Alexandra sighed with relief, as it seemed no threat remained to the Genetorium, nor anybody else amongst their allies who had taken serious injuries. At least, no injuries serious enough to be worth medicating, nor so minor that those who had received them were not already deceased. A sad tale, but not one she could assist with, other than offering a swift internal prayer that their souls reached the Emperor in good stead.

Pardon her. Had she thought that the Genetorium was no longer threatened? The Heretek, though incapacitated, was clearly still alive, not to mention the coward who had fled just minutes before, who mocked those that truly deserved power armour simply by bearing a suit of his own. Though it was proposed that the corrupted tech-priest was weak enough to be subdued even by the crew who had just helped fend off the assault on the Genetorium - she did not doubt their faith or their ability, of course - she still felt the need to propose 'I think the utmost care should be taken when imprisoning the Heretek' to the crew, her vox modulator as always implying far more stony distaste than she cared to convey. 'We have no idea what sort of technological trickery it may have hidden away.' Within its modified frame, potentially anything could be present, from undamaged electrodes capable of shocking a man to death, to a Chaos-empowered virus intended to corrupt and take command of their ship in its entirety. They simply couldn't know - and with that in mind, they simply couldn't allow it even the slightest chance of reaching and contacting the ship's machine spirit at any point.

'As for the supposed leader of these pirates,' she continued, her breathing escalating and her chest tightening just so as she realised how much talking she'd need to do to convey her point, 'as long as he is on this ship, he is a threat in the shadows. Worse still if he is allowed to make planetfall with us, and escapes to spread his grim worldview further still. He must be slain, or at least incapacitated, as soon as possible.' There, done, and she'd made the same general argument as both Sister Lisbeth and Sister Adalard. No need to stick out further, thank the Emperor.

The Confessor had taken the end of the fighting calmly, reloading his arms and putting them into their slings or holsters. He moved cautiously to Lisbeth, in an almost protective manner knowing that she had to fight the man of her dreams in a proper state of rest with holy arms at her side, rather than in a state of injury or exhaustion after being ministered to. Horacio was not about to tell them their business, and that she shouldn't chase after heretic aboard but the man had seen enough to know caution was best exercised here.

"I concur with the Sisters. The foe must be slain with utmost urgency lest this all be part of some grand plot." He said quite simply, reading from a prayer book he got from some recesses of his clothes. The Confessor didn't bother to speak much more, not having any further input. Instead he went forth to the fallen armsmen and traitorous humans about. He prayed for the souls of all, not asking for forgiveness or salvation but rather fair judgement - which in the case of good men would equate to the same thing. For the traitors however, the Emperor had much penance planned in the afterlife.

Then he returned to his comrades, somewhat more solemn looking. Whatever input the others had he didn't bother asking about. He was a leader, but not a commander and this would reflect quite simply on his actions. Thus he would go along with whatever was planned upon, his duty done either way.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@LemonZest1337@Irredeemable

So the adversary in dark armour had fled, fled fast and deep into the bowels of the ship and - so they believed - away from harm and pursuit. In this they were wrong. The justice of the God-Emperor had no boundaries, no limits of endurance, it was swift and it was always there, and with the acceptance of the entire coterie of Sisters and their spiritual hangers-on it was about to delve into the depths of darkness.

A moment or two were given for the execution of still-breathing heretics, the preparation and blessing of weapons and armour, and the giving to Squad Victorine of a 'guide' in the form of Rating First Class Jefferson. He was a tall man in his middle-age, a jawline chiselled from stone peppered with dark stubble, his bodysuit clinging tight to his body and a shotgun clutched in his ham-like fists. All-in-all the Celestian had seen weaker men, and was happy that the Captain had volunteered him for this task.

One-by-one the squad moved out, the Celestian herself taking point with Jefferson at her side, the others of the formation filtering in behind them as they advanced along the corridor down which the evil mirror image of Kliment had fled.

If they believed it would take a short time to locate and eliminate, well, they were quite wrong.

Even after what seems like two hours, and with the possibility that their quarry may have evaded them, they had traversed to a section of the ship that even Jefferson was not familiar with; it was an incident not altogether out of place on an Imperial or former Imperial vessel, entire contingents becoming lost in the criss-crossing interior, and communities of abhumans or mutants making their homes like cleaner-fish clinging to a sharks underbelly.

"I have no knowledge of this route," admitted Jefferson with a grunt, kneeling next to a spot and lifting a damp finger, "but there's more blood here. It seems that one of you tagged the fraker."

Their quarry had been leaving spatterings of blood, and it was in this manner that they had been able to track him thus far, but soon they would come across something...someone...else.

It was perhaps half-an-hour later when Victorine turned about and motioned to the rest of her squad in Sororitas sign-language, her hands flicking in the dim tunnel light a message, or a warning, that they should remain still and that they were being watched and even tracked themselves.

"Greetings..." came a croaking voice from the almost black parts of an antechamber they had just entered, round and silent except for the thrumming of the ships engines, "who are you?"

"I am Sister-Celestian Victorine of the God-Emperor's Sororitas, make yourself known!"

There was a brief exchange of words and noises with other unseen individuals before a ragged, shambling, form almost materialised before her and Jefferson - the Rating automatically raising but not firing his weapon in one fluid motion.

"Name...name Old Gruk," muttered the masculine [i]thing[i] before her, its head covered in a shaggy beard and hair so long that it was tucked into a belt (very probably of flesh) wrapped about its waist, "Gruk live here, live here with family."

