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Ignoring the woman, she turned her attention to Xueqing create a small heater. She felt amused at what Xueqing did. Seeing how the girl was satisfied, she turned her attention at the woman.

It was as though she started to believe the woman was a degenerate of the Hive. She feels like Aleksandr now; assuming every unnatural being a Hive scum.

"GUARDSWOMAN MIMI!" He boomed and lifted her "youbare certainly a weapon of the Allfather's might! Grandmaster Mathius, a pint of your homemade ale for Guardswoman Mimi, and a mug of Mjod for me!"


He set her down obviously impressed by and proud of her. "You most certainly make an exceptional Battle Sister"

"Most certainly. How about I give you bread, meat, and leafy all at the same time?"

He pushed the shiny rock back towards him before retreating into the kitchen. He emerged shortly after with a roast beef sandwich with a generous amount of cheese, beef, and lettuce. On the side, there was a slice of tomato and onion, and in his other hand was a bowl of the house special soup: minestrone with rigatone pasta. Steam rose from the hot bowl of soup as if dancing a dance to entice the newcomer's appetite along with the tall sandwich. There was a knife laid on the side of the plate so the sandwich could be cut.


He set the meal before the newcomer with a smile stretched across his pale face.

She heard a familiar voice as she was picked up off the ground as it was Ubba, his booming voice filling the already loud tavern. "Lord Ubba!" she said back with excitement. The weapon she bore was definitely her most prized possession.

Being set back down again, she grinned at Ubba with his comment. "I would hope I would make the Sisters of Battle proud," she said to him as she smacked the back of his shoulder as a comrade. "And I will pay! I was paid and just received a promotion," she excitedly told Ubb, her eyes glimmer with mischief.

Ami rose with a rigidity mistaken for resolve, her suspicion coagulating into accusation. The notion of debt emerged from her mouth as if the universe itself were obligated to balance its ledgers according to her catechism. Ixqueya did not rise to meet it. She did not acknowledge it at all. Her stillness possessed the gravity of a sepulcher seal, a silence that rendered the soldier’s agitation performative. The reflex to sanctify ignorance by calling it theft.

The woman’s thoughts scuttled for vocabulary sturdy enough to cage the event. Extremity. Dimension. Unnatural. Each term was a talisman swung against incomprehension. She mistook Ixqueya’s gaze for action because indoctrination trains the faithful to believe that unfamiliarity is aggression. The stare remained fixed, glacial, ecclesiastical. It carried the authority of winter when it first hardens the ground and teaches caravans the difference between intent and permission.

Her hand drifted toward her weapon and stalled. Not restrained. Invalidated. In that moment she discovered the obscene fragility of doctrine when confronted with a reality that does not negotiate. The body does not answer to scripture when the cosmos declines to listen. Panic curdled into reverence. Reverence ossified into paralysis. She reached for the only refuge her empire had ever given her. A chant rehearsed to ward off the intolerable recognition that faith is often nothing more than a story told loudly enough to drown out doubt.

The Emperor she invoked was not divine. He was a reliquary of fear enthroned in metallurgy and myth. A sovereign embalmed by necessity and worshipped because his followers could not endure a universe without a paternal silhouette. That empire mistook preservation for transcendence, consumption for purity, and extermination for order. It fed its god with bodies and called the transaction salvation. This was not holiness. It was necropolitical inertia. A civilization too frightened to admit mortality, elevating a corpse into a sun and wondering why the light required so much blood.

Ixqueya observed without intervention. Argument would have been indulgence. The soldier’s muttering continued, a pilgrim’s litany spoken into a blizzard that did not answer. In time, the general she revered, the emperor she clutched, the insignia she kissed, would all submit to the same audit as every dominion that confuses supremacy with eternity. Winter claims without malice. Death does not debate. Faiths that mistake domination for divinity are always punctual to their own extinction. The only variable is how long it takes them to realize the hymn has ended.

Ixqueya had killed her lot before, effortlessly. Their corpses were already in her army. Their secrets laid bare. A pity, to have fallen so far and to have learned nothing at all. That was the travesty of her verse. A parody of what could have been. They were not strong, they were weak. They just barked loudly like a small inbred mongrel. How easily she could choke such bravado from them. Providentially for the lot, there was no reason to. For their fate had been sealed the moment they were born. They would die and join her realm. As all their fallen brothers have.

Her gaze kept on the woman's icy blue eyes as she felt inferior to her. She kept repeating the Emperor of Mankind as she kept herself from pulling her plasma pistol on the woman. She was indeed afraid, but anyone would be to a entity that could easily defile them and destroy them without remorse. For her, her Lord General was whom she looked up. A orphan now having meaning would not let anyone talk bad about Alaksandr, her Lord General. But this woman had a eerily glow to her that frightened Ami a lot.

