As Horacio noticed the amount of onlookers, he momentarily felt nervous when so scrutinized, but this quickly only stiffened his resolve. If he didn't show these arse clenching bastards what for then the slow descent to heresy was all but guaranteed. A grim face came upon him swiftly as he more seriously looked upon the Diokletian fellow. He made a mental note to not partake in the fizzy wine, for who knew exactly what something so tenderly described would contain? No, there wouldn't be funny chemicals in store for Horacio today oh no!

Just a single bead of cold sweat rolled down the pudgy Priest's neck as it was mentioned that he had a weapon upon him. Just as the man would begin to leave, Horacio would speak, hoping he'd be too busy to reply and thus making his... interepretation the one that other listeners would get. "Weapon? Oh no dear governor, this business? But a ceremonial toy!" He said, pointing to the truly ceremonial, if nonetheless face splattering maul. "Worry not!" He'd emphasize.

Still, the gag was up in many ways and atleast some nobles present here would be disillusioned from the image he found it best to build in such situations. Thus, he scoffed at Victorine's suggestion. "Well, if you insist." Horacio said, waddling off uncomfortably. Between height, girth and apparel one would be able to quite tactfully say he was larger than life. Still, he felt he could do at least some measure of intentionally unintentionally overhearing conversation. Likewise, this would allow him to search for some sharp knives - preferably of the mono-molecular variety - to further augment his small arsenal.

Still, he also made sure that he always had sight on each of his Sisters at the same time. Odd business was happening here, this reception more and more felt like a diversion and with how they were splitting up to mingle and speak Horacio could not help but feel that the small troupe was falling right into the hands of some malign force that was orchestrating this business. However, Horacio didn't have enough supporting evidence or concretely framed thoughts to actually share with Victorine, so for now he could do nothing but stew in his suspicions.

As safe as they would be on Terra? Not in the slightest. He could see no less than three potential ways to infiltrate this place with a weapon, not to mention that the servitor would likely not be scanning for those made from unconventional material. An assassin had once snuck by all security sensors, only to lunge at a confessor under his protection with a knife made from some sort of plastics. That had been... Surprisng, to say the very least. Rubbing his eyes a little, he would watch as the governor fluttered away, turning to the leader of the group as she spoke.

"I'm afraid I'm ill-educated on what exactly we might be looking for. Not to mention that this situation... I am far from at ease here. I shall remain here, perhaps talk with some of the guards and see if they have anything to say to one that is more like them than..." Well, than the pampered nobles and the stern-looking sisters. Admittedly Marcus was hardly the average guardsman, and yet he often found that they preferred to discuss matters with a fellow of military bearing, rather than someone who was so clearly a zealot.

That being said, the priest had the right idea. A weapon- any sort of weapon... Well, he couldn't say that it wouldn't be beneficial. Taking measured steps so that he was walking alongside the slightly portly man, he would lean down and mutter a few words into his ear. "The best place to find armaments will be where the staff of this event are gathering."

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@Irredeemable

So it was that the Ecclesiarchal delegation was hosted by the absent Diokletion De'mange for what seemed an outrageously long time, as far as the Sister-Celestian was concerned. Indeed, they made their way through the ranks of the high-and-mighty of Cekrov and gleaned precious little by way of information concerning a resurrected young girl; oh they all thought it was truly miraculous, if it was even true, but the bulk of Patrician faces scoffed at the very idea – even in front of representatives of the God-Emperor's own Adeptus Ministorum.

It was with little reluctance that Victorine regathered her group to her side, a none-too-difficult task due to how these haughty civilians moved aside in the wake of every single one of them...Alexa being the focal point of much of the whispering and non-corporeal pointing.

As she suspected, among the money and the elite of the planet there was little joy at the tale of one of their farm labourers offspring returning to life, especially since the small-folk gathered round here as if she were some sort of beacon of hope. Hope was something that Victorine had learnt that nobility and aristocracy on Imperial worlds would prefer their subjects generally not to have too much of – she disagreed only a little, too much hope did tend to give masses of people harmful ideas in the long run.

“We shall retire for the night,” she announced to the group, already pondering on the elongated absence of their host as she spoke, “tomorrow we continue our search with fresh eyes; I have already requested we be taken to the site of the resurrection, and the request has been excepted.”

With a curt bow she retired from the hall, and then retired even further back into the Sisters shared chamber, first making sure that her armour and weapons were where she had left them. Satisfied with this – whomever had cleaned them really had done a fine job! - she knelt down at the side of her bed and intoned a prayer or five to the God-Emperor. When at long last this was done, she was finally able to strip herself of the blasted clothing that she had been forced to wear, preferring to clamber into the far-too-soft bed in only her undergarments than wear it for one second longer.

Bidding her Sisters a good night and an untroubled sleep – harder said than done, the death of Caroline even now circulating through her head – she slipped into a restless slumber that was anything but calm.

---

---

Rising with the dawn as was usual, Victorine cleansed herself in the accommodations overly decorated shower, thinking on the day and task ahead as the warm liquid cleaned her body.

From there it was back to the arms and armour, a blank-faced servitor being summoned to assist her in dressing herself. It was a luxury she knew, usually she would have simply dressed herself, but as they said 'when on Terra' and all that. The entire process went so smoothly that she genuinely considered putting in a request for her own servitor upon their return to the preceptory and Taniea Primus.

There was little enough time for food, although some was provided for them – a mix of leftovers from the nights revelries it seemed – before the Celestian made her way to meet with the Emissary of the Governor once more.

“A very good morning Sister-Celestian,” he droned at her from within his facial grille, “you are prepared for our journey?”

“I am,” came the reply, no doubt all of them as ready to leave the precincts of Bovange just as much as she, “we wait upon my fellows, then we may depart for the countryside.”

Emperor be praised.

The party dragged on for far too long. Lisbeth's place was not to be standing around waiting for the liquor to stop flowing - her job was to bring the fires of retribution to the enemies of Man, and she was trapped here standing awkwardly in the middle of a hall, half-drunk nobles all around. Outside the sun dipped below the horizon, and the thin fabric of her pink dress was little protection in the chilly hall. The partygoers in their layers of finery - most probably laced with thermal generators sewed into the garments - did not seem too bothered. One made eye contact with Lisbeth as he approached, a thin, lanky young man with slicked-back hair and a brown fur coat fastened with a gaudy, golden aquila. "Siiiister," he said, intonation rising and falling with each long vowel, "a pleasure to meet such a...radiant servant of the Imperium." He leaned into Lisbeth a little, a glass full of sparkling wine swinging dangerously with each movement and threatening to topple altogether.
"Thank you," mewed Lisbeth. This was not what she was meant for, and these interactions came awkwardly to her - much easier to be among her own sisters, without the need to exchange complicated preening words.
"No, thank you, for gracing us with your presenccce," the baron smiled, swaying gently. The stink of alcohol on his breath and the red in his eyes betrayed his intoxication. Lisbeth suppressed the urge to cringe, and smiled a little too broadly. "Baron Torsten Ingvarsen, dear lady," slurred the sloshed youngster. He was barely a few years older than Lisbeth, but the cracks in his features were a clear mark of a life lead too-comfortably, with all forms of sensual gratification available at a moment's notice.

Lisbeth coughed politely, clearing her throat with a hand across her chest as the baron came closer still, and Lisbeth took a polite step, small enough to be mistaken for a gentle chance of stance, away from the baron's clammy skin, and then another, before she found herself backed against one of the filigreed walls of the great hall, hidden by the shadow from a statue to her left. "I've always admired your sort, sister," said Torsten, "selfless servants. I wish all those in my employ were so dedicated to their role. Many resent the fate the Emperor has ordained for them." A sweaty hand landed on Lisbeth's shoulder, and a chill ran down her spine. "Perhaps, later, we can retire to my chamber to discuss-"

Lisbeth did not allow him to finish the sentence. She was not a fool. She knew exactly how it ended, and though she kept her mind clear of such impure thoughts, she was aware of the sins that others indulged in. Lisbeth was all too happy to help this lost soul mend his ways, starting with a vice-like grip around his loins, squeezing down hard. Strangely, Baron Ingvarsen became quiet, and his eyes wide. "I am a daughter of the God-Emperor, and I am not your whore. I have slain witches, aliens, heretics, and creatures you wouldn't be able to imagine in your worst nightmares. You get any closer and I will tear it off, and even Sister Alexandra will not be able to repair you." For a few moments the two were still, with Lisbeth's eyes locked with Ingvarsen's, tears welling.
"You - impudent-" Another sentence Lisbeth would never hear the end of. As Ingvarsen raised a hand, Lisbeth clenched her fist tighter and yanked down, drawing a squeak from the baron, who promptly collapsed in a drunken heap, whimpering.
"I trust you will see milord Confessor before we leave, baron. Enjoy your evening," said Lisbeth, satisfied that she had done her duty for the night, and made her way back to her quarters with a carefully concealed smug grin.

Lisbeth wasted no time in taking off the ridiculous costume she'd been ordered to wear, and was glad to be back inside her robes after a swift wash, but found herself unable to sleep. After trying most of an hour in prayer, she conceded and decided to at least use her time usefully, preparing for tomorrow's labours. With her arms and armour under lock and key, her only option was to try and learn more about the planet - and, inevitably, the miracles. A servitor, standing sentinel over the libraries, was only half-helpful, and it took Lisbeth another hour to find the records she sought - the few witness statements from the rural communities the girl had travelled in. At the start, she was professional, but quickly the adoration in the records drew her in, and Lisbeth was utterly sure that this was a true Living Saint. Her mind raced with possibilities, of lost friends who might be returned - and of His restoration. If this girl could be brought to Holy Terra, the God-Emperor's internment in the Golden Throne might finally come to an end, and all the strife and misery Man endured could be brought to a close.

She slept well after that, her dreams filled with hopeful thoughts and the dream of a perfect Imperium, free from heresy, mutation, and the baleful influence of the alien. All this could come to pass, dreamed Lisbeth, if only she did her part. She rose before dawn, and was ready and eager for the day's work when the group assembled in the hall. She was practically giddy, and she could not resist a warm smile as she acknowledged the arrival of her fellows with a nod. "Is-is it time to go?" asked Lisbeth, with the demeanour of an excited child.

Alexa could swear the room had turned into naught but a sea of whispers and endless eyes at some point, for all the nobility looked to her, gestured at her.

She really didn't have much else to observe on the matter. At some point between her decision to stay and the leave called upon them by Sister-Celestian Victorine, her mind decided it'd rather not remember the majority of the event, even though she was nonetheless conscious and somewhat functional. She could safely note, though, that of the nobles who had said anything at all about the resurrected girl, none had any useful, concrete information. Perhaps they ought to have left after all. Then again, they'd... she'd... almost certainly made the Order of the Transfixed Saint look pathetic. No, no, no, they'd never say that was so, not the nobles nor her fellow Sisters, but surely they'd believe they were weak, she was weak, by dint of her own flaws showing through.

She considered flogging herself for a while before falling to slumber. Instead, once she had all but torn the outfit given to her away and replaced it with her usual robes, only a minor alleviant of the tightness around her torso, her frantic mind dragged her to the dataslates of the local medical bay for some light reading.

Technically, it was the position of the Orders Famulous, the Thrice-Fold Tongue her own order's sister sect in that regard, to receive the teachings necessary both to maintain the faith of the nobility and monitor them for corruption - but it was also not unheard of for somebody to fall into the hands of a Hospitaller, only to fall into the custody (however short-lived) of the Sororitas when it was learned there was some subtle corruption in them. Records were kept of these events, signs to bear witness to, especially in those who seemed outwardly untouched by the ravages of Chaos, and Alexa forced herself to browse through them, slate by slate. Odd behaviour. Twitching or uncommon stillness. Tongues, of course. Naturally, what differences there were to non-Chaotic illnesses of the physiology. Internal mutations. Prayers under their breath, at times, in particular with no sign of the Aquila held or made. Even subtle things like too intense a glare or a glance pretended away from...

---

Or perhaps she only dreamt of reading up on these symptoms, for she awoke the next morning face down on a table, distinctly recalling finding nothing of the sort in the civilian medbay. Yes, that was right. She'd only meant to look through the local logs for information on odd patients, using her own mind to reference the symptoms of corruption, and at some point, she'd clearly lost consciousness and imagined she was looking through such a secretive database.

...oh dear. She'd fallen asleep in a medical office. Apologising profusely to the head of staff for the inconvenience ("None whatsoever, I promise! I'd never deny a resting place to one of the Emperor's finest!" And yet, the matter concerned the Hospitaller long after the fact), she returned to her room, caught up on the flogging she'd proposed to herself last night for about fifteen minutes whilst praying vigorously for forgiveness, abluted herself of the aftermath, then- with servitor assistance, an unusual but reasonable enough affair- finally returned to wearing her power armour and all the associated gear, the constricting space a blessing that at last, paradoxically, allowed her heartrate to slow and her breathing to slow after most of a night of forcibly-repressed hyperventilation.

And the lack of decent rest chose then to strike her, as did the soreness from sleeping on her cheekbone with her back bent over. Not to mention the self-flagellation. Her morning meal consisted of a few of the various leftovers from last night's reverie, and a hefty dose of recaf that set her pulse racing in all the wrong ways again. At least it let her function somewhat normally. By the time she felt ready to present herself to the governor's emissary as instructed, helmet firmly on even with its faulty, aggressive vox, the average person almost couldn't tell she had been up half the night doing research.

And by contrast, Sister Dominica was exceptionally eager to meet the revived farmgirl. Would that Alexandra herself could be so optimistic; realistically, Sister Lisbeth was setting herself up for disappointment. But, optimism was hardly a bad thing under most circumstances. And if she was right, well... though nobody else would be able to see it, Alexa forced herself to smile. Yes, this was going to go well. She would believe it was going to go well. She had to believe it would.

Emperor, may you show us the way. If this girl is truly one of yours, make it clear that she has received your divine blessing, or else let it be known that she is befouled by the taint of the Warp that we might purify that taint posthaste. In your name, we march ever onward.

The Confessor was... well, he was not particularly enjoying himself and this lack of enjoyment only multiplied as each knife or other improvised weapon he put about his person made walking a lot more uncomfortable. The threat of something sharp poking into your important bits because you moved your legs the wrong way, well, not quite pleasant at all! The Confessor walked by a particularly interesting confection and was ever so tempted to take a bite, but even if he could find space for it in his quota of indulgences he simply could not risk the possibility that some nasty business was in it.

Horacio walked onwards from the table, deciding he'd find something else to use his time on. He could of course break into prayer right into the midst of the place but well, as much as one shouldn't care for appearances when it comes to devotion to the God Emperor it would truly be unbecoming.

The aging man decided to busy himself by sweeping his glance across the scene to see the status of all the Sisters and happening upon that of Lisbeth, grinned. He sauntered over just as she was finishing with him, in that special quiet way older people can when aiming to discipline someone. As the man moved to stand up the Confessor gave him a bonk on the head with his rosarius, a bit of incense coming out to also choke the man as he struggled for breath. "Oh dear me, I do apologize. Your lordship please let me help you arise!" Horacio said, offering the man a hand which he was perhaps unwise to refuse. A knee came to his nose which flattened across his face and the Confessor gave a partially mock stumble, imitating the elderly clumsiness he knew too well. In this stumble he dropped one of the knives he stashed away, the keen monomolecular edge falling down to pin the Baron's hand to the ground. Satisfied with the effect, the Priest squatted down beside the fellow and brought his head up to rest on his shoulder as quite suddenly Horacio embraced the man and even caressed his back.

"There-there…." he whispered. "I know you're not a bad man, but you're a bloody daft fellow if you thought you could try to solicit lewd acts from a Sister of Battle without repercussions. So I will tell you how it will go from here. You repent, you give alms, you lead an upstanding life being fair to your peasants and leading them by example in piety while distinguishing yourself from the other nobility by the very same piety. You will thus prosper and be smiled upon by the Emperor for - at heart - you most likely aren't a bad man. You can of course ignore my advice, but your life expectancy would thus be that of a babe upon a skewer in flame. Good day, citizen; Emperor guide your hand." Work finished, Horacio retrieved the knife and went decided that much like the Sisters he would now seek rest.

The man waddled to his abode, not particularly bothering to undress as he dropped into his bed with thoughts racing. He was not sure of what forces were present here, so as a forethought he barricaded his door before giving it a few blessings. He made sure to organise a few notes to be ready to ask the so called Saint a few questions and he made sure to clean his weapons in preparation for all sorts of nefarious possibilities of the nature of the lass. Time passed as he considered all possibilities and he wasn't even aware as his eyes shut and he fell asleep.

---

Quite serenely, the Confessor woke. He rose with a stretch, looking back as his hat fell off of his head. He placed thing back into his head after splashing some water on his face, feeling well rested. He sat down with a data slate for some quick reading until his eyes caught sight of what time it was. Not believing them right away he rubbed them and once making sure it really was time, Horacio smashed aside his improvised barricade with his power maul and ran on to meet the other Sisters.

Reaching them just as he was in his last breaths, he greeted them cheerfully. "Top of the morning, Sisters!"

@Andreyich@BCTheEntity@jbeil(@Irredeemable)

Some time later...

Victorine allowed herself the slightest of smiles as she felt the stiff breeze move through her hair and over her pleasant features, the facial movement leaving almost as soon as it had arrived however, the constant droning on of the Governors cybernetic emissary making sure she had not a moment of silence to enjoy an otherwise Emperor-blessed journey through the Cekrov countryside.

Emperor it was good to be away from Bovange - an entire city of desperate and sycophantic nobles, some might even call them corrupt in the non-Chaotic sense (although maybe she would see about that later?) - the wide-open pastures that made up the primary produce centres of this planet reminding her of former lands and more...agreeable missions for the Preceptory.

"This village, emissary, does it have a name?"

"And that i- excuse me Celestian, pardon?"

"The village where this girl returned to life, does it have a name or do the nobles on this planet give them numbers?"

"I believe the workers call it Sarton, it is a small community of some hundred or so peasant-workers under the charge of Baron Terminus Gaspar, this 'resurrection' has greatly reduced output."

A grunt was all that this last statement elicited, those keen eyes taking in the blue skies and the unpolluted air associated with many agri-worlds, and the smile ever-so-slowly returning.

---

Sarton was indeed a small community, so small that everyone knew everyone and one person's business was as much theirs as it was anothers, and production had indeed descreased with the spooking of the villagers/workers, but that was nothing compared to the scene that awaited the group and their escort.

It started with a hint of thick black smoke rising above the low-down rooftops in curling arcs, the flicker of flames igniting thatched roofs and mainly wooden cottages - something not seen on many Imperial worlds at all - the last breaths of the dying and the wails of the mourning.

To their credit the two squads of Cekrov guard that had accompanied them were on their guard the moment they spotted the carnage, gloved fingers resting on triggers and steady hands holding gun stocks to shoulders.

Victorine's hand went to her bolt-pistol as soon as the tang of battle hit her nostrils, a loud word from her bringing the convoy of light grav-transports to a halt just in front of the road into the village - a road which would lead directly to the village green and the middle of the settlement.

"Emissary remain here, and if you could send your soldiers around the fringes of the town to encircle and secure, then I would be most thankful."

The Sister-Celestian was already moving to scoop up her helmet and place it over her head, drawing her blade and gesturing for her fellow Warriors of the Emperor to do the same, her enchanced senses picking out the smaller details of bullet casings, accelerant used to hasten the fires, and the audibly louder cracks of receeding auto-gun fire from the other side soon to be joined by the lighter snap of las-fire.

Lisbeth hadn't stopped smiling throughout the whole trip. The trip through the countryside was a blessed relief from the hot, turgid air of the city, and a gratefully-recieved reminder of all that He had given mankind. Fields of crops waved in the breeze as the open-topped carrier moved along tarmaced roads, birds tweeting between belches of low, monstrous noise from the carrier's engines. Hours passed quickly for the sister, rapt in a sort of childish joy as the world rolled past, though the rest of the crew did not seem to share Lisbeth's fascination for the world of Cekrov and the quiet, humble agricultural work that continued as they moved by, work that had continued for tens of thousands of years and would continue for tens of thousands more, with every soul content with their place, clearly defined by His plan, with no need for thought or doubt or consideration, only to hear and to obey and to please Him. It was a beautiful future, and it would come to pass soon.

"Sister," Lisbeth had asked Alexa, after hours of chirping about how wonderful this world was, no doubt boring the enlisted men to tears in the process. "When we get to Sarton, and we bring the saint back to Terra, do you think we will get to see Him? I hope we get to see her raise Him. What do you think will happen when He is returned to us?"

Whilst Sister Lisbeth's sheer joy was admittedly infectious, Alexa couldn't bring herself to be quite as optimistic as her sister in arms. Certainly, the world was wonderfully pleasant on the eye, and it'd be truly glorious to bear witness to a resurrection on a scale as grand as that - and yet, her prior fears stuck, the possibility of possession over Sainthood holding in her mind, and even if this girl could revive the dead with His holy power, if using His own power to restore Him was at all possible, the difference in scale between a mere mortal and the long-dead body of the God-Emperor Himself was as a comparison of the masses of heretics and the Imperium's benevolent rule.

"If He is brought back to us by our actions," Alexa quipped, "then I imagine He will reward us greatly - or else, allow the prestige of such a grand act to be its own reward," she added somewhat belatedly. The negative tone imparted to her words wasn't entirely the fault of the vox this time, though she would certainly play it off as though it were if queried. It wasn't that the idea was grotesque to her, of course it wasn't! But it seemed very unlikely to come to pass.

"When He returns," continued Lisbeth, totally unfazed by Alexa's measured scepticism, "I think I'd like to be on a planet like this. After all, once He comes back to us, there won't be any need for us to fight, will there? The heretics and traitors are bound to see the error of their ways, and I'm sure there's no way any aliens could possibly bother us with the Emperor walking amongst us again." Within her mind, Lisbeth felt the warm smile of a father, and she knew exactly who He was. "I know," she said, to the voice of the Emperor, silent at the moment. He was probably busy preparing for His imminent return, that would explain why Lisbeth couldn't hear Him. "Sisters? Sister-Celestian?" A loud clunk from the engine stole her words away, and she satisfied herself in continuing her conversation with the gigantic Hospitaller opposite. "I think I will miss fighting for Him, but I'm sure what awaits us will be far better than any other victory, right, Alexa?"

"It'd certainly be nice to have all our problems solved with His return," Alexa nodded. "But, even when He was present during the Great Crusade, He couldn't be everywhere at once... though, if the Living Saints are envoys of His power, perhaps He could present Himself to all and sundry through them?" It was unusual for Alexa to speak so much, but that idea did make her feel a bit better: the God-Emperor had ways of projecting himself.

"We didn't know the nature of the Enemy then, though. Without the advantage of surprise, there's no way they could ever stop Him a second time." The earliest spark of a thought questioning how the Emperor could have been beaten at all was born, and then swiftly crushed, a perfectly conditioned mind squashing all traces of doubt. "As long as we obey, He will be our shield." Lisbeth cast a glance behind her, as the craft began to crawl up a gentle hill. "Do you think we're nearly there yet?"

"Mm. You aren't wrong." Alexa considered Sister Lisbeth's words, then wondered what it was that made her so... optimistic? Certainly not dense, but she was so certain that this girl would be a Saint, and so convinced that the Emperor's eventual return would be the balm to all their worries... was Lisbeth a more faithful servant than herself? Possibly. She couldn't help but recall her violence on Athega Tertius - the death of a comrade drove one to righteous fury at times, of course it did, but after they'd been told to hold them prisoner for interrogation...

She put it out of her mind as Lisbeth asked whether they were there yet. "I imagine we're not far off," came Alexa's response, leaning out of the craft a bit to get a better view... only to catch sight of black, oily smoke, just over the hill. Oh, no.

"...but we might want to be ready for a battle," she murmured, thumbing her bolt pistol in its holster. Optimism was excellent for providing an ideal to aim for, of course... but sadly, realism tended to provide a more accurate image of how things might turn out, on the whole.

Lisbeth hadn't stopped smiling. Permanence was laid at her side rather than on it's strap, Persephone hanging limp at her hip. She even found time to wave at a group of peasant children leading a grox-cart during the conversation, and they'd returned the gesture. This was a quiet world, it seemed, and outside of the temptations of the city the simple hard work kept the people free from distractions or improper thoughts. She wondered if those children had ever seen a servant of the Imperium before, beyond statues and the tales of their elders, and if in years to come they would tell their own children about the time they saw the avenging angels of the Ecclesiarchy. "What do you mean, Sister?" Lisbeth's eyes travelled to follow the direction of Alexa's gaze, and as she saw the plume of smoke rising from the distance she realised, with a terrible dread, what the Hospitaller was talking about.

"No..." Her pale skin turned almost grey, and her eyes grew cold and glassy as the promise of paradise seemed to be stolen away. "Tell me that's not Sarton." She turned to Victorine, to Alexa, and back, pleading. "Please! It can't be..."

Now, as the convoy rolled to a halt and the group caught sight of the burning cottages and the wails of the dying echoed across the hills, Lisbeth's smile died.

And there went the optimism. Frankly, there wasn't much to be optimistic about - houses were aflame, people were dead and dying, and they had evidently arrived much too late to prevent whoever had invaded from achieving their goal. Whilst this gave a little more credence to the idea of the girl being a Saint, it also rather suggested their goal was to kill her - unless, of course, that possession had simply led to the inevitable.

Alexa said nothing more to Lisbeth, but drew her weapon at Sister-Celestian Victorine's command, stepping out of the craft once it came to a halt. Gunfire was audible, meaning this was likely an external raid - meaning, they needed to act quickly if they wanted to salvage anything resembling a potential Living Saint.

"Sister-Celestian, I believe we should confirm whether the girl has perished or been captured, and pursue her kidnappers if so." She didn't like to suggest something that was probably obvious, but she felt she had to make the statement just in case. There was vengeance to be sought her, for certain, but also victims to rescue, and potentially one of extreme importance to the Imperium.

Lisbeth's heart fell heavy, and her previous optimism gave way to horror, and then despair. Not again, she thought, strapping Permanence back on as she hopped out of the carrier. They cannot take Him from us again! As she absorbed the scene, her mind turned once again, this time from despair to anger. "Sister-Celestian," she growled, in a tone quite unlike herself. She sounded more like the Confessor, or perhaps even the bass drone from Alexa's faulty helmet. "Orders? Permission to engage?" she urged. Lisbeth could feel her arms beginning to shake, and her hand drew closer to her sword and the clutch of grenades around her waist, rather than the longer-range (perhaps, the more sensible choice) bolter.

The smell of burning flesh stirred her soul with an incandescent rage. They were so close to the Saint, to mankind's deliverance, and once again, the Enemy had stolen Him away from his loving subjects. If the Saint still lived, Lisbeth would find her, and her captors - or murderers - would be torn apart in a fountain of gore before she was done with them. Be my Sword, Lisbeth, spoke the Emperor, and the slight twitches betrayed her eagerness to bring justice to this tragic scene. Selfishly, she hoped Sister-Celestian Victorine would not notice her reddening eyes, and the welling of enraged tears beneath the tattoo on her face.

Much like Victorine, Horacio was glad to have left the stuffy city. Nasty buggers, the people there. He expected to find better souls rurally, although of course there was the issue of the Saint who could prove to not be quite so saintly but he did not let that spoil his time. On the trip to Sarton the Confessors remained quiet, not having anything to remark and deciding to not waste his breath or time on mindless chit-chat when this was the ideal time for quiet introspection and freshening of the lungs. Emperor knew what his body had gone through in all the industrial dystopias and cramped vessel quarters he spent most of his life in. But he wasn't ungrateful, no, for without hardship one could not know respite, without suffering one could not know joy.

But it seemed there was not a consensus on this. Lisbeth and Alexa seemed to buzz on some nonsense, nonsense that Horacio most certainly did not approve of. A bushy eyebrow was raised and an undignified mustache furrowed. He silently came from behind the two of them, about to give the chastising of their lifetimes but alas, it would not be. He grunted in slight annoyance as it seemed that some smoke had distracted the group, until the full gravity of the situation dawned upon him. "Bloody hell...." He muttered, raising his shotgun. It really wasn't something good in combat, but it was something useful for morale and general appearances that the Confessor kept the first shell of his shotgun unchambered. It thus meant it wasn't wasted when he pumped the weapon meaningfully, and pointed towards the village with his power-maul.

"See the perfidy of the enemy!" he bellowed, making sure that the men that accompanied the Ecclessiarchy's representatives heard his cries even as they left to encircle the place as ordered. "A village serene is burned by them, a place of innocent men and women working devoutly is razed to the ground. See their lies when they claim they fight for the common man, see the so truth of their claims to being warriors in the name of just society. They are the very perpetuators of the same villainy they may claim to fight! The enemy will kill all and provide no reward save inflicting more suffering. Those we fell today will learn this lesson, but far, far too late! They did not listen when a man as myself spake to them Holy words, and so you see the wisdom in hearing all that men of the faith say. But a single missed lesson will degrade you to the degenerates that we slay today, but a single impure thought unrepented will bring a man to such lows that he will have no escape save the Emperor's peace!"

Horacio paused, both for breath and to examine what he had just roared for accuracy. Satisfied for now, he continued. "For even proximity to such villainy entices one to it, as degeneracy begets degeneracy! Depravity births depravity! The cycle must break and the breaking of the cycle begins with each man and woman present. Steel your hearts my Brothers, let Holy Zeal guide your hand my Sisters! Fear not the bullets of the impure, cast aside their blades for they are naught but another test for the completion of all will feel their blessed reward! I say, who among us will be found wanting for vengeance upon the heretic? Who will be found with a clean blade? None, for it is a holy united front we present, the skill of and arms of any individual of them naught before the united zeal of us all. Let them know fear, let them tremble and coil as retribution comes for them, let this be a lesson to all who stand before the will of the Emperor! Emperor, guide our hands."

The Confessor originally wanted to end with a "charge!", or a "forwards!", but this wasn't a Frateris Militia and having everyone rush mindlessly at the foe wasn't what the Sisters did... or well, sometimes it wasn't what they did. Thus, he simply made sure to make a firebrand sermon of this event and do his best to make blood boil for battle before leaving the tactical nitty gritty to Victorine. All he needed was a direction to shoot.

@jbeil@Andreyich@BCTheEntity

The Sister-Celestian did her best to take to heart the words of the Confessor, well chosen for the situation and inspiring to the extreme to those of true faith - it just may have been better had there been more people around to hear them.

Making sure that her comrades were about her - and more than prepared to smite the unbeliever with righteous fury - she advanced cautiously into the settlement to find out what awaited them...

...and what she found filled her with an anger that could only be quenched with the blood of the enemy.

They say that you never get used to the stench of burnt flesh, of scorched skin and cloth, of non-combatants slaughtered mindlessly by fanatical heretics, and the smell directed toward you by a softly rising wind and filtered through helmet sensors could not make it any worse.

"Emperor guide my hand," muttered Victorine inside her sallet-style helm, treading as lightly as she could through the central part of the village - the sound of combat on the flanks only increasing with each pace - the outlines of corpses picked up in the highest definition by her visor, burn markings, bullet holes and blunt-force wounds as visible to her as if she had been kneeling next to them.

"Be ready sisters," she spoke into her helm-comm, her fingers twitching at her trigger "the enemy is near."

On either side rose up what had previously been thatched abodes, cottages inhabited by Sartons former workers and farmers but filled with nothing but ash, flames and death since the enemy came.

Speaking of which...

The first enemy to even be seen was a curled up body, one that had clearly been beaten to death by an angered populace as shown by the bodies surrounding it, as well as the many marks and broken limbs of the deceased. Although a cruelly carved mask of wood covered the face - shaped roughly into a screaming face engulfed in sharp cornered flame - the size, weight and long hair showed them to have been female, not that you would be able to tell by the flame-blackened hands or the orange factorium worker fatigues that pointed to a more urban origin.

Now not far from what had once been the village green, it came as no surprise that the number of corpses rose and the smoke thickened, autogun fire echoing from all around, the largest surprise was yet to come!

---

---

Corporal Delafare squeezed off another shot from his las-pistol, giving a smile as his bionic eye confirmed his target was dead, the shockingly organised ranks of the orange-clad enemy giving his troopers a hot fight indeed...one that would only get hotter.

Everything came to a head when he heard the screams and smelt the stink of melting flesh and flak of his soldiers, flames flickering out to consume two more as Delafare yelled for them to fall back to the village centre.

Flamer-wielding enemies came forward - large packs visible on their backs, swishing with flammable liquid - fire pouring forth and driving the Cekrov soldiers back.

Organised as it was, it was nonetheless a withdraw.

---

---

"Sisters, to the left!"

Cekrov guardsmen came sprinting from the left flank, lasguns cracking even as they came, herded back by fire and flame and a mass of masked heretics firing solid-slug weapons into the air as much as at the enemy.

Highlighted by the sensors of her helmet Victorine picked out at least fifteen attackers surging through the ruins of the village, at least three of them using flamethrowers to melt person and home with impunity, the Cekrov guard forming up around the living figures of the God-Emperor's wrath to regather morale and strength.

"Heed the words of the Confessor, my kin, and destroy these heathens with bolt and with blade. Attack!"

Mercy to those innocents fallen today. Damnation to those who would slaughter so many.

Alexa really didn't have much else to consider here. Or rather, she didn't want to consider the possibilities too much at the present time. For now, there was need to slay a foe, and a crude mask on one such corpse made it simple to determine what future enemies would look like. And, admittedly, brought a touch of relief, for it was clear that possession was not the cause of such devastation.

The enemy in question arrived on the heels of a brigade of guardsmen. And, thank goodness, the guardsmen this time were seemingly on the side of the Imperium. Their foes, the heretics that had evidently brought such slaughter to this place, seemed... well, ineffective. Certainly not enough to break their morale, not with the Adepta Sororitas to rally around - and that, somehow, brought a touch of joy to Alexa's heart. They were symbols of the Emperor's might and righteousness - and, at Sister-Celestian Victorine's command, she brought her bolt pistol up toward the foes facing them.

It seemed obvious that the biggest threats to guardsman and Sister of Battle alike were the flamers. Whilst it normally had her stand out from others, here Alexa's unusual height gave her the advantage of being able to see over the throngs, to identify those with flamers at the ready - and then, with a burst of pistol fire for each, to snuff them out before they could cause further harm, their masks shattered and their heads turned to paste by the bolt rounds detonating inside their skulls. Three trigger pulls, three dead heretics. Retaining the final round in the magazine for the moment, she quickly reloaded, hoping the rest of the heretics here could be quickly dealt with by her allies.

With his speech done, the Confessor walked along calmly with the Sisters feint drops of sweat rolling down his cheeks in no time. He really didn't like what was happening here, he had dealt with all sorts of villainy but he still couldn't get used to this sort of thing. Wet whiskers stuck to his skin prompting him to wipe his face with his robes every so often.

The group stumbled upon a corpse, surrounded by several more. Horacio gave a kick to the head of the dead heretic woman to make sure she was indeed dead, before giving a blessing to the populace that killed the traitor. They had beaten the enemy to death, and they were heroes of the Imperium as such.

Quickly activity came to their scene, as the crack of lasguns announced retreating Guardsmen being pursued by traitors. They were apparently running from flamers, understandable given the fact they did not have power armour or any shielding to prevent promethium from getting to their flesh and turning them to goo.

But retreat wasn't an option that would be tolerated in context, especially given how he saw Alexa raise a bolt pistol to pick off the flamer armed heretics.

"STAND AND FIGHT!" he roared at the Guardsmen, firing a shot to the sky with his shotgun. Hopefully having caught their attention with the loud blast, he produced his power maul and raised it at the enemy in his best attempt at a heroic stance. "Forward, we shall overcome them!" he cried before charging at the enemy. He knew his rosarius in conjunction with carapace would protect him from the enemy's small arms and so he could lead from the front by example with the hope his display would get the soldiers to turn and likewise begin to fire their weapons at the traitors.

The Confessor's words were not lost on Lisbeth. For a few moments, she stood on the green, ignorant of the fire around her, barely even aware of the shrieking bullets and the hiss of the las-blasts fizzing through the air. She rolled to the floor as a sweeping beam cut the air where she was standing, and fiddled with the grenades tied to her waist, pulling a cluster of three from underneath her rosaries. Gripping the pins in her teeth, she yanked down, and then lobbed them towards the enemy, hunkering down for a count of one, two, and then pushing herself up with her arms and legs, launching herself towards the burning buildings. As soon as she was visible again, the door-slam bang of the grenades went up, tossing dirt in all directions, maiming those between the two little cottages where the bundle had come to rest. While two of the traitors ducked behind a discarded cart to check on their companion, Lisbeth flicked the toggle on the side of her bolter and let loose with a stream of full-auto fire, recoil straining her wrist as she fired, pounding the area with explosive bolts.

When the gun clicked empty, she released it, allowing the heavy weight to hang from the leather strap, and instead drew _Persephone_, screaming as she vaulted over the cart, delivering a steel boot to the face of one of the traitors. The other fumbled with his pistol, landing two glancing shots on her shoulder that would leave superficial burns but otherwise did little to stop her furious advance. She crushed the side of his skull in with the pommel of her power sword, before sprinting across the way as a stubber opened up with a cracka-cracka-cracka drumbeat, spouts of earth launched around her feet as she made her way to cover, to take breath for a moment.

As she breathed, two more came around the corner, armed with shotguns, and they were the faster to react. The taller one, a grim-faced soul with a thin mop of red hair, unloaded two quick rounds into Lisbeth's gut, shards of metal embedding into the black surface of her armour, scratching away lengths of white scripture carved into the plates. None penetrated to her flesh, but the impact left Lisbeth stunned for a moment, and would lead nasty bruises later. The second thrusted a bayonetted rifle towards her, shining metal blade heated up by the flames, and caught the join between her greaves, slicing deep into her hip. To her shame, the frenzied sister cried out, before punching aside the shotgun now levelled at her head, and rode the momentum to spin, catching the rifleman with the heavy edge of her vibrating blade, the power field stripping away flesh and bone as she hacked through his chest, leaving him with a gaping wound along her side.

Blood seeping from her own wound, Lisbeth's leg gave way, and she sprawled to the floor, a race between her and the red-head to grab the nearest weapon. The shotgunner had a head start, but the conditioned reactions of a true warrior were faster than the advantage of surprise and treachery. Grabbing the discarded las-rifle, Lisbeth jammed her finger into the trigger, pumping six blasts out towards the shotgunner, two striking him in the gut and a third in the middle of the chest before he collapsed, smoke rising from the scorch-marks on his flesh. Behind her, the striken heretic stirred, and she rolled, squealing as her hip twisted and the torn muscles rubbed against the dirt, locking an iron fist around the traitor's throat. He did not have time to choke before the sister crushed his carotid artery, his brain barely aware of what had happened before he sank into the darkness.

When she tried to stand, she found herself crippled, barely able to do much more than crawl, and resolved herself to keep fighting, reloading her bolter, and aiming it squarely in front of her, waiting for the next treacherous soul who dared to test themselves against a servant of the Emperor...

@BCTheEntity@Andreyich@jbeil

Delafare could only watch with barely contained awe as the three Sisters and the Confessor - his speech as fine as his facial hair - launched themselves into action, his own Troopers being put to shame with every passing second. The Corporal was what one on Cekrov may consider a 'veteran', as in he had seen combat other than just small-scale skirmishes, but never before had he got to fight alongside and witness the capabilities of the Ecclesiarchical fighting force that were the Adepta Sororitas.

"Rally yourselves!" He yelled as loudly as his voice would allow, the heat from burning buildings and the stench of burning bodies making his unprotected eyes water, his throat causing him to choke partially on his words even as he squeezed them out, "soldiers of the God-Emperor, to me! To me!"

The ingrained conditioning of following orders, and the very real devotion to the Cult Imperialis - a form of worship embedded in them since childhood by red-robed priests and even redder-faced schoolmasters - gave the withdrawing Guard a jolting backbone of steel, scattered soldiers forming together once more with Delafare as an anchor; moments later and he had organised them into a ragged but formed line of bristling las-weapons, fixed bayonets reflecting the crackling flames of the ruined village.

"Soldiers of Cekrov, for Sarton, for the God-Emperor... To the Confessor, Charge!"

His own ornate chainsword whirred into life as his thumb knocked the activation stud, the noble features twisting beneath his cap into one of fanatical hatred of these unclean and impure cultists. One thing was indisputable; he would die before shaming himself in the eyes of his God and his chosen warriors.

---

---

Even as the loyalists flung themselves at the Archenemy soldiers, and as Lisbeth showed her piety by shedding more than her fair share of blood (hopefully this would not become a habit...) Victorine was making her way around the conflict, having slunk away just before the combat have devolved into close-quarter brawling; she had decided that rather than seeing the searing cottages as an obstacle she would use them as cover and a place of unexpected ambush.

With one hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of her powersword, the other relaxed but ready on the trigger of her bolt pistol, she forced her armoured bulk from one side of a nearby building to the other. Now, while it was known that Sororitas armour did not provide the all-consuming protection of their Astartes allies, the pattern of armour she clad herself in was enough to stop her burning to death, becoming a living candle as so many heretics had become by her own hand, and more than enough to splinter obstacles and walk with purpose through weakened walls between rooms.

Ave Imperator.

An unexpected sadness overcame her as her visor picked out the crumbled human forms pressed against one wall, a man with his arms wrapped about a smaller female figure, both now no more than charred remains; why with their armour could not the Sororitas have been given the transhuman and unfeeling emotions of the Space Marines as well? Would she really have wanted to feel nothing as she looked upon the pitiful corpses, probably farmers of this village who had done no wrong or harm to another.

God-Emperor grant me vengeance.

When she finally emerged from the inside of the cottage covered in a layer of debris made of ash, paint and plaster, she took some small measure of joy in imagining the looks of surprise and shock behind those hand-carved masks - suddenly a servant of the Emperor had burst through a wall, out into the alley connecting the village green to the edges of the settlement, her blade already flicking out to catch a stilled adversary in the throat.

Somewhere to her right she could hear the Imperial forces pressing into the orange-clad butchers, their resolve already weakening and only diminishing with ever passing moment, while to her left - at the entrance to the passage - she expected the second flanking force to arrive at any moment in support of their comrades.

"Flee for your lives traitors, for I have no mercy to give."

Much like Alexa her voice was robotised by the vocaliser of her helmet, the words coming out as more of a bellow than a spoken sentence, the closest heretic drawing back as her prescence eroded the religious indoctrination of the Ruinous Powers, others preparing to sell their lives as dearly as possible before meeting their uncaring deities.

A trio of nasty looking bastards took it upon themselves to risk the Celestians wrath, a broad women and two men encircling her like carrion around a corpse.

The first did not even have time to raise his stubber before a bolt imploded his face in on itself, gore and brain matter flying everywhere as his body crumpled to the ground, his compatriots given enough leeway for the second man to bring a studded club down on Victorine's outstretched arm even as the woman opened up at close range with a six-shooting stub pistol.

Both closed in as Victorine kept her (she suspected broken) arm at her side, sharp breaths making their way in and out of her lungs - made so by the solid rounds punching into her gut but failing to penetrate through into flesh.

As the man raised his club to beat her over the head, Victorine doubled over fleetingly, she lunged forward and skewered him in a sizzle of cauterising flesh and blood; the look on his masked face was like enough one of angered shock as he died.

"You bitch!" Screamed the wide-shouldered woman, lifting off the mask to reveal a screwed up visage of pure hatred, eyes burning into Victorine worse than any bolt or blade ever had. It could be that rage and emotion blinded her, but rather than firing into the struggling Celestian she instead went to pistol-whip her senseless. Victorine could not truly believe her luck, releasing the hilt of her sword and bringing one circled fist right into the face of the already repugnant woman while the other grasped hold of her incoming wrist; slowly-but-surely she crushed the wrist, the feeling of snapping bone giving her immense satisfaction, her free limb drawing back and hammering into that face again... and again... and again... and again..

Having been paying little attention to her surroundings, a rookie mistake that she would chastise herself severely for at a quieter time, Victorine was relieved to see flashes of purple making their way through the orange - the Cekrov Troopers had made their way from one side of the village to the other in the nick of time.

God-Emperor be praised.

---

---

“I guess we'll be heading into the mountains next then?” It was both a statement and a question from Corporal Delafare, surprisingly the highest ranking officer left of the Cekrov Guard escort, his face a mask of well-concealed concern, “for that is where they have fled too.”

Once the enemy forces had routed, stragglers cut down by blade or blast and without mercy, a concerted effort had been made at an ad hoc cleaning operation. Everyone from the surviving inhabitants to the Sisters had done their part, Delafare wisely using the time to request further reinforcements for an expected pursuit into the Cekrovian 'Wynrock Hills'; these were much less hills however, instead being a series of towering mounts riddled with more holes than a heretic after a firing squad.

“I do believe so, Corporal,” answered Victorine in affirmation, the Celestian seated atop a crate taken from one of the transports, her arm tied close to her body in a sling – not fully broken but not entirely whole either - “although from what you have described it will take an army to traverse all the furrows and passageways of the Wynrocks.”

“That is lamentably true, my lady; we would find the cult eventually, of that I have no doubt, but...”

He could only shrug, a gesture that Victorine generally despised, it meant that no-one truly had any idea how long it could take or what the ramifications could be come the eventual end.

A sigh escaped her lips as she rose from the crate, now at least a head taller than Delafare and giving him the briefest of grim smiles, turning away from the rudderless man and striding across the village green to where a temporary medicae post had been assembled. It was here that the wounded Troopers were taken, as well as Sister Dominicia, Sister-Hospitaller Christina doing all she could for the lot of them and more.

“Thank you for this,” she said by way of greeting and making herself known, lifting her arm an inch or so from her chest, moving to stand beside the giantess of a warrior-healer and surveying the bodies – those that moved and those that did not – with eyes as dark as mahogany and as deep as a calm body of water.

“How goes it? How is our foolhardy sibling?”

Although she asked the questions, and genuinely cared for the answers, her eyes went not for the first time to the weapon that Lisbeth wielded in disregard for proper command structure, armament regulations, and that seemed to get here into so much trouble – that sword, Persephone... They would have a talk about it, once she recovered, of that there would be no doubt.

With all said and done, and her fair share of cultists eliminated, next came the task of ensuring the injured did not remain so for long. With the town so devastated, there was only one place where she could keep the injured: the village green, where those not mortally wounded lay, at her bidding pressuring their wounds to slow blood loss if need be. Of course, most who had been mortally wounded were either long dead, treated first, or given the Emperor's Mercy by this time, which left only those with less severe injuries - even up to Sister-Celestian Victorine's broken limb, though she was at least able to move about in a sling until the deep tissue injection of medigel restored the arm to working order, with gratitude duly acknowledge by the Hospitaller. It certainly helped that a couple of the civilians present were healers in their own right, able to assist with the majority of injuries accordingly, albeit requiring the training to do so.

The issue, Alexa found, was that her supplies were limited to what was present in her suit without access to immediate facilities. Certainly, curing one person's major injury was a cinch with the technology at her disposal, but she could not fix everybody present so easily if she worked like that, else she would run out of that which made it possible; thus, for all but the most serious injuries, she was forced to make use of minute doses of curative substances and primitive techniques of stitching, bandaging, slinging and fracture manipulation (with a stick for the sufferers to bite down on), and herbal cures based largely on local recipes and the few supplies that survived intact from the local hospital. Even her own wounds remained untreated: whilst limited to just a few flesh bruises under her armour from bullet impacts, and what felt to be some form of strain injury from how her left arm kept tweaking a nerve when it moved in a certain way, she forced herself to work through them. They could be handled later. Emperor's mercy, the bruises wouldn't even affect her ability to fight or heal - though the strain injury seemed a bit more restrictive, and certainly something to diagnose once she had the time.

Of course, being addressed by the Celestian, this information was relayed as requisitioned, along with news of Sister Dominica: 'Her wound has been stitched up, and medigel has been applied to heal it quickly. She should be combat ready by the time we reach the mountains.' Indeed, whilst anaesthetic had been rationed primarily to those who would die of shock if their pains weren't adequately soothed- again, largely those who would die without prompt care anyway- the medigel had largely been reserved for they who would take the fight to the cultists beyond this avenue, hence primarily the soldiers under Corporal Delafare and the Adepta Sororitas tasked with retrieving the Saint. It pained her to leave a good number of villagers without immediate healing, but for the good of the planet and thus the Imperium as a whole, it had to be done. In any case, it was likely they would need to relocate sooner rather than later anyway, given how badly damaged their town now was; they'd be able to seek further attention and reassignment to new harvests where they wound up, so long as they didn't reopen the injuries prematurely.

In the meantime, more people needed assistance. Alexa continued to apply herself where she worked best, reminding herself that the fact she was able to help at all meant it was worth her presence here. That was what mattered, after all - the continued livelihood of those she could attend to, and swift passage to the Emperor's side for those she could not.

The Confessor didn't turn to look back, but he was fairly satisfied that after his rallying cry he heard the movement of feet followed by munitions flying over either shoulder to show that it worked. As he reached the enemy, he was pleased to find the first few men he planned to give a taste of the old maul had already died in the counter-charge of the loyalists. But there were still more than enough to go around and with a low pitched growl he swung his weapon hitting a too late to dodge heretic right in the stomach. That part of the man affected was flattened, before hitting the ground making the poor fellow bisected. The next one seemed a little more clever, ducking under the first swing of the Confessor, then the second and jumping over the third. As his feet hit the ground the villain extended a cleaver bearing hand to get Horacio by the armpit where his carapace wouldn't protect him. It hurt oh how it hurt, but the Cleric squeezed pressed his arm to his torso so the man couldn't retract his blade back and in his surprise got a kick in the fork. Craning over in sudden pain the warrior didn't have long to suffer as his head vapourized thanks to a swing from the maul.

The Confessor was bleeding, and already the mere two kills had gotten his aged body some tiredness. But a rage at the sight of everything before him filled his veins and he couldn't even wait to end the next foe in melee combat. His shotgun was unslung and the rack of the slide was the only thing that would precede things going dark for a heretic. A hearty laugh emanated from the geezer as he almost perfectly imitated the two kills with his maul by first splitting a crying man in two, before having his blast liquefy another man's head. He forced it down as it seemed combat was dying down, and the frog-like laugh from the belly wouldn't be appreciated (especially if casualties were taken). Horacio scoured the battlefield, looking among the dead heretics for those who might still be alive. A quick thump with the maul would make sure they were dead very fast. It wasn't a mercy killing, oh no these men deserved to die. But he knew that as one's last energy escaped them it often left altogether giving some men a chance to give a final pull of the trigger.

A slight whistle was under his lips to take his mind off of the blood coming from his armpit, he had more urgent things to do. He took out his Rosarius and reached for some incense, using the power-field of his power maul to ignite it and let off some smoke. Waving his Rosarius in one hand and swinging the smoke-belching maul in another Horacio walked around the battlefield muttering a simple prayer under his breath. After several minutes of this he finished his words, and went to a clump of the Cekrov Guards. "Oi, you lot." He said, motioning to them with his power maul. "Gather the bodies of the foe, and their weapons. Pile it up so I can burn it. No nicking any of their shit or you'll end up just like them... come on, get to it!" he bellowed, giving a few authoritative waves of his maul to them. Watching them to go on following his not exactly orders because a Priest can't order a soldier but he can do much much worse he picked up a dropped tabac stick of one of the men, and with a single heavy pull finished the entirety of the thing's length.

He followed the troopers, leaning on his maul with his hands on the handle to make a rest for his chin. Noticing the dripping of blood again he reached for a handkerchief he brought with him, rolling the thing up and then squeezing it between torso and arm just as the cleaver not too long ago. With that done he went back to watching the soldiers in their duty, pointing out if they missed an ear or a magazine or knife on the ground, even telling one of the men to get a rag and soak up a puddle of blood in it after he noticed the man's grumbling. When the Guards were finally done he told them to sod off, before going to the foul smelling pile. Horacio removed a tank of promethium from one of the flamers and poured out its remaining contents across what was about to become a pyre leaving a few droplets to make a trail for ignition. He dropped his bloody rag on it, before striking down with his maul again to have the powerful set it all ablaze.

"Dies Irae Dies Illa...." The Confessor sang, letting incense smoke join the foul haze made by all the dead burning. This was a job that had to be done right away. Many worlds thought they dealt with their corruption when they simply killed the heretics and buried them somewhere far off or even dumped their corpses in a forest. But be it plucky children digging in cursed graves or animals consuming flesh of the damned, if improperly disposed of the presence of heresy would always resurface almost cyclically until eventually a loyal world would fall. Finally, with this duty done he put away all his tools of trade and approached his group. He didn't really say anything, he didn't have much energy left in him but he had enough to listen to wherever it was deemed they would go next.

@BCTheEntity@Andreyich@jbeil

Night was coming to cover what had been done at Sarton that day - the ruin, the glory and the pain of it all - thick layers of cloud hampering any pursuit of the orange-clad enemy, the result being small groups of weary returning Guardsmen and women who only wished to rest and replenish themselves.

It was well past midnight when lights were spotted on the road approaching the village, half-a-dozen armoured cars and at least three Chimera APCs coming to a halt just at the fringe of what had once been a thriving settlement and agricutural society. Now all but dead and gone.

Ranks of Cekrov troopers piled efficiently out of the transports, a stern looking Captain making it so that dear Corproal Delafare was no longer the officer in command - nor did the exhausted man look any the worse for it, having sat silently as Horacio made the rounds to take confession and give a moral boost to those that would soon face their twisted countrymen again.

As Victorine stood talking to a young Guard sergeant she was very much interrupted, the Emissary making its way over to her in what seemed to be quite a lot of haste; what spurted from its grille-mouth came out as the same emotionless drivel as always, but the words made the Celestian grit her teeth and give a deep growl of irritation.

"My lady, the Governor's secretary sent an urgent message. It appears that the palace itself is under attack. We have been ordered to return to the capital, while our soldiers proceed against the enemy in the mountains."

If the saint was truly in the mountains then by all laws she should go and help... but if the Governor truly was under attack... why did the God-Emperor have to bring such hard times upon her and hers?

"By the Throne," she said in frustration, "let us go and relieve our good Diokletion De'mange then. Lead on, Emissary."

---

---

A militarily enforced curfew had been placed upon the capital by the time they arrived in the early hours of the morning, Victorine inwardly bemoaning the lack of sleep but also well aware of her duty and how it would like to voice such opinions openly.

As they made their way through the streets there was not a soul to be seen, lights flickering in windows and shapes and shadows but no more, troopers patrolling the avenues and streets with caution and hesitance, their pinched-face expressions showing that, although they were taking the situation seriously, they were nevertheless shaken by it.

The Palace of Bovange loomed ahead of them, figures silhouetted by flame moving about from vehicle to vehicle, the Palace Guard and PDF facing toward the Governors residence as if expecting an attack from within.

"There were multiple teams of them," confirmed a stuffy Guardsman when questioned, his head moving from the group back to the palace more than once, "they entered the palace dressed as dignitaries, servants... and guards."

Victorine could not keep a scowl off of her face, pressing the shorter man for more information. How many exactly? Where did they go? Was anyone leading them?

"I do not know exactly, but they have the Governor trapped within his own chambers, a hostage."

"Have they given any demands?"

"Yes... they want him," the man pointed to the silent Emissary, the half-man giving no sign of anything disturbing him, "and the Sororitas that had come to this planet, I am sorry m'lady."

The Celestian gave a grunt as she pulled her arm from the sling across her chest, Sister Alexa having made sure it would be of some use at least, a quick movement showing that there was pain but nothing she couldn't keep under control for the moment.

"Well?" She asked the others who had been stood nearby, "I would suggest a rapid insertion to seize the Governor, but we are not at our full strength and I do not wish to risk further lives."

She recalled Sister Adalard and her face grew dark, her expression illuminated by a shimmer of flame - what had once been the main doors into the palace, now so much burning timber.

"Nor can we simply allow an Imperial Governor to be killed, otherwise I would have not bought us back here."

She looked at the towering Alexa, then to the Confessor and his impressive facial hair, and finally at the battered-but-standing Lisbeth. The last being the one she feared for the most.

"What say you Sisters? Confessor? How we proceed here will shape the future, I believe."

The immediate aftermath of the battle eventually transitioned into the general state of post battle and with the flight of time slowly just became an unpleasant memory. When the moment presented he took the confessions of the soldiers present, which - to be frank - he didn't very much like. Yes, it was a very necessary part of any Preacher's service, and the thought he disdained this duty when his title was quite literally that Confessor gave him a vile ache in the heart. But really he suffered hearing all the sins that these men he would have easily mistaken for model citizens of the Imperium had done. Really, it was just another sign that he was getting old further demonstrated by his reluctance to hand out some of the penances that he did. Cekrov was not the type of place he could really with good consciousness recommend a man pay off his service to the Emperor by donating to the government either, which limited the amount of things he could tell a person to do for salvation. Still, he managed to get through with it until dire news came; the capitol itself was under attack. A very nasty thought came to the Confessor, but he had to give it some consideration before he voiced it lest he be dismissed as a bumbling old fool.

---

The streets of the capitol were quite, and if the Confessor hadn't been privy to things that obliterated the minds of many he'd have used adjectives like "eerie" to describe them. Often enforcers and other paramilitaries got paradoxically lazy during a curfew. Even though at such times it was their duty to be twice as on guard, many found the fact nobody was out and about as meaning that there wouldn't be any trouble. He didn't like this, and in some sentries he was looking upon this was more than evident. At the same time, he knew it was hopeless trying to go to every man and tell him to stand up straight and not wipe his nose with his sleeve.

At last the quartet reached the palace, greeting the guards and vice versa. What they were informed of was simple enough by itself, but given all that had happened prior.... When Victorine turned to the squad asking what they desired to do, Horacio made a polite motion for he Sisters to follow him away from earshot of ne'erdowells. There were two thoughts occupying his mind, and he knew that by their vile implications it was rather unlikely the Sisters would be happy to hear them, even if well meaning once someone swept away emotion blocking reason. Of course, he wouldn't blame them for angered reactions, he knew if he heard someone say the same thing he'd likely give them a strong clipping around the ear.

"My Sisters... I am not entirely sure yet, but I believe we may have been made fools of. The Saint... well, I am having a vile feeling the entire story was fabricated for the mere sake of prompting our arrival and the taking of you for... some purpose, I do not know. But the governor must somehow be rescued. Obviously giving in to the demands of the heretics is unthinkable, the very words hurting my tongue. However, there is an old saying I am sure you are acquainted with: fight fire with fire. We have been tricked, and with trickery we may respond. You armour is your main identifier, I very much doubt they know you by face. I am sure it would not be difficult to take three peasant girls and put them in it before passing them off as you. Of course they will discover our treachery very fast, but I do not think we will need much time once the governor is secure. But...." Horacio trailed off momentarily. "I'm but a humble Preacher with a fancy title, fundamentally a man of words. You on the other hand are warriors, and I am sure can prepare a better plan to wrest the governor from the vile hands of the eternal enemy."

When the order came to turn about and abandon pursuit, Lisbeth's heart sank. She knew her place, but to allow the enemy to get away with such a perfidious crime, not just against the humble people of Cekrov but of all Mankind, and leave only the Guard to chase the enemy rankled. Her arms ached to swing her blade in pursuit of vengeance, and an iron will burned inside her to pursue victory, at any cost. But I know my place. The Guard would flush out the foe, and if the Saint still lived, she would restore Him as soon as possible, and all of the fighting and struggle would finally come to an end, with the God-Emperor awakened to protect His people in the flesh once again.

Being asked for input was not a comfortable position for Lisbeth. She was a warrior, and a servant of the Emperor, and through the chain of command ordained from the Golden Throne itself she humbly accepted her orders and her mind was pure, too small for doubt. The responsibilities of command and decision-making she left for those who were her superiors, and until He ordained that she should be fortunate enough to be lifted to their position it was not the little nun's place to assume that she knew any better than anyone else. That said, she had been ordered to offer her opinion, such as it was, and a loyal servant obeyed without question. Already her thinking had approached too close to questioning, and she would set herself penance as soon as practical.

"Sisters, I suggest that we storm the palace and destroy the enemy with all prejudice. If the Governor's life is forfeit then he will reside at the Emperor's side as a martyr. If the enemy lose their nerve and flee, we will chase them down and destroy them. I am loathe to place the lives of the peasants at risk to take part in...lies," she spat, as though the word were bitter poison, "but it matters little. If we are faithful, we will be victorious. The taking of hostages is the act of a coward, and such cowardice cannot stand for long against our faith. Few as we are, perhaps we might split our numbers, to create the impression of a larger force - or perhaps we might use an alternative route," she suggested, tapping the tip of her chin with an armoured finger. "Confessor, Sister-Celestian, do you have the authority to commandeer a flying machine? If the enemy expect us to storm their gate...maybe we should attack from the skies instead?"

What I wouldn't give for a few Sisters-Seraphim right now.

At last, hours later, her work was done, and the villagers were healed to the greatest extent she could manage. Then came the order to move on - but not in search of the Saint. The capital had been attacked, and they were to head on to save it from whatever corruption had taken it... Alexa blinked beneath her helm as she realised how sleepless this night would be, but they had no right to sleep when such peril came upon those who ruled the planet. The Emperor's blessing, then, that it'd be done with soon - and that they'd be able to end the threat to the Saint in kind, if they could.

---

The curfew was, perhaps, a blessed thing. At this time, it meant civilians were not travelling the streets, or more likely rioting in the streets for sheer panic. In some ways, that made their job easier - and in others, it made it harder, as a night attack wound up bypassing the usual pleas for assistance and subsequent additional support that might have been sent in the day. Unless the attack had begun prior to nightfall... so many possibilities, and yet the end result was the same.

So, too, was the end goal quite clear, once they arrived: rescue the governor, by any means necessary. The problem, of course, being that the heretics within demanded the Sororitas give themselves and the Governor's Emissary up to that end... and that was unacceptable, frankly. It couldn't be done. It was inconceivable, and for what purpose? They were just making demands because they felt they could, and surely wouldn't keep their promise if they got their way, heretics never did such a thing, they'd lost the Emperor's favour and so they imagined themselves utterly untouchable-

Alexa caught herself as she realised she was losing herself to needless fear. She need not fear. She could think about their options, as Sister-Celestian Victorine ordered of them. For a moment, she simply breathed deeply, expelling her worry as best she could with fresh oxygen and an inner psalm to the God-Emperor, and by listening intently to the Confessor and Sister Dominica's suggestions. The Confessor's idea, preceded no less by his unhelpful suspicions that they had been duped, seemed risky - aside from anything else, no peasant girl present would match Alexa's extended frame, and even if they did, Alexa could hardly agree to risking an innocent for her own sake. Meanwhile, Sister Lisbeth's plan was simply outrageous: to let the Governor die as a martyr was as ridiculous as it was unnecessary, and they couldn't hope to "storm the palace" without themselves forfeiting their lives. Death was no consequence, certainly, but to do so with no reason...

Something she said sparked an idea in her, though. "An alternative route". What if... and the very thought was a little strange for her, but since it was more or less their ideas anyway...

'If I may, Sister-Celestian?' she queried, continuing quietly once she'd been given the go-ahead, 'I imagine a full assault would end poorly. For a mission this sensitive, the longer we can keep the heretics from acting, the more time we have, as the Confessor suggests. If... granted, I wouldn't send any number of innocents to their doom, but if we equip some women with our armour and guns... we can leave them outside the palace as if debating the terms given at length, whilst we sneak in armed with melee weapons.' She gestured to the Sarissa on her belt, a silent monomolecular weapon perfect for such a role, even as the idea of slitting a man's throat in cold blood soured her guts, heretic or no. 'Once the governor is out of immediate harm's way, you could call in the Astra Militarum to swarm the palace and purge the heretics, whilst we escort him to safety proper. Perhaps a shuttle landing in a pre-determined location for our pick-up...' Well, a flying vehicle was what Sister Dominica had eventually suggested, right? That made Alexandra's heart flutter slightly more slowly in her chest. She'd find a way to handle the matter, just as Sister-Celestian Victorine would decide how best to handle this matter.