Sister Nitina's page

The villagers huddled together in the square as the horsemen approached. Even before they could see her, they knew who was coming, though they spoke her name only in hushed whispers. Canoness Nitina Jediana, the Black Widow, chief enforcer of the New Law of the Cold Empire. Her black leather habit was as immaculate as the silvered barding on the pure white stallion she rode, a simple but exquisitely crafted circlet the only jewelry she wore, holding down her ever-present veil. The Veiled Killer, She Who Sees All, went the whispers, though even quieter than before.

Her retinue of black armored guards, her personal Talon, rode behind her, but all eyes were on Harsh Justice, her four-barreled carbine of black oak, the seven-pointed star of her infernal god chased in gold on the butt, slung in a cavalier’s holster across her saddle. The villagers knew why she had come.

At their front, the mayor bowed deeply. Y’ladyship, si—ma’am. We ah’ truleh hono’d by yo’ visit. Please know, any’thin’ you need in the town is yaws… We ah’ true and loyal vassals all ah’ the new Emporeh…

The sneer that crossed the woman’s eyes briefly would have chilled the heart of Asmodeus himself. A bloated and worthless toad, he’s more disgusting than valuable. The draw was faster than the eye could follow, yet seemed almost lazy. Indeed, she was already looking across the crowd when Harsh Justice spoke. One less toad in this empire.

She nudged her horse forward. When she spoke, her voice was commanding but utterly devoid of interest. A moon-and-a-half ago, a sorcerous terrorist attacked our garrison at Hallowsport. He slew four loyal guardsmen, and wounded another three. Worse, he displeased our Emperor.

When a Talon pursued him, he went to ground in this village. Though they turned this place upside down… her eyes lingered on the black eyes, slings, and splints in evidence among the assembled. Sloppy, we’ll have to work on that. They were unable to locate this man.

Now have no fear. We caught him. At her gesture, the commander of her Talon drew a head from his saddlebags, gripping the flowing blond hair, streaked with blood, in his gauntleted hand. A few in the crowd gasped. She noted which. The question I have come to answer, however, is who here provided shelter to this enemy of the state?

Now we could start interrogations. But honestly, I have more interesting places to be. So, if he doesn’t step forward within the next minute, I’ll shoot someone in this crowd. Another minute, another shot. Understand? And… go.

The crowd began to murmur, yet her sharp ears picked up every word, every bated breath and nuance of speech. When her Lord Father had first given her to the Sisters of Iron, she’d been locked in a pitch black and silent room for four days, not allowed out until she spoke the command word, which was whispered twice per day by a Novice in the chapel down the hall at the height of the choral mass. If she got the word wrong, she would be denied food for the next day. Compared to that exercise, all those years ago, this was child’s play.

About twenty seconds passed before Harsh Justice spoke once more. A girl crumpled in a pool of blood, one of the gaspers. The canoness had not even been looking in that direction, but the bullet was very nearly pulled through the air to lodge between the girl’s eyes. The boy next to her took an angry step forward. Her brother, thought the canoness, or perhaps her cousin, judging by his appearance. That couldn’ta been a minute! You said we’d a’had a full minute.
Her smile was all ice. It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. She lowered her carbine back at him. You have another minute. Perhaps. Without needing a signal from her, her Talon spread out to prevent any flight. Somewhere in the crowd, a baby started crying.

She knew who it was, of course, and certainly not the idiot boy who’d dare question her. Had her agents not informed her, she wouldn’t be here. The question she was now seeking to answer was whether there were any more, and for that she needed to see how they acted when frightened. The Sisters of Iron train in intrigue and counter-intrigue from the moment they enter the order, and the young daughter of the Duke of Mendastin was as skilled as any in reading body language and understanding alliances, but she lacked, as the Mother Superior often reminded her, patience. The first Novice she caught stealing her mail was found bound and naked in the courtyard the next evening, her mouth so full of correspondence her jaw had been broken. Patience with fools is a coin which buys nothing, the woman thinks to herself, a decisive strike, once enough is known to aim it, buries itself deeper than any twisting games.

She’d seen enough, she decided. The man had acted alone, though a few of the townsfolk had known about it. They’d be dealt with in time; the men drafted and their wives given to other units, but that was not her department. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she drew a bead on the dark, sullen looking man in the second row. Almost too easy…

He’s faster than he looks, though. Instants before her finger tightens on the trigger, she’s flung from horseback, as though by a giant invisible hand. A quick prayer reveals it as exactly that, now pinning her to the ground. Harsh Justice lies a few feet from her hand. Her Talon are corralling the now-panicking peasants, but can’t seem to figure out who the mage is. She hears him begin his next incantation. She knows enough of magic to know it won’t be pretty.

But she’s still got a few tricks up her sleeve. Pre mňa, she whispers. Two words of Infernal, under her breath. To me. A jewel set into the trigger-guard of her weapon flares to life, and it flies firmly into her hand. She’s short on time, so she doesn’t even bother to take aim, trusting in her intuition. The crack of powder and scream of pain and outrage are as satisfying as ever.

Harsh Justice is not her first firearm, nor her only, but in this moment she thinks back to her first. A swaggering bravo had come into the Iron Convent one night, thinking to treat it as a brothel. The older prioresses left him to the novices to deal with, and while the other girls crawled over each other in an effort to inflict greater and greater punishments, she stole off with his battered sidearm, an antique flintlock pistol which she named, in her still-halting grasp of the infernal language, strelná-zbraň, or fire arm. When she used it three months later in a power-struggle between Sister Eelga Kinakoff and Canoness Gevney, she picked the wrong side. Fearing this impulsive young novice, now-Canoness Eelga had her raised to full Sisterhood and sent out into the world to spread the influence of Asmodeus. After visiting her father to acquire the funds for such an adventure, she joined up with a group establishing a new nation in the Stolen Lands—what better way to spread influence than to found a kingdom?—and never looked back.

She looks up. The mage is writhing on the ground. The bullet took his right arm off clean at the shoulder. He’s shrieking. Something about g$$#*!n whores, and tyrants, and rising again. The same useless prattle as always. He’s lost focus on the hand, and she easily slides out. She brushes herself off and waves back her Talon. He glares at her as she stalks up, but the pain is too much for him to cast. She puts a boot against his thoat to hold him down, then, as the crowd looks on, places the muzzle of her carbine against is other shoulder. A wizard with no arms is hardly a mage.

She’s not going to kill him, though. She uses a trickle of her power to stifle the bleeding on both his arms. Then, with another prayer, the gold-inlay on the butt of her rifle glows red. He knows what’s coming; they all do, they’ve heard the stories. He screams as she brands his chest with the star of Asmodeus, and she calls aloft a dedication in His name.

None of the villagers are watching anymore, and she says not a word to any of them as she remounts her horse. Her Talon form up behind her as she rides away. Did any of them make a move to help me when he had me pinned? she asks her commander.

No ma’am.

A pity. Circle back and kill all but the armless mage and the children. Your men can have their way with the girls, but none past her flowering can survive to bear the tale.

Yes ma’am.

Per Day:
0: Infinite
1: 3

Known
0: Brand, Daze, Light, Sift, Spark
1: Command, Divine Favor, Peacebond

DC 14+level