For another change of pace, I would like to present a short passage from author James Swallow's first book regarding the Sisters of Battle, Faith and Fire.
From his high vantage point, the Emperor of Mankind looked down upon Miriya where she
knelt. His unchanging gaze took in all of her, the woman’s bowed form shrouded in bloodcoloured robes. In places, armour dark as obsidian emerged from the folds of the crimson
cloth. It framed her against the tan stonework of the chapel floor. She was defined by the
light that reflected upon her from the Emperor’s eternal visage; all that she was, she was only
by His decree.
Miriya’s lips moved in whispers. The Litany of Divine Guidance spilled from her in a cascading hush. The words were such a part of her that they came as quickly and effortlessly
as breathing. As the climax of the declaration came, she felt a warm core of righteousness
establish itself in her heart, as it always did, as it always had since the day she had discarded
her noviciate cloak and taken the oath.
She allowed herself to look up at Him. Miriya granted herself this small gesture as a reward. Her gaze travelled up the altar, drinking in the majesty of the towering golden idol. The
Emperor watched her over folded arms, across the inverted hilt of a great burning sword. At
His left shoulder stood Saint Celestine, her hands cupped to hold two stone doves as if she
were offering them up. At His right was Saint Katherine, the Daughter of the Emperor who
had founded the order that Miriya now served.
She lingered on Katherine’s face for a moment: the statue’s hair fell down over her temple
and across the fleur-de-lys carved beneath her left eye. Miriya unconsciously brushed her
black tresses back over her ear, revealing her own fleur tattoo in dark red ink.
The armour the stone saint wore differed from Miriya’s in form but not function. Katherine
was clad in an ancient type of wargear, and she bore the symbol of a burning heart where
Miriya wore a holy cross crested with a skull. When the saint had been mistress of her sect,
they had been known as the Order of the Fiery Heart – but that had been decades before
Katherine’s brutal ending on Mnestteus. Since that date, for over two millennia they had
called themselves the Order of our Martyred Lady. It was part of a legacy of duty to the Emperor that Sister Miriya of the Adepta Sororitas had been fortunate to continue.
With that thought, she looked upon the effigy of Him. She met the stone eyes and imagined that on far distant Terra, the Lord of Humanity was granting her some infinitely small
fraction of His divine attention, willing her to carry out her latest mission with His blessing.
Miriya’s hands came to her chest and crossed one another, making the sign of the Imperial
aquila.
‘In Your name,’ she said aloud. ‘In service to Your Light, grant me guidance and strength.
Let me know the witch and the heretic, show them to me.’ She bowed once again. ‘Let me do
Your bidding and rid the galaxy of man’s foe.’
Miriya drew herself up from where she knelt and moved to the font servitor, presenting
the slave-thing with her ornate plasma pistol. The hybrid produced a brass cup apparatus in
place of a hand and let a brief mist of holy water sprinkle over the weapon. Tapes of sanctified parchment stuttered from its lipless mouth with metallic ticks of sound.
She turned away, and there in the shadows was Sister Iona.
Silent, morose Iona, the patterned hood of her red robe forever deepening the hollows of
her eyes. Some of the Battle Sisters disliked the woman. Iona rarely showed emotion, never
allowed herself to cry out in pain when combat brought her wounds, never raised her voice in joyous elation during the daily hymnals. Many considered her flawed, her mind so cold
that it was little more than the demi-machine inside the skull of the servitor at the font.
Miriya had once sent two novice girls to chastisement for daring to voice such thoughts
aloud. But those who said these things did not know Iona’s true worth. She was as devout a
Sororitas as any other, and if her manner made some Sister Superiors reluctant to have her
in their units, then so be it. Their loss was Miriya’s gain.
‘Iona,’ she said, approaching. ‘Speak to me.’
‘It is time, Sister,’ said the other woman, her milk-pale face set in a frown. ‘The witch ship
comes.’
