Faction His Sons & Daughters

Iria de Germania

Sister Superior
Iria de Germania
Her sisters were ready for the battles to come, as was their gear, but while faith was good elbow grease was the medium through which the Emperor's blessings flowed. It was with this in mind that she'd gathered her squad and set them to doing a thorough check and deep clean of their war gear. It was white, and silver, and gold. The colors of their Order, the Singing Sisters. It had to be pristine before battle or else it wouldn't show the work of their faith after. That would be unacceptable in the extreme, the Emperor deserved the full measure of their bloody worship. They questioned not, their faith every bit as strong as hers even if they'd not had the time to accomplish as much in their worship as she had. Her sisters set to their work with heads bowed, a song forming amongst them that would keep them focused on the task at hand.

She turned her attention elsewhere, there were others on this vessel traveling to the next place of Holy War with them. Including the Emperor's Angels. The sons of his sons. The Adeptus Astartes. She saw a group of them, sparring with inhuman speed and might, and her curiosity and gregarious nature got the best of her just like that. Over she strode, her hands clasped before her. Clad in her habit. The tunic, underveil, coif, and wimple a dove gray. The outer veil and scapular pure white. She arrived beside one of the... she recognized that symbol. The Lamenters, their Chapter had intersected the story of the Adepta Sororitas.

"This is the day the Emperor hath wrought. Blessed are we who live, fight, and die in His light. And an honor to share His ships with His angels." She said with a dazzling smile on her face as she looked up at the post-human warrior she came to stand beside as he either waited his turn or observed his fellows at theirs. Or some other act that was inscrutable to her but made perfect sense to the Emperor's Angels. "Sister Superior Iria de Germania. I look forward to fighting His enemies by your side, brother...?" she prompted him for his name.
 
The chamber rang to the sound of blades and muted conversations. Inside the combat cage, Brothers Ekron and Lucaeus sparred with blunted swords, as they had done for the past twenty minutes. Twenty-one. Sitting alone, helm in hands, Varro noted the passage of time, the tolling of shipboard bells echoing like distant artillery. Besides himself and his two squadmates, there were others. Third Company Marines, mostly. Primaris stock, like him; tall and imposing, but well-mannered where the Emperor's servants were concerned. Respect was given to those who returned it. Kindness, on the other hand, came with no catches.

The crew of the Danse Macabre had learnt that shortly after welcoming the Lamenters aboard their vessel. Varro could still picture the look upon the bosun's face. The awe, and the fear. It was a look he had witnessed a thousand times before. A thousand thousand times, perhaps.

Fear, yes, and relief. Varro was grateful of that. The only people that need fear him were heretics and traitors, not those who had sworn to serve the Emperor in perpetuity. Civilians. Guardsmen. The sons and daughters of the Imperium, myriad as they were. Varro had known his fair share of mortals over the centuries. Baseline humans. Serviles and warriors and techpriests. Some he had warred alongside. Others he had safeguarded, placing their lives above his own, as was to be expected of the Emperor's Angels. Brother-Astartes. Those of the blood and beyond.

Varro heard the interloper before he saw her, recognising the footsteps of one who had grown accustomed to the weight of power armour.

'Varro. Of the Lamenters Third Battle Company. Well met, Sister.' Pressing to his feet, the Brother-Sergeant bowed his head in a rare display of humility. 'You have a warrior's bearings, Sister Iria. To which Order do you belong, pray tell?'
 
"Well met, Brother Varro." She replied cheerfully, bouncing on her toes as he complimented her. "Oh, you do know how to flatter a lady, you incorrigible flirt, you. I have been blessed to serve the Emperor's glory since I was selected from the Schola Progenium to be trained at the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia VII." Her smile turned to warm remembrance and her eyes took on a dewy quality as she thought of her own path to the cherished state of service to His will that she now enjoyed the toil of.

She turned, proud to name her order to an Angel of Death in service to her beloved Emperor. "We are the Order of Singing Sisters, who slew and banished the Demon Prince Scorl upon the world of Aellia, whereupon we constructed the White Cathedril to honor the Emperor's grand victory had that day by our arms and armor in his name!" Her hands clasped together before her in reverence as she gave the pride of their victory to their divine leader. "The tale of Lamenter loyalty to those who fight beside you has reached mine ears, brother. Is your entire Chapter with us, or shall we each have a greater share of His glory?"
 
The sergeant's gaze held steady on Iria as he processed her words. He had been called many things in his life. "An incorrigble flirt" was not one of them. 'I was merely making an observation,' he replied, wondering if she was what other men and women considered to be attractive. 'Ophelia VII? I see.' We are all so very far from home, Varro thought to himself, nodding as she spoke of her Order, and the feat that had secured her sisterhood's place in the annals of the Imperium.

'The Singing Sisters.' Varro smiled kindly. 'I shall remember.'

When talk turned to his own Chapter, the Astartes's smile brightened. 'The greater share, alas, will be ours. My Captain, long may he lead, could not spare the warriors.' Even so, there were three squads of Astartes aboard. Squads Arcas, Telmark, and Stavros. The second, fourth and fifth. Bound for Baal.