Clearly Gothic of any sort was not Gruk's first language, and Victorine kept her weapons either sheathed or by her side.

"We seek an enemy, a dark warrior, he is bleeding. Have you seen him?"

There was a sort of snort from beneath Gruk's hooded, monk-like, cowl, "yeth, we see him...he goes by us and we let him...he makes my family afraid."

Drawing back his hood, Gruk revealed a face so mishappen that even a mother couldn't love it, the face of a mutant! His eyes were too large and bulging for his face, his lips bloated and his overbite two canines dribbling saliva between them, his skin mottled and scaled somewhat.

"We...we shall help your family be less afraid, Old Gruk, but you must show us where he went."

It took all her effort not to strike down the mutant where he stood, ending another abomination to the Emperor and cleansing a ship that should not have such creatures living aboard it to begin with.

"A moment, Gruk will speak with family."

Once more he disappeared into the shadows, although his heat signature was visible to her helmets limited sensors, as were a multitude of others. During this time she turned to her own squad and kept her voice low.

"Thoughts? Our sacred duty it to purge filth such as this, but could it lead only to greater evil? I also fear that these things intend us eventual harm." She looked to Horacio then, "Confessor, what make you of this? We follow His words, and those of His representatives, what would the Ecclesiarchy say on this matter?"

Horacio would wince at each shot used upon the traitors. It might seem almost ironic considering moments ago his shotgun was turning men into red mist but to him it wasn't. After a battle there was to be peace, serenity. But for some, the battle had never truly ended. Still, he followed calmly with his shotgun held at his hip. It was quite spontaneous and he didn't notice how humming turned into hymn, but it did. It was a popular song he sang with soldiers; while not the High-Gothic of document and scripture it was still a faithful, pleasant, and homely song, one which perhaps some of the Sisters might know but not admit to knowing or join in on depending of the convent they grew up in.

Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free
Praise the Emperor and swing into position
Can't afford to be a politician
Praise the Emperor, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea
Yes the sky pilot said it
Ya gotta give him credit
For a son-of-a-gun of a gunner was he....
Shouting Praise the Emperor, we're on a mighty mission
All aboard, we ain't a-goin' fishin'
Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free
Praise the Emperor and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free....

Quite abruptly he was startled when the heat-signature was called out. Horacio didn't have a helmet, just a rebreather which if anything removed two of his sense and made detection of the inner-ship creepy crawlies difficult. Not a professional soldier (even if a tolerable shot) and thus possessing little trigger discipline it was only the active safety that made a few quick accidental pulls go clack-clack. "Bloody 'ell." He muttered as he saw the creation before him. He'd seen Ogryns, Beastmen, Ratlings, Psykers Scalies, even more rare specimens like Felinids, Blanks and Squats. But this was a new curse wrought upon man.

Still, he'd cared for men possessing all sorts of plagues. He held the hand of a man that had half his head squashed by a traitorous sledge-hammer in his death throes and so there was no difficult radiating an affable smile to the man.

Once 'Gruk' went off to speak with his kin, it would seem the proverbial ball fell to him as Victorine spoke. Caught off guard he twiddled his robes, suddenly somewhat self-conscious that he was in his fuzzy slippers and sleepwear. He gave a pained sigh, and shrugged. "By the Emperor's hand, it should be thus: Gruk will aid us in discovering our wretched enemy. If at any moment he is suspected of trickery you will destroy him, but in the case your suspicions were unfounded it be best that in honour of his ultimate loyalty you kill him and his kin instantly, before they may even sense fear - even if he is a heretic, him sensing fear before death will still hurt our cause." he added, both placation and a dare to contest his recommendation to those more puritan in the party. "Of course, we may not leave him alone here. He will reveal the full extent of the underclass living aboard the ship, and be expected to provide some sort of proof that he is indeed faithful to the God-Emperor or be provided short time to acknowledge him as his one true God should it be the case they were not even aware of our wondrous Lord in this ignorant recess. In addition, a Genetor, a Magos Biologis will examine him and his kind to determine if they are still within the fold of humanity, I shall not have one determine genetics by the glance of the eye whilst my consciousness remains pure. Should he be determined impure, then once again the purge best be swift with no time for fear or sorrow to arise. If he however does remain true to man's nature then he and his kin will be expected to integrate with the vessel appropriate. Learn High-Gothic, receive jobs. They may stick to their kind but enclaves and exclaves will not be tolerated." Another though arose but he squashed it, already exhausted by the swift efforts of iteration he had to force out of himself. Lazily his tired eyes scanned for the reactions of those present. His long words were necessary to convey the truth that he knew in his heart but, they also had the purpose of pressing the party for time. The zealots would not have time to speak what with Gruk by now most likely being about to return, and it hopefully meant only the calm, concise voices would be raised.

Though they'd reached parts of the ship even the attendant Ratling failed to fully understand, his mood had remained positive, singing a hymn that Alexa hadn't heard before, though it struck a bell in her mind that had her nodding along to its lyrics, albeit not humming or singing personally. That said, all were stunned into silence by the presence of an interloper within the bowels of the ship - a man who turned out to be misshapen, and then transpired to be a mutant, fearful enough that Confessor Horacio found himself trying to shoot down the humanoid monstrosity.

