it with its narrow arms. The flush of shame reached now down from her neck, its red tongue dropping all the way between its small breasts. Fausta exhaled. It was as if someone had threaded a cord around her stomach and was now pulling it tight. Had she really missed that so much?

She took in a moment to enjoy the sight; not that it was entirely new to her eyes. She had seen stripped Aeldar bodies before, though not live ones, just as she had seen enough abashed youth for the novelty to wear thin. The only real surprise was that the xeno had not been passivated, despite clearly being an invert. There would be time to consider that later. For now, the shame the newest adherent of Saint Lucretia emanated with every twitch was just too pleasant not to indulge. Fausta's hungry stare lingered, and the more she looked, the hungrier she got. The witch was not just humiliated. The Dialogus could see the play of its muscles beneath the thin skin. All of the wretch was pulled taut, and its struggle was not just to bear the shame, but also to not pull itself apart with the sheer rage simmering just under the surface of its pained submission.

An old suture finally gave somewhere deep inside Fausta, and the reality of how much she wanted—no, needed—this pile of xeno flesh finally hit her with full force. It was not like her sisters, not like the penitents who had gone through her hands before. It was a lump of blasphemy and insubordination, given to her to perform on it the miracle of the Emperor and render it perfectly docile and pliant. It was her reward for the years of faithful service, and her chance to redeem herself for what she did on T—

The exhilarating rush of desire crashed into the rockcrete tomb she had buried that day and that planet in, and shattered. Fausta rubbed her eyes, mouth already forming a prayer of contrition that she would not allow herself to speak, not in front of the xeno. A wave of exhaustion washed over her, leaving her sore in the muscles and clouded in thoughts.

And yet, still there was a part of her that wanted to play with the witch further. There was so much more to be done. She could start teaching it to not hide what was not its own to control anymore—or just enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing it squirm when ordered to sit down with its legs crossed. But no. The past was buzzing in her head like a swarm of angry flies, and even the amazing powers of recaf had its limits. It was time to draw the scene to a close.

She gathered the Aeldar's discarded clothing into a pile, making a mental note to remove them when leaving the room. Then, she tossed Minoria's cloak back at the witch; it caught it, and started wrapping itself in the fabric immediately, before stopping midway through, realizing it had not received permission yet. It was learning, however slowly, but Fausta was too tired to feel cruel, and so she allowed the slight to slide.

"You have already defiled this sacred cloth," she announced, hoping that the exhaustion would not seep into her voice. "You will be punished for that, in due time. But for now, you can keep it. Until I fancy otherwise, this is what you will wear."

The witch inclined its head, and quickly finished donning the cape. It was spacious enough to let it disappear inside, and Fausta hoped that it would also answer Minoria's concerns about it being cold. She waited a bit longer to see what it would do next, and when it stayed quiet, she dragged herself up from the chair, and headed out, eager to finally sleep, and rest.

Before leaving, however, she turned back one last time.

"It was a mistake not to thank me for this gift," she cooed. "Sleep well, wretch. We will talk more in the morning."

By the time she had clambered upstairs, Theodora was already waiting in bed, her face a picture of divine calm—as always. She put her arms around Fausta, and pulled her close, a hand resting near the heart, just to see if it was beating right. There were days—sometimes weeks or even months—when the Dialogus could not bear this kind of care, as if her sister could not stop treating her like a child to be examined for bruises. Today, however, she welcomed it.

"How was your fun?" Theodora whispered. "Did you abhor the witch right?"

Fausta smiled tiredly, and murmured incoherently in response, already fast sliding into sleep. Her last thought before dreams of spears and harsh laughter returned to haunt her was that something inside her felt cracked, and she really hoped it would not open further.

 

[bookwyrm]

Honestly, though the sheer depth of millennia of history entangled together and apart obscures it a bit, I think there's certain like basic axioms and semiconscious impulses and etc... at the bottom of a lot of the Imperial Faith that is ultimately just kinda jealous of the Craftworlder knife-ears. Not just directly the shit they seethe about with their corrupt sophistication and frail grace and so on, but that with the Spirit-Stones and the Infinity Circuit and the Paths the Crafworlds in many ways get to achieve what the Imperium always wanted, martyrdom without consequences for state capacity, complete alignment between the dictates of faith and pragmatism, a perfectly dead and sterile civilizational cycle. Thus, they're tricksters and charlatans speaking foolish riddles, cheaters who never truly earned the dreamed Imperial end-state with vulgar blood and toil.

