I'll preface this by saying, I am rusty as hell on the writing front. Or maybe my pain addled brain (thank you pinched nerve) isn't doing me any favours either right now? 🤔 In any case, a bit of introductionary fluff I've written for a narrative campaign I want to run sometime later this year, this scenario involving a zealot (represented by the Pious Vorne mini) looking to clear out a holy site of Poxwalkers. The title is rather simple and done to death, but when your character is nothing more than a zealot, why not eh?
The cathedral was overrun with them now.
The refugees had come in droves to them when the situation kept on worsening, seeking safety against the affliction plaguing their world. The abbot had thrown open the doors and granted them sanctuary, for was it not what He would have done?
As the cathedral filled with the weary masses, one dared to raise her voice against the influx, for was it not saint Abelard who famously proclaimed that the impure could hide in any guise, even those who claimed to be of purest intent?
But the others did not heed her warning, welcoming the frightened masses, sheltering them in the sacred halls of their cathedral, even more in the crypts below, some arguing that was that not the safest place to stay? There was no better guardian against impurity than the bones and relics of the honoured dead they had accumulated over the centuries.
When the last refugee was admitted and the doors were finally closed, it seemed that they would weather the worst of what was tearing through their world, that they would weather the storm with sturdy walls and faith in Him.
But as is oft preached, hope is the first step on the road to damnation.
The vile taint of the contagion ran deep, secretly festering amongst the refugees until it could be contained no more, spreading its malign influence like a ruptured boil. Those whose faith held, those who fought off the affliction were soon torn to shreds and devoured, or caught in the crossfire as the abbot rallied his followers in a desperate attempt to stem the tide.
In the end, the battle for the cathedral was short, furious, and ended in a bloody stalemate that saw the masses of afflicted pushed back into the crypts, where they were imprisoned for now.
The price the defenders paid for this pyrrhic victory was steep: all but one of the defenders had either been slain, or worse yet, brought low by the very same affliction that tore through the refugees, turning them into a grinning mutant as well.
It was Sister Clotilde who dared to raise her voice against the masses as they arrived and in a cruel twist of fate it she who remained standing as the sole survivor of the cathedral now, kneeling in front of the alter, head bowed in supplication, her hands quietly counting rosary beads as she sorted her thoughts.
‘A single act of leniency is akin to a lifetime’s betrayal,’ she said at long last to her former peers, whose torn and savaged remains were lain to rest behind the altar, bathing in the dim light coming through the stained-glass window showing Him resplendent. She looked up at the window, saw Him with sword held aloft, ready to render judgment. ‘Mercy is a disease; intolerance the cure.’
Her words were for Him alone now, nobody else was there to hear them. Not that her peers had listened to her when she spoke the truth, seeing the danger the others refused to see. For this they had paid the ultimate price, they would be at His side now, awaiting His judgment. She hoped that He would judge them all fairly.
Though sister Clotilde was alone now, her faith did not waver, nor her resolve to see undone what the others had wrought. It fell to her to expunge the taint brought into the cathedral, to purge the infestation from this holy site and to reclaim it in His name.
Sister Clotilde would do this, or die trying.
The pistol she was issued would not suffice for the task ahead of her, so she made her way over to the reliquary, there she donned the armour of the penitent and took up the dreaded “Pilum Ignis,” then after a final prayer in His name, made her way down the winding stairs into the darkness of the catacombs.
The armour was cumbersome and uncomfortable, serving as a constant reminder of the burdens He on Terra endured for all of humanity. Sister Clotilde felt it was a suitably humbling experience, hoping that it would spurn her on to fulfil her task. It was almost sinful in contrast just how pleasing the weapon felt in her hands. Its origin unknown, the weapon was the amalgamation of a chain weapon and flamer, able to both spit fire and rend foes when they came too close. According to the abbot it had at one point belonged to a martyred missionary, who died spreading His word during the Xestrulo crusade centuries before.
She hoped she could placate the spirit of the weapon and live up to the memory of its previous owner.
As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she could hear the faint moans of the mutants, their mindless shuffle and scrape as they aimlessly wandered around.
‘Let thy weapon be zeal, and thy armour be contempt!’ Sister Clotilde shouted out loud as she stomped down the last few steps, slamming the weapon against her armoured torso in salute.
Gazing at her through the gloom were mutants, staring at her with diseased yellow eyes and disgustingly wide rictus grins. Some started to shuffle towards her, claws outstretched.
‘The mutant shall burn!’ she screamed as she ignited the pilot flame, a goat of filthy flame and greasy smoke erupting from the ornate barrel of Pilum Ignis.
‘Fear the wrath of the righteous!’ She continued as the chain blade effortlessly roared into life.
‘For the Golden Throne!’ Sister Clotilde roared as she charged headfirst into the first knot of mutants, ready to do His work.
