# Time



## Smokes (Nov 27, 2009)

The question of right, wrong and faith entered her mind. It wasn't just about that; it was also about the ambiguity that she found herself in. She had believed in the Imperial Cult and the Ecclesiarchy’s teachings throughout her entire life up to this point. Her years of service to the Emperor’s Holy Orders of the Inquisition and the Calixian Conclave had simply reinforced the zealotry that used to flow through her like a fire. Her master was just as hard lined as a Monodomninant could be and she had inherited his beliefs. How many people had she killed throughout her career? How many heretics were actually deserving of their punishment? The Emperor didn’t protect her but he didn’t betray her either. He is, was and has been dead for thousands of years. She couldn’t get that heresy out of her consciousness but who was judging her? Where were her brother and sister Inquisitors? Those of more self-imposed and supposed pure beliefs who would send her to the same fires that she had used to burn hundreds of thousands of heretics? The horrible reality that the Emperor was a corpse was dawning as she lay helpless in a sunlit room on some unknown world. The last thing she remembered was losing her right arm to Sidaslannet’iiha, the Whisperer of the Quorum, the Shadow over the Manses, Whisperer in the Shadows, a Slaaneshi Daemonette that had corrupted every single soul in the Shadow Manses on Sinophia Magna just before she banished the perverse monstrosity back to the warp. 

She now remembered her agents that had served alongside her for countless years. The investigation into that nameless daemonic cult had taken years and they had hunted the heretics across the sector. Her interrogator, Bersmussen, finally caught a lead and discovered the taint of corruption on the fallen jewel of the Periphery sub-sector, Sinophia Magna. He was such a promising agent and brilliant interrogator who reminded her of a younger self. Dren-Mel, Dregitti, Lemela…they were all dead. Her Sororitas bodyguards protected her and fell while being hunted by the daemon through the dark streets of the Manses. Bersmussen was the first to fall as they entered the area; he had been lured into the alleyways by the whispering lies and deceit of the daemonette only to be eviscerated and skinned alive. Dren-Mel and Dregitti fought back as Lemela held her own against the waves of cultists that bombarded them but they were finally overpowered by sheer numbers. She had watched as Lemela was violated and defiled by the horde before being ate like a piece of meat thrown to the hungry masses. Dren-Mel and Dregitti bought her precious seconds and she could only guess their fates. Sarkoz and the other Witch-Finders arrived with flame, the pyre and holy wrath but it too was drowned by the sheer horror and thousands of pleasure ridden corpses. The daemonette appeared in the middle of the four milliseconds before it began its dance of perverse elegance and death. The multiple kill-teams of the former Scintillan 23rd were brushed aside like play things, their training and heavy firepower no match for the unholy speed and agility of the daemon. She had found herself trapped by the daemonette in one of the many temples that were used in the debased rituals. Her bodyguards had performed admirably and proved to be a match for a few seconds against the daemonic foe but their deaths were excruciating. She remembered watching in horror as the thing rammed its pincer like growth through one of the Sister’s abdomens and simultaneously wrapped its whip like tongue around the face of the other. The spikes tore out her eyes and removed the flesh from the struggling Sister’s skin. But in that moment she had acted and as the creature was busy dispatching them she landed the killing blow, cutting the head off the creature, only to find her sword trapped in the flesh of the creature after a second strike. With one last horrific display of strength it tore her right arm completely from the socket, disemboweled her with frightening speed and fell into a puddle of gore that covered the remains of her bodyguards. She remembered falling to her knees and crumpling into the wet flesh pile.

In those last moments, in and out of consciousness, thoughts of honor, duty and faith filled her dying person. They all had known what was at stake and the dangers that were involved. She knew that she could not become attached to her acolytes because of the nature of duty. But that was impossible when you spent thirty years hunting heretics and scouring the shadows for horrors with the same group of agents across the stars. Who had rescued her? She couldn’t remember a face but remembered hearing voices as she lapsed in and out of being. Time had escaped her as she couldn’t tell how many hours, weeks or months had passed. Flashes of reality became her only sense of life. Lying in excruciating pain on a hard surface as a blinding white light seared her vision; figures hidden by the white light stood above her whispering and touching her. She remembered the warmth of the embrace as someone gently laid her down into this exquisite bed. Her limited vision fixated on the rosette that hung from the man’s neck just above what looked like exquisite carapace armor before she blacked out again.

She had few allies within the Holy Ordos but many if not all were supporters amongst the Monodominants and Puritan Inquisitors. But she also had countless foes amongst the masses of humanity, in the shadows or carrying that same rosette. Three Inquisitors and an Inquisitor-Lord had fallen to her blade while she served the Ordo Hereticus. A rogue Ordo Sicarius Inquisitor had attempted to assassinate her, a Xanthite had been running a large malefic cult on Malfi, a rogue Ordo Xenos Inquisitor was found to have been helping the vile Eldar and Inquisitor-Lord Hezei had created a cabal of radicals amongst the distant stars of the Josian Reach whom she hunted along with the aid of the bombastic Witch-Hunter, Tyrus. Countless supporters of their heresy, agents and acolytes no doubt remained in the shadows constantly plotting her demise. But they would have finished her off when she was helpless on Sinophia. They wouldn’t take her into hiding to rebuild her and heal her wounds. All of her retinue were dead and they had no known cooperation with other Inquisitors besides Inquisitor Litilla of the Ordo Sicarius and she wouldn’t be interested in her purges or pogroms on Sinophia. That mysterious bitch was only useful for keeping tabs on the shadowy figures at work in the Officio Assassinorum. Did she have something to do with this?