In spite of herself, Miriya’s hand tensed around the grip of her plasma pistol. She nodded.
‘I am prepared.’
knelt. His unchanging gaze took in all of her, the woman’s bowed form shrouded in bloodcoloured robes. In places, armour dark as obsidian emerged from the folds of the crimson
cloth. It framed her against the tan stonework of the chapel floor. She was defined by the
light that reflected upon her from the Emperor’s eternal visage; all that she was, she was only
by His decree.
Miriya’s lips moved in whispers. The Litany of Divine Guidance spilled from her in a cascading hush. The words were such a part of her that they came as quickly and effortlessly
as breathing. As the climax of the declaration came, she felt a warm core of righteousness
establish itself in her heart, as it always did, as it always had since the day she had discarded
her noviciate cloak and taken the oath.
She allowed herself to look up at Him. Miriya granted herself this small gesture as a reward. Her gaze travelled up the altar, drinking in the majesty of the towering golden idol. The
Emperor watched her over folded arms, across the inverted hilt of a great burning sword. At
His left shoulder stood Saint Celestine, her hands cupped to hold two stone doves as if she
were offering them up. At His right was Saint Katherine, the Daughter of the Emperor who
had founded the order that Miriya now served.
She lingered on Katherine’s face for a moment: the statue’s hair fell down over her temple
and across the fleur-de-lys carved beneath her left eye. Miriya unconsciously brushed her
black tresses back over her ear, revealing her own fleur tattoo in dark red ink.
The armour the stone saint wore differed from Miriya’s in form but not function. Katherine
was clad in an ancient type of wargear, and she bore the symbol of a burning heart where
Miriya wore a holy cross crested with a skull. When the saint had been mistress of her sect,
they had been known as the Order of the Fiery Heart – but that had been decades before
Katherine’s brutal ending on Mnestteus. Since that date, for over two millennia they had
called themselves the Order of our Martyred Lady. It was part of a legacy of duty to the Emperor that Sister Miriya of the Adepta Sororitas had been fortunate to continue.
With that thought, she looked upon the effigy of Him. She met the stone eyes and imagined that on far distant Terra, the Lord of Humanity was granting her some infinitely small
fraction of His divine attention, willing her to carry out her latest mission with His blessing.
Miriya’s hands came to her chest and crossed one another, making the sign of the Imperial
aquila.
‘In Your name,’ she said aloud. ‘In service to Your Light, grant me guidance and strength.
Let me know the witch and the heretic, show them to me.’ She bowed once again. ‘Let me do
Your bidding and rid the galaxy of man’s foe.’
Miriya drew herself up from where she knelt and moved to the font servitor, presenting
the slave-thing with her ornate plasma pistol. The hybrid produced a brass cup apparatus in
place of a hand and let a brief mist of holy water sprinkle over the weapon. Tapes of sanctified parchment stuttered from its lipless mouth with metallic ticks of sound.
She turned away, and there in the shadows was Sister Iona.
Silent, morose Iona, the patterned hood of her red robe forever deepening the hollows of
her eyes. Some of the Battle Sisters disliked the woman. Iona rarely showed emotion, never
allowed herself to cry out in pain when combat brought her wounds, never raised her voice in joyous elation during the daily hymnals. Many considered her flawed, her mind so cold
that it was little more than the demi-machine inside the skull of the servitor at the font.
Miriya had once sent two novice girls to chastisement for daring to voice such thoughts
aloud. But those who said these things did not know Iona’s true worth. She was as devout a
Sororitas as any other, and if her manner made some Sister Superiors reluctant to have her
in their units, then so be it. Their loss was Miriya’s gain.
‘Iona,’ she said, approaching. ‘Speak to me.’
‘It is time, Sister,’ said the other woman, her milk-pale face set in a frown. ‘The witch ship
comes.’
In spite of herself, Miriya’s hand tensed around the grip of her plasma pistol. She nodded.
‘I am prepared.’
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