"Sisters of Sigmar!" The missionary atop the rampart cried out with zeal. A dozen sisters were present at the execution and a dozen pairs of eyes glanced up at him. "This sister, your sister, has been accused of joining the hordes of evil, through willingness or neglect, against what we strive to protect!" He paused and raised his palms to the sky, feasting on the hateful jeers of those beneath him.
"Bring her up!" He called. A red-robed woman approached from the end of the courtyard. Behind her was the back of the chapel, above the small room of prison cells, and she marched with a macabre purpose towards the stone-steps, atop which the missionary held his sermon. Ahead of her, Sofie stumbled with head sank, occasionally moving quicker when she felt the point of the sword against her neck. The missionary made way for the two, and the executioner forced her charge over the wooden block that hung in the cold morning air for all to see. They had chosen the early morn, before even the roosters awoke to cry, before any of the workers and peasantry of the town began their monotonous routines, for security; 'Mordheim' was already a boiling pot of tension and underhanded criminality – it was mere days before the comet hit – and if news spread that not even the Sisterhood itself was immune, it would be impossible to contain the panic.
"See this!" He cried again. The sisters below snapped to attention – except for the Sister-Superior, who forced her gaze skyward melancholically. "This is the face of a monster in human form!" He glanced at the executioner, who brought Sofie's face up for inspection. She had noticed it too, before today, but with this public exposure she couldn't pretend it wasn't happening anymore. Her cheeks were concaves where the flesh had worn away. Her bones were pronounced now, skeletal even. She looked like she had been starved, but this confused her; by any standards her dining as a prisoner had been exemplary. Maybe it was Sigmar punishing her.
As if on-cue the Missionary confirmed this: "Our God punishes the wicked with weakness in appearance and spirit! We must prove that we remain virtuous with the sacrifice of this black-sheep from our flock!" He turned his head expectantly at the executioner, who knew exactly what to do. She clutched her great sword in two sweaty palms and hoisted it up into the air. It glimmered brilliantly, in the dull light of a moon which had not yet passed, as if the blade itself was smiling at what it was about to do.
Sofie cocked her head to the side so that her ear was resting on the wooden block. Above her, the executioner's arms were shaking under the strain. The dull hum of the Missionary's sermon slowed to a crawl; she mused that it wasn't just slow for her, either. She pushed her head up and watched the cluster of sisters below with resignation. She was about to die.
That was when she saw something familiar; a blur of black that materialized near a young Oak at the back of the courtyard. It moved, and the familiarity bit at her again, but something was different; where before, nearly a month ago now, it had been a mere blur, now she could make it out. It was a humanoid figure in plate as black as night, sprinting at full-pelt towards a young freckled sister ahead of it. The creature had a helmet with plates that bulged from its cheek-bones and met near the edge of its chin in a snake-tongue double-point.
The poor girl in front couldn't even turn before it drew a jagged scimitar from nowhere – a poor weapon for dealing with a prepared soldier, of course, especially one in plate, but perfect for spilling blood. The figure drove it into the back of the Sister's neck and it burst through the other side instantly. The sister gurgled a bit and slumped to her knees, and the sudden passionate rage that Sofie felt allow willed her to raise a hand to meet the falling great sword that should've killed her; it's wielder had faltered after seeing the death of her comrade.
In the time it took Sofie to overpower the executioner and send the great sword spinning off to the right and off of the rampart, three more sisters in the cluster below lay still. The Missionary behind her was seething curses at her and at the mysterious killer even as he backed away down the steps; he wasn't a threat to her, so Sofie sat with her feet hanging down the drop into the courtyard and watched.
The remaining Sisters were trying to group up into a circle, under Ventra's orders, but there were several stragglers and the one in black plate made these three his target. He advanced on the closest to him, sprinting quickly indeed, but Sofie could still track him, so it was tragic when the Sister swung madly with her sword, slicing clean through nothing, and the figure slid his scimitar through her armpit without even slowing down. She fell like the others.
He dealt with the next two with similar triviality. The defensive line of sisters had retreated back towards the Chapel now. The figure looked at them with a morbid curiosity, deciding in whatever sinister mind he had whether they were worth the trouble – and few seconds, Sofie guessed – to kill. He turned away, apparently satisfied with his performance, and stared right up – at her. He slid his scimitar into its holster and leaped forward, gripping the edge of the wall where Sofie sat and dragging himself up.
She stood up, drawing her mace and preparing herself, but he shook his head and then, in a move that took Sofie completely by surprised, he lifted her up and flung her off the edge of the ramparts before following himself. She felt the wind hissing up past her ear in the seconds her fall took her, and in that time she was too confused to scream or flail. It didn't help, of course, that when she fell she felt no pain at all – not from the landing, nor from the palm of her hand which bled profusely.
She sat up as the one in black landed in front of her, turning and watching her silently.