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vingette warhammer40k

Palatine Honna Zhen would never tell her Sisters. They already thought her a zealot. Already worried her fervor would get them all killed. Often she wondered if they would believe her, and for that alone wanted to share the truth, but she didn’t. Wouldn’t.

Besides, it wasn’t for them.

When the Saint speaks to you, that is for you and you alone.

The gargantuan ork before her came down with its axe. From what she knew of the filthy xenos, and what passed for them as culture, the larger the ork, the greater its rank. From the looks of this beast, he was a leader.

But it didn’t matter.

She could not die. Not unless she drew her plasma pistol.

That is what the Saint had told her. That she would slay her enemies until the day she needed to draw her sidearm, the master crafted plasma pistol named Deathscream. And, on the day she drew Deathscream, she would join the Emperor.

Or… something along those lines. Honna didn’t talk to her as one Sister talks to another. Her conversation with the Saint came in dreams, like a vision. Not coherent words, but more intent.

And so Palatine Honna Zhen parried, her chain-sword showering sparks as it crashed into the ork’s weapon. She found peace because, as long as her sidearm stayed holstered she could not die.

She deflected the ork’s momentum, sending it stumbling, off balance, crashing away.

Now, it was her turn to attack.