Alexa herself held back by offering intense internal prayer, mumbling under her breath as the creature went to its family, offering them a chance to discuss the matter further. Naturally, as their spiritual superior, the Confessor was the first port of call that Sister-Celestian Victorine turned to, and frankly speaking, his speech was about as well-reasoned as was allowable. Alexa might have proposed that the kindest thing would be to execute Old Gruk and his family immediately, followed by prayer that their souls might reach the Emperor's side and be cleansed, for to die in repentance was surely better than to live in sin, but it'd be more pertinent for it to offer its assistance first, to find both the heretic and any others who may be lurking in the bowels of the ship, so deep that the Emperor's Light failed to reach them, and indeed to at least confirm that it was living proof of its own sinful ways before ending its sinful life.

She'd had her fill of excessive speech today, regardless; thus, Alexa held her tongue, and simply nodded visibly once Horacio's proposal was done.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@Irredeemable

Victorine listened intently to the words of Horacio, as any true servant of the Emperor would, and gave small nods every now-and-then to show that she was listening. As much as she didn't particularly like what he was saying, it did make perfect sense, she had to admit – use them as loyal servants of the God-Emperor, or cleanse them as heretical abominations of the Ruinous Powers.

“Gruk,” she called, summoning the hunchback back over to their group, “listen closely...”

She explained everything that Horacio had told her, how it would ascertain to Gruk and his kin, and what was expected of them; the Celestian had not really been sure what to expect, but is most assuredly was not the sight of heavy tears rolling down the swollen cheeks of the mutant, his bug eyes bulging out even further if that was possible, and spittle dribbling from between his lips in rather off-putting quantities.

“Thank you,” he slurped at the Confessor, “thank you so much,” a loud snort and a wiping of his face with one ragged sleeve of his 'clothing' put an end to the weeping (thank the Emperor), “we will do as you ask, please, follow us.”

Caroline was given point once more, her heavy weaponry quite useful in clearing rooms when it came to it and, should they prove treacherous, would be just as useful in gunning down the shambling mass of bodies now guiding them to where their quarry lay.

---

---

The ancient Terran war-sage Son Zoo once said that, should you wish to force a stand, one must place their army in a position where retreat and fleeing is impossible and that army will fight all the harder for it...similar to the saying about getting between an animal and their escape route.

With what was to happen next, Victorine would reflect often upon these phrases in particular.

As it was, Caroline was the first of their group to die, a giant felled by a stone – as it was between David and Goliath – something hissing from the darkness, causing the mutants to scatter mere moments before impact, the Amazonian Retributor pausing in her steps forward and falling to her knees with a clattering of armour, her weapon falling from nerveless fingers.

“Sister Adalard? Sister?!”

Victorine sprinted forward, blazing into the surrounding shadows with her own sidearm, just narrowly avoiding another hissing projectile, coming to face Caroline even as the remainder of the Sororitas spread out in the corridor about; there was only one way out of this section of the vessel, and it was the way they had come.

Caroline was already dead.

“Emperor's teeth,” hissed the Celestian, sliding shut the slack eyelids of the poisoned Retributor, then laying her heavy form down beside her weapon, half-crouched as she slipped back to the relative cover of a nearby crate.

It was Sister Vitruvia who bore the brunt of the next assault, a bolt taking her firmly in the torso. Though it missed any vital organs, it nevertheless sent her reeling backwards, her upper body beginning to bleed profusely as she hit the hard metallic decking underfoot, a crater that would be left to mark her form even if she survived.

It was then that their enemy decided to make his move, rising from his position at the end of the corridor and moving forward cautiously, an empty Needler pistol holstered at his hip while a bolt pistol was held in one fist. Although his other hand was empty, the telltale sheath of a power weapon could be spotted at his waist if one squinted enough in the dimply lit vein of the ships underbelly.

“What do you think?” Yelled Victorine to the others, “lay down some covering fire and rush him? 'Nades in first?”

They were all of them battered and bruised, two of their number out of action, one permanently, and a heavily armoured foe – who was clearly well armed to boot – was now slowly creeping toward their band of holy soldiers.

"Oh it's err... just doing me job?" The Confessor said, a moment of empathy with the man felt in his heart in the instance. It was such moments that affirmed his faith, but he could not now turn soft. He spoke true, it was merely his duty done and there would be no reward for it but more duty in His service. But, what more could a man ask for than the satisfaction of duty done? These musings trailed on as he walked, until at last he shook them out of his head. The mutants lead on, and he followed awaiting the arrival of the Emperor's foes. That was all that should be to mind.

---

Time passed, and Horacio would not hesitate to admit that he was growing restless. He almost began to sing once more, until quite suddenly something hissed by the Confessor's ear. He barely had time to wrinkle his nose at the flash of his refractor shield and an apprent ricochet, when the Sister hit the ground. Big lass that she was, it made the thud resonate in his mind all the louder.

Caroline was dead, he was not. Horacio looked down at his right hand, squeezing it into a tight fist before swiftly releasing it. "It wasn't even martyrdom... she died 'cos I was there, I didn't fan out properly, not to save me."

The ringing in his head got louder, and quickly his hand fell to his bolt-pistol. Not an Astartes model, it was even lower calibre than that which the Sisters would use for he lacked power armour to compensate the recoil, but it was still a great big explosive warhead flying faster than sound. He drew it, and pointed it in the general direction of the foe whilst stepping carelessly out of cover. Whatever tactical decisions the Sisters were taking flew right over his head as he calmly strode towards the bastard firing of his bolt-pistol one shot after the other, stepping closer to the enemy all the while he did so. He kept pulling the trigger long after the distinctive click of an empty magazine, but by then it didn't matter much for he had his power-maul out and was now running.