She looked at Ixqueya, the silence that could be cut by a knife, her eyes still fixated on her. If she had known who she was, she would have simply sat down and kept quiet. "Why are you just staring at me?" Ami asked her as she by now was curious, her fear turning to pride for what she believed in. "If this is death, I don't fear it. Death will fear me." she said, her stern expression showed as her purple eyes glimmer slightly. She had a strong resolve. She will believe what she will even if it was some false deity. It was better then not believing in nothing. Perhaps she could resolve the difference between her and Ixgueya. "I am not here for trouble," she said after she sat down, her eyes still staring at her, her eyes following if need be.

He rested a massive hand on her shoulder "ignore her. Never forget you are an instrument of the might of the Allfather. She is a Slaaneshi-looking cur" the Son of Russ spoke in his thundering voice.

He sipped from his goblet of wine before shooting a glare back over towards Ami and Ubba.

"Brother-Lieutenant Greystorm, Guardswoman Ami.....is there a problem?"

She eased up with Lord Ubba's words. "You're right...She has to be a Slaanesh-looking cur. The Allfather is our enemy salvation," she said as she rested her hand on his as she smiled up at him. She did feel a lot safe when he is around her. She hope to one day to fight alongside him killing those degenerate Hive scum and those orks that needs to be obliterated from existence.
"That witch over there," she said to Donatos as she pointed to the woman with the icy blue eyes. "She has a eerily glow to her. She has to be either a Slaanesh cur or death, itself," she said to him with a stern look on her face as she kept beside Ubba for protection.

"I am starting to feel like I am the only individual who retains some form of sanity."

"You get used to it when working here, Harkoth."

Ami looks at Harkoth with a smirk as she said, "You may be the only one here with sanity." She stared away as she went into thought for a few seconds before staring back at him. "What have you been up to?"
"Hello, Mathius. A round of ale please? I am paying," she said as she kept to herself from the woman in the tavern. She still got the chills running up her spine just with the woman being here.

"She DOES stink of heresy...." he growled.

"Everything is fine, Brother-Captain"

She stood there close to Ubba as to let him know he made her feel safe. "We are fine, Donatos. She is just another passerby," she said as she agreed with Ubba about the woman being the stench of heresy. "She has to have the stench of heresy, Brother Ubba," she finally said to him as she got closer as she felt safer.

Ixqueya rose with an unhurried exactitude, as though elevation itself were a prerogative that required no justification. Her eyes did not flare. They clarified. Hoarfrost blue, pitilessly lucid. She regarded the assemblage of postures and borrowed sanctities before her with the affect of a magistrate reviewing a sentence already rendered.

“You call me heretic,” she said, each consonant honed to a cold, immaculate edge. “You do so because it is the only syllable your conditioning permits when comprehension fails.”

Her gaze settled on the devotional implements, the sanctimonious epithets, the hand that mimed protection. Her mouth resolved into a thin configuration of disdain, precise and joyless.

“You speak of the Emperor as though he were metaphysical statute. I have heard this liturgy in its earlier iterations. I have heard it at the moment of its collapse.” She let the ledger cant, candlelight skidding along its edge like a blade tested for balance. “I know your watchwords. I know your apothegms. Cadia stands. It stood until it did not. Only in death does duty end. A narcotic aphorism for those who require endless obligation to launder atrocity. The Emperor protects. A nursery charm for soldiers frightened by the silence between orders.”

Her cadence remained clinical. The cruelty lay in its restraint.

“I know Istvaan’s treachery. I know Prospero’s cinders. I know the Siege, the walls, the rationing of souls beneath the Throne’s pall. I know the Heresy not as parable but as recurrence. I know the Administratum’s calculus of expendables. I know the Ecclesiarchy’s commerce in suffering. I know the Inquisition’s habit of sanctifying paranoia. I know the Astra Militarum’s talent for becoming meat with a banner. I know the Astartes’ conversion of massacre into euphemism and its christening as compliance.”

She raised her eyes again, and the contempt sharpened into something corrosive.

“You wonder how I speak these names without having genuflected in your chapels or bled in your trenches.” A pause, exact as a scalpel’s hesitation. “Because your dead are not as obedient as you insist.”

Ixqueya tapped the ledger once. The sound was slight. It carried the finality of a nail seated.

“Your fallen do not come to me as plunder. They arrive by choice.” Her gaze hardened. “When the shouting ends and the bolter hymns fall silent, the lies evacuate first. What remains understands itself. They leave your slogans behind. They come to me to serve, not your throne, but the truth of what they have become.” A fractional incline of her head. “They are not servants. They are attestations. They are weight. They are knowledge. They are the chapters of your history you failed to redact.”

Her presence cooled further, the frigid femininity of it turning predatory rather than alluring. Appraising. Exacting.

“Do not mistake me for your pageant of death,” she continued. “I am not your counterfeit reaper, not a costume donned to frighten children into obedience. I am the remainder. I am what waits when theater collapses.” Her eyes did not waver. “Reality does not announce itself with hymns.”

She dismissed the words they had flung like talismans.

“And your so-called gods of Chaos.” The faintest curl of her lip. “Delusional excrescences. Hunger given personality. Parasites that feed on emotion and call it dominion. I have watched powers like them dwindle, fracture, and file themselves into my ledgers alongside legions that once believed eternity was a guarantee. Everything that requires worship is already provisional.”