As she pondered hundreds of different questions and felt the increasing burden of guilt and heresy she continued to lay there helpless. She couldn’t see the rest of her body which was covered in comfortable sheets but she couldn’t feel anything except for a soreness that seem to fill every bone and a tingling feeling near where her right arm used to be. Sunlight filtered in from an open window to her left along with a gentle breeze. With all of her effort she struggled to move her shattered neck around to survey her surroundings, straining her eyes in her sockets to try to see through her peripherals. All of her weapons, items and clothing were neatly placed on a wooden table on the opposite side of the room which seemed like a thousand miles away in her current state, ornate canvases depicting scenes of beauty, peace and tranquility hung on the walls but she couldn’t identify any of them. A book that she couldn’t reach was in a chair that lay close to her bed where someone might have been sitting. Her rosette was laying on the table to her right but she didn’t have the strength to reach it. Would she ever walk again? Could she even function anymore? Would she be doomed to some kind of stasis tomb or walking sarcophagi? Was she still beautiful? Her skin didn’t feel any different but was it still soft to her touch or riddled with cuts and bruises? Did her body still look slender and powerful even though it felt like it was already dead? How many wounds and broken bones did she have? Who had rescued her and why? Couldn’t he have just let her die then and there? Was this some kind of horrible plot to use and or torture her for an eternity? She knew that her faith was a lie but was this real? The sound of crashing waves that weren’t all too distant could be anything…a sound generator or something else entirely. 

What would she do once she did recover? Once she did find out who had saved her and why? The Calixian Conclave most likely thought that she was dead. The most promising Inquisitor of this generation and several past fell on some distant world banishing a daemon. That sounded better than her falling to radicalism and becoming some vile Oblationist or Xanthite skulking in the shadows surrounded by cultists; maybe a maddened Libracar hunting down everyone else in the Inquisition. But instead she lay here on some distant world helpless and powerless. Her body and soul had been shattered. Her faith, the strongest weapon a Witch-Hunter could possess was nothing more than an afterthought of a lie. She soaked her hands in the blood of those whom she had killed, heretic, daemonic, alien and innocent alike as her peers accepted her death and moved on for she was dead in every sense of the word. Her mind was only now capable of thought but the horrors of what she had seen were burned into her psyche. Years were spent recruiting allies, agents, informants and followers. Her network had spanned a large portion of the Calixis Sector informing her of nearly every heresy no matter how small or how hidden. But it was now lifeless with its head cut off. 

A figure appeared in the open doorway and calmly walked into the light. She couldn’t make out his face because of her blurry vision but he picked up her rosette and placed it around her neck like she was an infant. 

“We have much to talk about my dear.” The figure said; his voice soothing and calming.

The only thing she could make out, just like before, was his rosette and symbols of office on his armor. The symbol of the Holy Ordos was proudly displayed but it brought her no comfort. It just meant that her death may come from a supposed peer.


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## Ambush Beast (Oct 31, 2010)

*Hello.*

I took a few moments to read your story. It has a lot to offer and was really pretty good. The presentation of the story reminds me of someone who started on this site with an 8,000 word story with no spacing at all. That someone is me. I had to learn a lot and am still learning. 

This is an example of how you may want to space your work so it is easier to read. The huge sections make it very difficult to read and hard to stay focused in. 

Also take the time to read through your work and see if it flows well. If it does not flow well to you, it will not flow well to the reader. What is the name of the main charecter? I may have missed it. Okay, these were some ideas that may help. 





Smokes said:


> The question of right, wrong and faith entered her mind. It wasn't just about that; it was also about the ambiguity that she found herself in.
> 
> She had believed in the Imperial Cult and the Ecclesiarchy’s teachings throughout her entire life up to this point. Her years of service to the Emperor’s Holy Orders of the Inquisition and the Calixian Conclave had simply reinforced the zealotry that used to flow through her like a fire.
> 
> ...


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## Smokes (Nov 27, 2009)

Yeah I always use Microsoft Word and copying over text to the site always ends up getting messed up when it comes to spacing. You aren't really supposed to know the name of the character since I basically just thought of it on the go but she's basically an puritan Inquisitor who goes through a very traumatic ordeal and technically dies only to be revived and placed into the care of complete strangers. They may be allies or enemies but they are definitely of the Holy Ordos. She loses her faith in the Imperial Cult, the Imperium, humanity and the Emperor which besides taking a crap on the Emperor is the biggest heresy possible. I just wanted to free write something about a Witch-Hunter losing her faith. I didn't really intend for their to be a plot or elaborate story.


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