In truth, Alexa couldn't fault the basic fact that Gruk was willing to assist the group so heartily. Her heart found itself pitying the man's grotesqueness, for if he were more adherent to the baseline of human standards, he'd perhaps be a worthy servant of the Emperor. As it was, he was merely good for leading them to a villain far less likely to submit quietly.

Mere minutes later, Sister Caroline died, stumbling and collapsing mere moments after something struck her from the shadows. Sister Victorine sprinted forwards instantly, and Alexa was hot on her heels, already firing up her chirurgeon's tools in preparation to save her... but to no avail. From the foam round her mouth, the toxic darkness of her surface veins, and the spark of life absent from her eyes, it was clear that the woman was no more. A mere second of analysis, both by eye and by helm, proved what Alexa already suspected - neurotoxin, and a highly potent one at that, targeted at her unshielded face.

A mere second was too long to hesitate in a firefight. The hissing of deadly Needler fire was replaced with that of a bolt pistol's report; though both she and Sister Victorine made their way back to cover, Sister Vitruvia failed to do so, felled by a bolt that split her flesh with ruthless ease, that Alexa herself could have attempted to block with her frame. Her instant reaction was to exit cover again, only to drag the hapless victim back with her - though this time, she was not dead, but simply wounded. Thank goodness. She could fix a wound, even from a bolt pistol.

She worked to open the damaged power armour, apply anaesthetic, and mend the flesh inside as her superior talked. When the suggestion of grenades was made, Alexa simply uttered 'Five of us are left, with two hands each. The traitor's armour might survive one grenade blast; it cannot withstand ten at once.' This time, the cold bark of her helmet vox was appreciated, for only now did it accurately convey her anger at the death of a stalwart ally.

It wasn't until she looked up and saw who was missing, processed the sound of additional bolts being fired, that she realised the flaw in her reasoning - if power armour could not withstand ten grenade blasts, the barely-protected Confessor certainly couldn't either. Emperor take that ruddy fool, what was he doing?! Martyring oneself over an ally's death was one of the most needless ways to waste one's service to the Emperor! And she couldn't hope to protect him, either, in the middle of a surgical operation... damn it. Sadly, then, it'd be up to the others to save Horacio from his own bullishness.

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?

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@Irredeemable

For long moments time seemed to stretch into eternity, there in the depths of the Imperial warship, Victorine sheathing her blade and returning her sidearm to her hip with a soft thump of a mag-lock.

“Confessor,” she said gently as she sidled up to the sweating Horacio and placed a hand upon one broad shoulder, “if you please...I would be grateful if you would have a session with Sister Dominicia, and report to me anything you may find abnormal. She is not herself, that much is clear.”

With another gesture of a hand she summoned Alexandra to their side and similarly let her voice never rise above a half-whisper, “Sister, please see to Lisbeth and the Crusader, we will all need to be fighting fit once we reach our destination.”

There was concern in her tone as she spoke to them both, proceeding to make her way over to the blood-soaked combatants and giving a small tut as she peered down at what had once been their enemy – and the slayer of one of their number.

“May the Warp claim this heretics soul, and may the God-Emperor take Sister Adalard to his side forever more.” Her eyes did not move from the bloodied corpse for quite a few minutes, her entire frame as still as a bronze statue, “such a waste.”

---

---

Arrival into the same system as Cekrov was oddly swift after the incident aboard The Holy Flame, almost as if the Immaterium had been keeping them where it wanted them this whole time; raiders, Hereteks and someone who may well have been a rogue member of the Inquisition...it was too coincidental for the Celestians liking, and she did not really believe in such a thing, only the will of the beloved Emperor.

Sister Caroline Adalard would be left aboard the ship – in stasis – until they could return to a suitable resting place, meanwhile the Heretek would be confined to a suitably awful (but well guarded) brig cell, and lastly the body of the armoured foe would be stored in a separate space from Caroline but in the same condition.

Those mercenaries and pirates, well, their bodies were flung into the ships engines and incinerated.

It was three days later that they came within sight of the 'afflicted' agri-world, a lush and fine looking planet (from orbit anyway), and were preparing to make their way to the planets surface when they were intercepted.

The ambassador – for that was the title he used – appeared in the docking bay of the Destroyer even as the Sororitas were moments away from boarding a gun cutter to the planets surface. In a blaze of engines and shining metal he came, making his way down the ramp of his own Aquila lander accompanied by a whole platoon of the Planetary Governors men-at-arms, nearly thirty men equipped with lasguns and dressed in medieval style armour covered by tabards of blue and white.

“Greetings,” he said through a grille where his mouth had once been, pale flesh wincing as he 'spoke' and his eyes a piercing blue, “my Lord Diokletion De'mange welcomes you to Cekrov, and bids you meet him in the Governors Palace. It is truly the wonder of Bovange – the capital of our world – and he is holding a feast to welcome you. All the persons of quality shall be there!”

If the slick-haired emissary had expected a smile and delight from Victorine then he was severely mistaken, the corners of her mouth turning downward and her eyes narrowing.

“I assume the Governor would like us there as soon as possible?”