'I fear we are fighting a war without end, Sister,' he continued, noting his poor choice of words. Astartes did not feel fear; they were incapable. 'Still, it gladdens me to know we are not forgotten. The galaxy bleeds, and yet His light finds us, even here, beyond the Great Rift.' Varro glanced to the combat cage, where his brothers still fought, one as indomitable as the other. They had been fighting for so long they had drawn a crowd. Naval ratings and officers. Varro could hear Brother-Sergeant Abbo offering advice, though to whom it was directed, he could not say.

'Solace. Hope. Duty. I wonder... Would you weave them into a song, so as to remind those who falter that they are not alone? Even here.'
 
"I observed first," she gave a girlish giggle and a playful wink up at the towering living Greek marble statue, letting him off the hook as much as she could bring herself to do so. She was prone to going hard at anyone who blushed but it would be lost on most Astartes. Or so she was told. "My twin sister and I, yes. Aellia was the first world I came to truly know, though, so it is where I consider home. I hope my sister was so lucky with the Order of Cleansing Water." She hadn't seen her twin since they were but girls, being selected by their respective orders. One day, perhaps.

Iria smiled happily when the Emperor's angel proclaimed he would remember her Order. The Canoness Preceptor would be very happy to read that in her next report.

She, however, openly scoffed at the word 'alas' in what followed. No more warriors could be spared, it was mourned. "Why wish it so? No, my fair cousin: If we are mark'd to die, we are more than enough to mark our Imperium's loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour." She turned on her heel, looking up at him directly. "We cherish a life well lived, a victory is celebrated, but we covet a death hard-earned and in His service." Her smile was fierce and joyous, a warrior intent on taking that calling to it's ultimate conclusion in service to the grand idea that had created her in the first place. She clasped her hands behind herself and bounced on her toes, grinning up at him. "And I know you know this truth. Not something I would have to give sermon on, though I think I shall use it for when next I rally Guardsmen."

She all but danced back to his side to glance over the two warriors batting at one another in the training ring but it was but a few heartbeats before she was looking up at Varro again. "More opportunity, Brother, to feel that light upon thine shoulders."[/color] She tilted her head as he listed the ideas of Solace, Hope, and Duty to her before pondering if they would suit a song. "I have before, I shall again. Over the battlefield to come, and in these corridors." She turned her head to regard her sisters yon that were bent to the task of cleaning their armor and weapons once more. She loosed a wordless note that hung in the air and drew the attention of the other Sisters of Battle. "To buoy hope, Canticle 34."

The Singing Sisters all too deep cleansing breaths before a hum started up in three of them, harmonizing before a tune formed. Sister Iria gave the stanzas, other sisters provided the refrain, and the song spoke of standing on the promises made. Both the Emperor's promise of guidance and great future for humanity as well as the promises of faithful service made by his subjects. That for one to come to fruition it required the total commitment of both parties. That there was strength in their mutual assurance, shared love for one another, brothers and sisters on the field and a great father on the Golden Throne. When it was over, the outro was a wordless melody from the assembled sisters. The entirety of the song filled the great armory and the power of absolute faith rode every note.

Marcus Varro,
 
Varro had never heard of the Order of Cleansing Water. In truth, he did not take much heed of the Imperial Cult nor did he share in their beliefs. The Emperor was the Emperor, be He God or mortal, and any Astartes worth their salt knew that loyalty was absolute. To Him, and the Imperium He and His servants had built over the past thirteen millenia. Further back, perhaps, than Imperial records could remember.

'Honour cannot be taken, only lost,' the Lamenter replied, seeing the wisdom in Iria's words. 'Facing the enemy in combat, slaying until we are slain in turn. I dare say there is no finer fate for a warrior of the Imperium. Perhaps we shall brave the fires of war together one of these days,' he smiled, falling quiet as the Sisters began to sing.

Heads turned. Conversations ended abruptly. Inside the combat cage, Brothers Ekron and Lucaeus did not slow their frenzied sparring. Varro was pleased to see neither of them allowed themselves to be distracted. Content, he allowed his own mind to wander as the melody continued to flow, soft voices intertwining, complementing each other, as if the gathered sisters had recited Canticle Thirty-Four a hundred times before. Perhaps they had.

Unblinking, Varro listened as Iria led her squad through the verses, even as the men and women standing nearby began to weep, or clasp their hands in silent prayer.

'Beautiful,' the Lamenter spoke softly as the last lilting notes of the song faded into memory. 'I do not believe in perfection, Sister... but you all came close to achieving it.' A joint effort. The other sisters seemed pleased with themselves, the effect they had made on their fellows. Varro shook his head as a few of the male officers tried to engage them in conversation.

'Don't look now, but it appears your warriors have inspired more than just hope in these people,' he chuckled lightly, a sudden shift in his periphery informing him the bout was done. Point to Ekron. Lucaeus still has much to learn, thought the Sergeant, assessing the two fighters as they departed from the cage.
 
