Dark Heresy- Burn the Heretic

...To Sleep, Perchance To Scream

The Tricorn, Sibellus, Scintilla

Sister Calista’s Log

After finding my medical skills wanting under the duress experienced on Quaddis, I pursued further training under the tutelage of the most renown chirurgeons of the Inquisitorial staff of the Tricorn. I honed my skills at sutures, wound binding and studying pharmacopiea, hunched over cadavers and tomes for hours. Certificates of Knowledge bestowed to me did not warrant my confidence, so I sought to intern within the smoking, volcanic pits of Gunmetal City, where violence sped from muzzles and punctured into bodies by the minute. At a charity clinic sponsored by House Doru in the Infernis underhive, I tended to hundreds of ballistics wounds as well as the occasional toxic gas poisoning or lava burn. Among the coldest and hardest of Calixian humanity, the gangers of Infernis did not impress me as I patched them up so that they may go back to shooting each other. The whole lot of them should have been conscripted into the Imperial Guard long ago to truly put their skills under the test…as my medicae skills were tested there in the shadow of burning Mount Thollos.

Our escape from the Red Cages and my almost-fatal decision to lure the Widower away from the Steel Clock still haunted my memories. These distressing thoughts reminded me that Quaddis would need strong redemptive measures, and I remembered Obadiah Psalter. Travelling to Hive Tarsus, my companions and I sought audience with whoever would listen within the grand halls of the Cathedral of Illumination, gaining pledges to consecrate a new edifice to house the presence of the Adeptus Ministorum on that wayward planet. I petitioned that Reverend Psalter be given mandate and implored anyone from high office-holders to tithing pilgrims, as the imposing statues of Drusus and Angevin watched over our pleas. Hopefully, the Reverend will have enough to replant a seed of faith there from what we have garnered. And, to abate fitful sleep, I gathered as much solace as I could by meditating upon the face of the Emperor while reading litanies of faith as one throng of pilgrims after another passed by.

When I returned from Tarsus, I found in my quarters, besides replenishment doses for my medicae kit, a new Mars Pattern Mark IV Command laspistol just as Major Adontius of the Maccabian Janissaries wielded. The Emperor provides…through the largess of a satisfied Inquisitor. Though I preferred a standard Guard lasgun, this sidearm gave me more security to face the heretic, mutant and witch. It also reminded me of when the Guardsmen whispered that I had the “martyr’s gift” by reviving the Major so that he could take up his Mark IV again, which was strength enough for me.

But the nightmare of the Widower continues. It pursues me past the clamoring of the Steel Clock. It’s amorphous limbs scamper with unnatural speed across the tiles, reaching for me. I can sometimes feel that even its torn countenance, the only thing remaining of it’s horrid form, still whispers riddles that echo in my mind, even as it is now secured within the depths of the Tricorn. And so I run. My waking life at dawn now is filled with laps in the training quarters of the Tricorn to expend my anxieties. Though my legs burn, my speed improves, if just enough. I pray it is enough to keep me out of the grasp of the nightmare that pursues me in my sleep.


Krugsdemise wilster68

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