“Well yes,” came the robotic reply, “there are a couple of caveats though...”

“Go on.”

“Um-” for a moment, but only a moment, the representative stuttered, but he soon regained his composure, “he would request that you come into his presence unarmed and...and...”

“Go. On.”

“Suitably dressed,” droned the mechanical voice-box, “it is a feast, and on Cekrov that commonly means men in their finest tunics and women...women in feminine attire.”

“You mean dresses?”

“Yes.”

“God-Emperor preserve us.”

---

---

This wasn't the first formal occasion Victorine had ever been to, she had attended a kindred function on Paseka not half a decade ago, but every time she imagined her squad – especially the women – dressed to the standards of Imperial high society...well...it made her laugh, for it was comical.

With a sigh she took one last look at where her weapons and armour were resting, then dared to glance in the provided mirror. What she saw made her internally and outwardly shiver, the lower knee-length dress of green clinging to her body in a most unbecoming way, and what hair she had left she had combed thoroughly. All-in-all she felt positively naked.

Perhaps it was her religious upbringing, or simply her abhorrence for the finer things in life, that stopped her seeing the ebony-skinned beauty looking back at her. As with every one of the Sororitas, including her own squad, she was at the height of physical fitness and cleaned up quite nicely.

“Urgh.”

Slipping her feet into a pair of irritatingly shoes with one last grunt of displeasure, she made her way toward the docking bay as swiftly as possible to await her comrades-without-arms.

I suppose the Emperor protects.

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!”

Horacio no longer had the glazy eyes he had whilst in his meeting with Lisbeth, but he nevertheless looked gaunt and weary for the meeting with the ambassador. He didn't bother to speak much, but he did raise an eyebrow in question when the man stated they must come unarmed and unarmoured. It seemed in the interest of diplomacy Victorine conceded to the request, much to Horacio's surprise. If he were her, he'd tell the ambassador to stick it where the sun doesn't shine. His eyebrow rose even higher when the ambassador described in detail what attire he expected to be worn.

---

In acknowledgement of the formality of the occasion, Horacio trimmed an errant hair here or there, but ultimately the man was unchanged. After all, the he had more important concerns. He made sure that he brought his Rosarius and power-maul ensemble, those two always went together and he could always make an analogy to a Royal Scepter if it was questioned... an extraordinarily large one of course, to assert dominance of the Priest. But there was more to consider. The Sisters seemed to accept relinquishing their firearms, but he damn well wasn't going to do so. He put on a particularly thick, ceremonial set of robes with lots of frocking and the lot. He always forgot the right amount of starch-simulants to have used upon it, and thus it felt like he was wearing cardboard covered in sandpaper. Still, it was a necessary sacrifice. Off of his shotgun he used his power-maul to smash off most of the stock and barrel, before using a mono-knife in his grooming kit to carefully take off the rest so he wouldn't have sharp jagged metal prodding him for the time they spent on Cekrov. It was put on safety with a full load of shells, several more loads worth hid about his person. But that wasn't all he had to bring.

The Confessor looked to his bolt-pistol, and gave a weary sigh. He hid a few clips amongst various recesses amongst his robes, but he very much wanted to also keep one ready in it for the potential situation he had to quickly draw it. Considering where he was going to hide it, this would cause far more discomfort than his atrociously starched robes.

Finally donning his large hat that now housed several combat knives and units of ammunition, he was ready. Looking at his face in the mirror he still looked like shit, but having purpose took his mind off of the recent events rotting his mind.

---

He was the third to come - doing his best to seem like he was walking normally - waddling awkwardly due to all the things he had hidden about him. The Sisters might question his movements knowing his usual gait, but he hoped they wouldn't voice their thoughts lest the ambassador and others realize that something might be fishy - it would best be that he simply thought years ministering to spire nobility or praying down on his knees made him such.

As he neared the present duo he couldn't help but grin, giving a giggle-snort any wild hog would be proud of. Trying to choke down his chuckle but failing while he shook his head, he gave them a greeting. "Hullo Sisters, looking forward to the descent?"

The intense, holy fury that both Sister Lisbeth and Crusader Therebus fought with in that combat was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Though much of her focus was set upon ensuring Sister Vitruvia lived to fight another day- and she had, by the time the combat was over, or at least done the absolute best job she could have- Alexa saw enough to be very impressed... or at least very concerned for just how vicious Sister Dominica was being. She'd thrown up over the man even as she kept fighting, pummeling him to a bloody pulp with her fists almost before Therebus could finish the job with his own weapon. Suffice to say, when Sister-Celestian Victorine requested that she take care of their respective injuries, Alexa simply nodded, and did her job.

---

Thankfully, none of the wounds either Lisbeth or Therebus had sustained were too unresolvable on the field. Therebus in particular was far from lethally wounded, whilst Lisbeth's wounds were ultimately easily fixed within a few minutes or so of work. That was important, because it gave her three days to work on the much more gruesome injuries of some of her compatriots, most notably the facial burn received by the Confessor earlier that fight - and that needed a lot of time to properly mend, strained further by his own orders to counsel Sister Lisbeth over her outburst.

Still, she fulfilled her work as best she could. She healed the sick and the wounded, and ingrained into her mind the short memory of their fallen comrade; as nobody could have saved Sister Caroline in the timespan they were given, and she would indeed have gone to the Emperor's side in death, Alexa only flagellated herself for a few minutes each evening in recompense, making a mental note as well to place a new bead on her Chaplet-Ecclesiasticus when she was able to. She'd not known Sister Caroline for very long, but she imagined she might have wished to, under more fortunate circumstances.