She leaned in by a measure, eyes never leaving theirs.

“For sixty-one cycles I have conducted this accounting. I have seen emperors grander than your carrion idol discover the limits of noise. Repetition teaches efficiency. My people learned it well.” She straightened, immaculate in her disdain. “Your Emperor’s light is a mote among motes. In true winter, motes do not legislate. They are smothered.”

Her voice lowered, razor-clean.

“If you seek conflict, initiate it. I will not petition your restraint. I will not bargain with delusion.” A final pause. “I will simply record the result, as I have always done, and continue the work that awaits you all.”

The silence that followed was not absence. It was an inspection. Ixqueya’s gaze remained fixed, as though the room itself were being measured for burial allotment. Then her mouth moved again, sparing them the indulgence of surprise.

“And since you seem to require further blasphemy before you can understand that I am not guessing,” she said, “I will give you more.”

She let the ledger cant, not theatrically, but with the minute ritual of a priest turning a page.

“I know the Age of Strife, when mankind learned the taste of its own abandonment. I know the Dark Age of Technology, your lost Eden built on sins you prefer to romanticize. I know the Men of Iron, the old betrayal that taught humanity to fear its own genius more than any alien claw.”

Her eyes narrowed, winter-clear.

“I know the Treaty of Mars, the necessary sacrilege that yoked Terra’s hunger to the Mechanicum’s machine-prayers. I know the Unification Wars, the ash of Terra before your Imperium learned to call conquest ‘order.’ I know the Thunder Warriors, discarded when their usefulness expired, like broken tools thrown into snowdrifts.”

The ledger’s edge caught candlelight again, sharp as a confession.

“I know Ullanor. I know the Rangdan Xenocides, that redacted abyss you are trained not to name aloud. I know the Primarch Project and the scattering, as if fate reached into a cradle and scattered heirs like dice.”

Her voice remained calm. Her contempt did not.

“I know the Webway Project, the Emperor’s private artery meant to starve older hungers by denying them purchase on mankind’s soul. I know the Council of Nikaea, dread masquerading as jurisprudence. I know the Sisters of Silence, that pariah-cold you call auxiliary because the truth unsettles you.”

A fractional pause, dense as compacted snow.

“I know the Black Ships, the harvest of psykers reduced to inventory. I know the Astronomican, a lighthouse sustained because lives are fed into it until they become fuel. I know the Grey Knights, sealed as a reliquary against what your sermons cannot master.”

Her stare returned to them with a pitiless serenity.

“Some of these you learn as campfire catechism. Others are hoarded behind seals, spoken only in rooms that smell of incense and fear.” She tapped the ledger once. “It does not matter. They arrive to me the same way. In the mouths of the dead who finally stop lying.”

Her tone sharpened into something quietly annihilative.

“You want to believe your Emperor is the terminus of all things. He is not. He is an anxious ember enthroned in machinery, praised as a sun. He is sustained by perpetual immolation and called benevolent for it.” Her eyes held theirs. “Your so-called gods of Chaos are no better. Delirious excrescences. Hunger given faces. Dependent, loud, and mortal in the only way that matters.”

Ixqueya’s mouth curved, faint and predatory.

“In time, the things you fear will also be filed. Their legions will also learn the quiet. Powers like them have done so before.” Her voice lowered again, razor-clean. “Everything that demands worship is already provisional. It is merely awaiting the moment winter arrives and stops pretending to care what you called it.”

(((Made in a rush.)))

When she saw Aleksandr finally take attention to the woman, her demeanor became softer as she had felt safe from this maniac of a woman who would only try to ruin them into oblivion. She would not yield to a heretic such as her. Her belief in the Emperor of Mankind, the Allfather, would protect her from such creatures as this one. This degenerate humanoid would be beneath her boot as she would point her plasma pistol down at her as she would make her plea for her very life. Indeed she wouldn't let the woman take a foothold over her or her comrades.

She watched him stand up with pride as her face made a grin. Fun was going to happen soon, and she would be here to witness it. She would even enjoy it extremely. His speech had empowered. It even sent chills up and down her spine. She felt for once she mattered to someone, and it was Aleksandr, Ubba, and Donatos. Her mind was racing as she stood there silently letting her Lord General speak for them. She would wait for the right moment to speak out those words. After she finally heard the final line, she shot her hand up as to salute him. "AD VICTORIAM! FOR VICTORY FOR US AND THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND!" she shouted with pride for them all, her purple eyes stared directly at the icy woman. "You might be death, but we DO NOT FEAR DEATH!" she exclaimed as she stared at her Lord General.

"What we do, Lord General, is for our Allfather! We will not back down. We will conquer these heathens!" she said in stride as she kept her hand up in salute before going into a military style in front of him. She had pride in the Imperium. Her new rank would show soon enough as she was ready to take the fight to any degenerate humanoid or ork that would dare try and defile their comrades.