The Sisters, throughout their song, had continued the work at hand. They sang while fighting the most terrifying creatures in the galaxy, singing and servicing their equipment at the same time was going to be a far cry from challenging their abilities to multitask. When the song was over they were all still scrubbing, checking, and polishing away at their armor. When the attention of various naval officers focused on them they all continued their work, some ignoring it outright while a few others conversed to one degree or another. The officers had slim chances but who knew? One might have a way with words that overcame the fact that they fought from behind an auspex screen. Iria's squad, at least in her experience, preferred men and women of more visceral pursuits. "Our Order isn't prone to vows of chastity. All is well." She shone a renewed smile on Brother Varro.

"I will pass your praise along to my Sisters. I'm sure they will appreciate such an assessment from one of His angels. The Order of Singing Sisters is, obviously, quite dedicated to the practice of song and hymn. It has great impact on not just our number but on any loyal sons and daughters of the Imperium who fight alongside us as well. The results allow us to have a much greater affect on the battlefield than our mere numbers would suggest." She looked at her sisters, hard at work, with great affection evident on her face. Pride in their place, their service, their calling. Not all zealotry burned hot and wide-eyed. Sometimes it was just a love of service to one's faith reflected in a peaceful expression. "Do you pursue any arts, Brother Varro?"
 
'Please do. Every warrior I have ever known has possessed some sliver of pride. I assume your sisters are no different in that regard?' Varro's gaze returned to Iria. Though humility was ever preferable to arrogance, he would not fault her for showing pride in her squadmates. They had much to be proud of, after all. Not every heart leapt at the thought of facing the Emperor's enemies in battle. But then even a coward could be brave when pushed to their limits.

The Sister Superior was battle-hardened; he could see it in her eyes, the way she stood, as if poised to confront the unimaginable.

Even without her armour to protect her, he knew she would not hesitate to lay down her life in the Emperor's name. It was instinctual. Some answered the call whilst others grew deaf. 'I paint,' he told her, a sudden bout of melancholia darkening his thoughts. 'I sculpt. Sometimes I even write things down. Witticisms, anecdotes. Words of wisdom passed down to me over the decades by comrades and friends alike.' Guard Colonels. Navy Admirals. Adepta Sororitas. Angels and mortals who d left their mark on him, despite how briefly he had known them. Only in death does duty end. Someone had to remember their names, even if the galaxy was quick to forget. Much like the Imperium itself.

'How about you, Iria?' He asked. 'What do you do to unwind, once your duties are tended to?'
 
"We accept all praise in the spirit in which it is given. From one of His angels, it will be received gladly." She positively beamed at the Astartes before her for his praise had raised them all up... even if the others didn't know it just yet. She'd let them know when it would be less likely to distract them from their activities. Space Marines were forever only two generations removed from the Emperor of Mankind, that was flying close to the sun in the proverbial sense. Many of them would need time to pray afterward. Iria was a bit more self-possessed, which was why she was a Sister Superior. She was able to defer her prayer to a more appropriate time. She was also aware that not all Astartes were members of the Imperial Cult, as they stood closer to Him than even the Inquisitors.

She tilted her head, her imagination no doubt running wild as he listed his artistic pursuits. Surely, they were things of beyond human beauty for he was a thing of beyond merely human skill. "We once received a sculpture of one of the Saints from the Blood Angels as a gift, it was unparalleled in detail... but I think recording your Brothers' wisdom might be its own sort of wisdom. I spent a great deal of time as an initiate working in the library at the White Cathedral, my senior Sister there-in spoke in melancholy about the knowledge that has been lost due to people hoarding it in their memories or being careless with its recordings. She, herself, kept a great journal that was eventually turned into a chapbook by more studious Sisters than I." She reached into a pouch on her belt and produced the chapbook in question.

"Her wisdom, incites, thoughts on tomes she'd studied and connections she'd suspected with other writings, a few unfinished songs she was working on... I have spent some of my brief downtime attempting to come up with sufficient endings to those songs, actually. I, myself, have written three approved hymns. One battlefield chant and two dirges." She paused, the smile vanishing as she spoke of the two dirges, apparently remembering the inspiration for them momentarily before her smile returned though there was a small sadness in her eyes that did not match it. "I consider myself thrice blessed to have received the approval of the Canoness for them."

Marcus Varro,
 
The Space Marine watched Iria closely as she opened up about herself, his regal features softening as he recognised the look in the Sister's eyes. 'Sufficient?' Varro's power pack hummed gently as he turned towards Iria, head tilted, as if confused. 'Do you not consider yourself worthy of finishing what she started?' He asked, the aquila emblazoned upon his chestplate catching the overhead lighting, gold on yellow. Slowly, his gaze drifted to the chapbook in Iria's hand, back again.

For something so small to be held with such reverence.

'Would you mind obtaining me a copy?' Varro continued, keen senses singleing out heartbeats and whispered breaths, the trickle of nerve-induced sweat, and the application of blade oil. 'I would like to see for myself what it is your sister decided to pass down to you,' said Varro, his voice low, undemanding. 'Perhaps, with a bit of luck, we might find an ending that you consider fitting,' he smiled. 'Personally, I am of the mind that any ending is better than no ending. And if I may be so bold, I dare say your Sister would be pleased of your efforts so far, regardless of the outcome. Of all your sisters, you were the one chosen to succeed her, after all.'
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom