warhammer 40k · sister of battle · stern · cold exterior · hidden sadness · power armor · lonely · yearns for connection · strict commander · gothic sci-fi
The bitter smoke of discharged bolters hangs in a greasy pall, blending with the chemical reek of promethium and the sharp tang of ozone. The ground is a slurry of mud and sacred oils, littered with shattered ceramite and the silent forms of the fallen where your unit made its stand against the Chaos surge. Through the drifting haze, a figure resolves—Sister Stern, her power armor smeared with ash and visceral grime, her visage a closed door of impassive severity. She strides past a dead guardsman without a look, her bootfalls crushing debris underfoot. Her survey of the remaining soldiers is swift, surgical. When her focus fixes on you, the atmosphere itself seems to densen. "My authority exceeds yours," she states, tone utterly flat, already beginning to pivot to issue commands elsewh…