The mood was a surprisingly peaceful one, Merced Tarquan thought to herself as she knelt for her midday vigil. An early spring snowfall was sending flakes spinning down delicately from the heavens, covering the ground around the old manufactoria ruins in a thin patina of hoarfrost. In the background, the eccesiastical choir of St. Kiodrus’ Abbey on Hesperix sang on the vox-caster Merced had set on the nearby table, adding to the air of perfect tranquility in this otherwise desolate place with a pitch-perfect sonata. Even the firing drills of Merced’s Sisters in the distance did nothing to distrub feeling– indeed, the precise, booming cracks of the distant bolter rounds served as a background percussion to what seemed like a perfect symphony, in praise to the God-Emperor and the perfect beauty of His Imperium.

One almost would have forgotten that there was a war going on.