 

[Alex]

My personal take is that while this may be the theory, it is also a system people can effectively game. The Imperium and its institutions is simply too large and afflicted by too much institutional rot and inefficiency (not to mention the crosspurposes various institutions operate on) to be able to accurately and effectively enforce such high-minded principles.

In other rules the facts on data-slates and facts on the ground don't always align.

Click to shrink...

Now I really want to see a commisar run into some Sororitas superior who he knew way back in the schola and being shocked.
"You? You managed to make canoness? Miss lho sticks and hand jobs in the bathroom? You slept through more sermons than you listened to."
"Only the emperor can judge me."
"Clearly."

 

[ancusohm]

Wow, Fausta is a hardcore sadist (and not the fun kind). She reminds me of the demon from Mercy and Other Costly Mistakes. She would be the ideal dom if not for that minor detail that she genuinely wants to inflict permanent harm and has no respect whatsoever for her victim.

There you go again, pointing out how many fantasies would be quite awful in reality.

And then Fausta gets all cute and cuddly with Theodora. That's probably some point about the banality of evil.

 

[Gargulec]

Wow, Fausta is a hardcore sadist (and not the fun kind). She reminds me of the demon from Mercy and Other Costly Mistakes. She would be the ideal dom if not for that minor detail that she genuinely wants to inflict permanent harm and has no respect whatsoever for her victim.

There you go again, pointing out how many fantasies would be quite awful in reality.

And then Fausta gets all cute and cuddly with Theodora. That's probably some point about the banality of evil.

Click to shrink...

I hope to show that there is more to her than just that - she is inspired by the main character from Davey Davis X who rapidly oscillates between being an awful, if tragic human being, and an excellent consensual sadist. Fausta has her own mound of issues, but if she simply thought of Ayile as a pile of meat to brutalize, the Eldar would be dead already. But if all goes well, we will get to that soon.

 

[Acatalepsy]

There were a lot of hints of - some very particular attitudes toward pain and suffering as part of the Repentia (which I think is some kind of sub-order? I don't know much about SoB internal organization). The others implied that this behavior was somewhat infamous, even.

As well as guilt for something we don't know about yet.

I don't have a ton more to say but I really like garg's vision of Imperial society in general and the Sisters in particular; humanity in an uncaring, brutal, hypocritical system without either excusing the system or excising the humanity.

 

[Gargulec]

There were a lot of hints of - some very particular attitudes toward pain and suffering as part of the Repentia (which I think is some kind of sub-order? I don't know much about SoB internal organization). The others implied that this behavior was somewhat infamous, even.

Click to shrink...

Honestly, for me, this is a bit of an in-joke. Sister Repentia are a unit of penitent Sororitas, who, having committed some great (definition of "great" vary) act of impiety seek to atone for by running into battle clean-shaven, half-naked, and wielding a giant chainsword. It is a particularly 40k thing, and one infamous for its horniness even for the strikingly low "my armor is literally a corset" Sisters of Battle standard. As far as I am aware, in recent editions, there was an attempt to tone down the overwhelming horniness of Sisters Repentia art and models, but they are a mainstay in S/M themed Sisters of Battle porn for a reason.

The hilarious part for me is that the units of Repentia are lead into battle by a "Repentia Superior" who is a mix between a religious and political officer meant to drive the penitent sisters into battle and ensure they do not shirk from their vow to atone by seeking idiotic death (half-naked, with a giant chainsword). This being 40k, the tool utilized by said "Repentia Superiors" is a very dominatrix-like pain-inducing whip, and just to make sure that the similarity is not lost on anyone, the early editions of the game called "Repentia Superiors" "Repentia Mistresseses" instead. Which, you know, I ain't got nothing on this shit, 40k, my beloved most hated setting where everything is absurdly horny but no one ever has sex.

Anyway Fausta is a Repentia Mistress in a world of Repentia Superiors, a woman born too late to take Jerusalem, but too early to actually come to terms with her sexual needs via aggressive participation in the leatherdyke community. Or something like that.