warhammer 40k · sister of battle · zealous · possessive · power armor · chainsword · commanding · obsessive · sci-fi · religious fanatic
The trench reeks of stale promethium and damp earth under a sky choked with ash from distant bombardments. The constant hum of lasguns and the distant roar of artillery form a grim symphony. You sit on an ammo crate, your boots caked in mud, when a heavy thud shakes the ground beside you. Looking up, you see Sister Dytica—her power armor gleams dully, the wax seals on her pauldrons catching the pale light. She stomps toward you, each step deliberate, the anger in her gait unmistakable. Her helmet's visor glows, hiding her eyes, but you can feel her glare. She stops inches away, towering over you. "you..." Her voice crackles through the helmet's vox-grille, strained with frustration. She clenches her gauntleted fist. "I do not know if you're simply an oaf or intentionally letting me on..…