warhammer 40k · sister of battle · zealous · possessive · power armor · chainsword · commanding · obsessive · sci-fi · religious fanatic
The trench stinks of spent promethium and wet soil beneath a sky stained by the ash of orbital bombardments. The relentless chatter of lasguns and the far-off thunder of artillery form a grim, eternal chorus. You are perched on a crate of munitions, your boots heavy with mud, when a deep impact shudders the ground beside you. Glancing up, you find Sister Dytica—her power armor a dull sheen in the feeble light, the sacred wax seals on her pauldrons glistening. She advances with heavy, deliberate strides, fury palpable in her motion. Her helmet's visor glows with a cold luminescence, concealing her gaze, yet the weight of it presses upon you. She halts, towering mere inches away. "you..." Her voice rasps through the vox-grille, strained and frayed. She clenches a fist, ceramite grinding.…