To then be told the Adepta Sororitas were required to wear formal dresses, after such a fierce and tragic battle, seemed to Alexa to be a bit of an insult, not only to Caroline personally, but to the Order of Our Thrice-Pierced Martyr and its sister Orders as a whole. Indeed, in acknowledgement of her own great height, Alexa was presented with the very longest dress available, and yet the dark blue slip still only reached down to her knees. She felt nudified just staring at herself in the mirror, and even with a scarf wrapped round her shoulders - a fine silky grey item of the sort a high-class woman might wear for fashion - she didn't think it hid how the straps of the dress wouldn't quite connect, and how it was thus only held up by her own frame filling it out a bit too much.

Her only comfort would be that she would be allowed to retain her chirurgeon's tool glove, medical in nature as that was, thus technically not a weapon - not to be put on unless absolutely necessary, of course. If they were caught in a trap, as she and she imagined every other Sister on board strongly suspected they might, it'd be the only thing resembling a weapon she had access to. Further still, even if she weren't already exceptionally tall, she would easily stand out the most among her peers for her ill-fitting garments, and the thought concerned her beyond belief, a sort of embarrassment she didn't recognise as such burning her cheeks red until she mastered herself, drawing out her religious dataslate and reading from it, praying to the Emperor for strength until all that remained in her mind was resolve. The sooner this business was concluded adequately, the sooner they could all return to the power armour they were most comfortable with; they just needed to have faith in the God-Emperor until then, as they always did. As she always did. After all, wasn't faith what shielded the Sisters Repentia from otherwise-certain death?

Nonetheless, as she too made her way to the meeting point with her fellow Sisters - paragons of well-dressed culture, at least compared to her - and the chuckling Confessor, Alexa decided that perhaps it'd be best if she didn't draw any more attention to herself than necessary. Thus, she remained utterly silent, looking down at her clasped hands without really realising that her face was betraying her struggle to supplant further embarrassment with loyalty to the Emperor.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@Irredeemable

The grille-faced emissary of Diokletion De'mange may well have been the most arrogant figure that Victorine had ever come across, and she had dealt with representatives of every major Imperial organisation and branch, but there was no doubt that he was equally as intelligent and knowledgeable about the workings of Cekrov.

Within the confines of the Governors own Aquila lander - its interior large enough, and comfortable enough, to hold at least a dozen or so individuals - Victorine eyed the slick-haired mouthpiece carefully, her ears open to his robotised words even as her face remained expresionless.

"Cekrov is, as you may know, an agri-world - we produce the majority of the foodstuffs for this entire sub-sector in fact. It's population is made up of the smallfolk, and of my master and the elite of the planet, those that shall be attending his ball in the capital. Each Baron, Duke - or whatever title they wish to give themselves - has lordship over a portion of land, that his tenants will work until the day they die."

There was a slight silence, some might say awkward even, as the ebony-skinned Celestian pursed her lips and put forth a question.

"This girl, the one they say returned from death, what do you know?"

Visible confusion etched itself into the brow of the emissaries upper face, the part left that could even form emotions, and he spread his hands over the arms of his comfortable seat.

"I admit that on this subject I am particularly ignorant but, what I do know, is that the tenants and simpletons among the populace believe a simple orphan girl became...something else."

"Just remember, Ambassador, that this is the reason we are here - this assemblage is a distraction at best, and once it is complete we shall be continuing with the Emperor's work."

---

---

Bovange was an unassuming city, one that could easily be found on a hundred thousand worlds the Imperium over, hundreds of towering blocks of metal and rockrete, and teeming multitudes that swarmed about the capital with perhaps a small glance at those above them.

The Sororitas were taken to their 'preparation chamber' immediately - a singular room within the gothic monument that was the Governor's Palace, the largest and most baroque building in all of Bovange, containing all manner of inventions, clothing and furniture imported from the planets and sectors nearby.

All-in-all it was a spacious and accomodating chamber, fit for those considered by the Imperium even to outrank the Sisters and their accompanying cohorts, and it may well have been the biggest surprise for the Sororitas to find that each of their suits of armour - as well as their weapons, polished and cleaned to a shine - were present when they entered; sadly, they would not be able to wield any of them, nor clad themselves in armour, for the immediate future.

---

---

"Presenting the Sisters of the Order of Our Thrice-Pierced Martyr, may the protection of the God-Emperors always be theirs."

After passing through mechanisms for the detection of concealed weapons (a slight pause made to make certain that the medical gauntlet was indeed medical in nature), the multi-limbed servitor - who had once been a man that had not managed to fulfil his quota of work - announced the Sisters and had two huge doors opened wide, the sound of sweet melodic choirs, and the smell of mingled perfumes and fine foodstuffs apparent in the nostrils of those entering the hall.

Inside the hall - cavernous, expansive, huge - it was a blinding clash of colour, a clamour of speech and merriment, all in honour of those servants of the Imperium who had just been presented; such joyous proceedings came to an end upon their arrival, voices moving into stunned silence and figures becoming motionless - male gazes full of lust and female ones going green could be easily picked out by those who knew what to look for - and everything only moving smoothly again once the group was approached by a tall, athletic figure, dressed from head-to-toe in an overly decorated uniform.

"My heartiest welcome to you all, please make yourselves at home, I am Governor Diokletion De'mange. Most humble and happy to recieve you all as my honoured guests."

To keep her mind off of the matter of her own presumed near-nudity, Alexa considered what the grill-faced ambassador had said about the reviving girl for a long while before they arrived at the ball proper. She who had, it seemed, returned from death no worse for wear, in theory revived after meeting the Emperor himself. The idea in the minds of the common citizenry, that she had become "something else", suggested two possibilities: first, that her body had been possessed by a daemon, and that a failure to slay her before it was too late would doom this world to Chaos; and second, far less likely, that the God-Emperor had seen fit to render her a Living Saint, a blessed angel of His almighty will. Truly, the latter would be a blessing for a mere Hospitaller such as Alexa, but it seemed more plausible that she'd been a latent, untrained psyker, and found her corpse possessed as her soul made its way toward the Emperor. If so, her body's destruction and the daemon's eradication would truly be the only mercy the girl could receive now.

The thought process ended as she and her allies entered the main hall at last, and froze up entirely as everyone in the room looked to them and grew quiet. Emperor be praised, Emperor have mercy, ran the mantra in the Hospitaller's mind again and again and again, until the attention finally left them as somebody approached their group, introducing himself as the governor of the planet. It wasn't exactly ideal, but all-told, one person's attention was far superior to every person's attention.

'We are grateful you invited us, Governor,' Alexa forced out, regulating her words just well enough to not sound like somewhat of a wreck. Otherwise, she was functionally mute. She couldn't really describe why she felt so concerned, merely that this situation was quite distressing for her. Seeking succour, she glanced toward her compatriots, wondering but not citing out loud if any of them might be willing to accompany her throughout the hall, so as to not get herself caught in another situation of that nature. She only hoped they'd be able to read her... not thoughts, but perhaps her expression, and eventually come to that conclusion.

Lisbeth was only half-listening to the conversation between her superiors; there was nothing of interest for her in their musings. Anything she needed to know, she would be told, and anything else was above her station. It was her holy mission to follow orders, not to eavesdrop on the conversations of others - even if those orders did take her to strange places. When the procession finally made their way into the staggering main hall, Lisbeth could not suppress a hushed "By the Throne!" Even after all the churches, chapels and holy places she had stood in, the scale and opulence of this place were amazing. She could scarcely see the ceiling, and all around her symbols of wealth assaulted her senses. Like a small child, she was swept away, pulled toward the glass case within which her arms and armour were sealed, stood upright by some unseen mechanism, Persephone and Permanence polished to a blinding sheen, the black plates of her ancient suit of armour cleaned and re-sealed, the sacraments inscribed on the plates given a new coat of ice-white paint, sharp and clear even through the thick glass.

Suspended behind the armour, the heavy strings of rosary beads coiled around two poles like the folds of some enormous serpent. A more sober woman would have seen them and thought of all the sins and failures they represented, and be still, but Lisbeth was not a sober woman. Totally ignorant of the nobles circling the room, Lisbeth fluttered from spot to spot, her mouth open and her eyes wide, like a child on a the morning of a feast-day. It was only when she realised that the rest of her sisters were being spoken to that she brought herself back to reality, and sheepishly made a quick retreat back to the Sister-Celestian's side. Given how quickly she had lost her head, Lisbeth thought it best she not compound her error by saying anything, and instead mumbled a half-hearted "Your grace," bowing slightly.

Horacio shrugged at the lack of response to his query on if they were looking forward to the event or not, realizing the answer was probably a decisive not, and his laughter at their predicament was most likely not earning him any favours... not that he needed them of course. For now, he decided his input was not needed nor helpful and as a simple syllogism the conclusion would be drawn that therefore he should stay quiet and stay quiet he did.

He examined Bovange disinterestedly, not really appreciating the architecture and such but only rather remembering the general layout of the city should worst come to worst and legging it was the only option.

As they proceeded to the 'preparation room' Horacio thanked the guide but politely declined following the Sisters, not particularly interested in any sort of preparation and preferring to leave them to their own business. Besides, he had to shift a thing or two before he could sit properly.

Indeed, as time came to properly meet the nobs and Horacio caught sight of the servitor checking for weapons his grip upon one of his firearms tightened, or rather clenched.

But... he passed? What? The Confessor was about to ask the man to see if the thing was defective until he realized what a bloody idiot he was. Most likely it didn't check for large traces of metal or some other technological nonsense he knew none of, it most likely just looked to see if outwardly there were signs of carrying arms or armour and his concealment had worked! He happily muttered praise to the Emperor, taking control of himself once more. After Alexa and Lisbeth had spoken the old man took this for his cue and nodded, doing vaguely holy motions and said "Blessings of the God Emperor of Mankind be upon you." It helped to tenderly pad the ego of such people was his experience, and thus went along with the simplest means of doing such.

Emperor how he hated this so much.

He hated wearing the robes that had been pampered and cleaned beyond what he normally did by himself.

He hated preening himself and ensuring that his beard was properly done up so that he might look presentable to pompous and stuck-up Imperial hierarchies.

He hated the meaningless, petty squabbles that seemed to occupy so many of those whom humanity had given the keys to rule. If he could choose between staying a night in a militarum camp beset by xenos or in a court such as this, he would take the soldiers any day of the week. At least they saw ceramite and adamantium and wished for more, rather than seeing it as an ugly necessity for their own protection.

His current dress was, in fact, one of two sets he owned. The other had been pockmarked by the battle somewhat, and so he would have to stitch it up by himself later, leaving him with this. If he was being strict with the rules of the Cardinals, he should only have been wearing this when posted to a reliquary or other important 'public face' protection job, but it could serve the same dual purpose that he was by being here. A white faux-fur ring around the collar held an implanted heater in case the crusader had to stand for hours on some freezing planet, whilst the length of the robes and the wide-collared hood allowed for his face to remain somewhat concealed. Indeed, to an unpractised eye little would differentiate him from any other reasonably-ranked member of the ecclisiarchy.

The servitor examined him carefully, and would find him lacking. Not so much as a stubpistol would grace his body... Although in truth that was largely due to his utter lack of proficiency in anything further-ranged than his spear, and it wasn't as if he could covertly bring in a man-sized polearm without arousing significant amounts of suspicion.

Then came the handsome man in the ornate uniform, and inwardly Marcus could feel his insides slowly scream out for release from this suffering. Many cardinals took to self-flagellation in order to prove their piety, but this... This was something altogether different indeed. Torture on a level that even the Inquisition might consider extravagant.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@Irredeemable

Inwardly Diokletian was just as, if not more, nervous than those that stood before him; these were representatives of the God-Emperor himself, including a priest and a Crusader, a group that drew no small amount of looks and one that gave him no small amount of respect amongst the nobility and upper echelons of Cekrov.

How he dealt with them now could possibly have ramifications for his future, possibly...best to err on the side of caution then.

"Thank you all for coming, it means much to me," he paused for a moment and frankly looked like a nervous child, "honestly, it means everything."

Watching a servitor as it made its way past, he casually grabbed a crystal glass from the tray it bore and took a small sip of the sparkling liquid within.

"Delicious, Elathian champagne," a smile spread across his face for a moment, his youthful eyes moving across the group to the arguably most religious representative of the group, both corners twitching, "but enough of that...eeer, my dear Confessor, it has come to my attention that you may be carrying a concealed weapon on your person." His smile did not drop as he took another sip from his glass, one finger moving to his ear here it tapped an almost perfectly concealed earpiece, "this could be construed as you believing yourself to be in danger here, I do so hope that is not the case? I assure you that you are all as safe here as you would be on Terra itself."

A bit of an overstatement perhaps, but the soldiers of the Palace Guard here were not the usual stuffy and ornate fixtures of many others. No, those of the Cekrov Guard were a dynamic and well-trained collective, led by Diokletian himself as it happened.

The rather different behaviour of Lisbeth made him smile even wider, and he eyed her sparingly as she made her way back to the group; it seemed that at least one of the Sisters had a curious mind, that was good.

"Ah...will you all please excuse me for a moment," came the imploring question, his finger once more tapping the bead in his ear, "it seems that business never stops for a Planetary Governor!" With the same cool smile and a slight whiff of mild perfume he disappeared past them and out into the corridor beyond.

Victorine had only been faintly listening, spending more time looking over the crowd than to the speech of their host, only now seeing the look on the face of the poor Hospitaller.

"I believe we have a choice here, to split up and..." a look of nausea seemed to pass over her otherwise beautiful face "...'mingle' while finding out what we can about the reason we came here, or to go our own way and find out what we can by ourselves; it could be seen as a lack of respect or ungraciousness on our part though."

It was true that such shared decisions were becoming more than a little annoying to the Celestian (who woul rather be giving orders than running a democracy), but being well aware that most of the group were more than a little uncomfortable in these social situations, she had to give them the choice to return to their quarters and then find their own way to the truth or not.

Well. Sister Lisbeth was, at least, enjoying the scenery. Though with that said, most of the rest of the party seemed as uncomfortable with this situation as Alexa did, albeit in their own ways; even Sister-Celestine Victoria was rather absent from the conversation, though Alexa wasn't exactly proving herself best in that regard either. Paying attention to all others' reactions was as much as she could do to distract from her own poor mood, and even then she could feel her hands wringing over themselves and her tool glove repeatedly, despite forcing them back to her sides again and again.

Ultimately, she found a focus for her distraction in the form of the Confessor's smuggled weaponry. On the one hand, she felt somewhat vexed that not only had he done other than asked, but that he was essentially allowed it with little reprimand from Governor Diokletion... not, more reasonably, that the governor could do anything about it even if he wished to. Besides which, a store of weapons was probably sensible to have to hand, just in case enemies ambushed them, and they all required a means of defending themselves.

Then came Sister Victorine's query. Mingle and ask about the girl, or leave and find their own answers. And every mortal nerve in Alexa's body wanted to say, so eagerly, that they ought to make haste away from there. It would be sooo easy... but, alas, the Emperor did not reward ease. He rewarded those who cleaved to his will - and his will had brought them this far already, had it not? Despite Alexa's petty physical reaction, she by all rights had to do as the Emperor bid them.

'I'd stay, Sister,' she managed to squeak out, her voice tiny and nearly inaudible over the crowd, but for their current proximity to one another. There, she'd mustered her strength and made her choice. But... was it strange, some part of her pondered, that she didn't feel especially strong at that point, despite having forced her fears aside? Actually, she rather felt like there was a vice on her chest, compressing her response ever more acutely. It was not pleasant, by any means.