As they walked into the open, onto the cobblestone road which twisted up Mordheim's central hill and led to the chapel itself, Sofie couldn't help but note the familiarity of it all. It was early morning, and the sun broke through the green haze enough that sparkles of light dance across the stone, and the buildings on one side cast shadows over her. Michael led her a quarter-way up the hill, where the road flattened slightly. On the right was a long set of empty market stools. She remembered that merchants used to come to and fro, carrying wares unfit for those beneath; fine Tilean wine, salmon from the coast of Nordland and china rumoured to hail from the distant lands of Cathay and Nippon. All of it could be found here.
At least, before the calamity. Sofie sighed and took a deep breath. In her youth she would come and sit here, her feet dangling from the walls. She remembered the aroma of the markets and the lively talk amongst buyer and seller. Now, though, she could see and hear none of it. She watched Brother Michael, who was swaggering ahead of her, humming some idle tune. He seemed a bit too happy, but she didn't question it; if she was to be a sister again, she couldn't. It was probably just how he coped with it all.
They arrived not twenty metres from the double-doors, though they were so large and so decorative that they looked more like cathedral gates. Sofie blinked and looked about her. Sure enough, she saw the place where she had been stopped before; an old house sat in the shadow of the chapel's perimeter walls. The gaps where tiles had been cracked and displaced was still present.
The missionary brought forth a small amulet, carved into the familiar shape of a twin-tailed comet. He muttered blessings to Sigmar and pleaded for entry. The ground lit up, carved into a semicircle across the pavement by blue-white fire. It rose up into a dome, shimmered, and fell away where the Missionary stepped. Sofie followed close behind, cautious of seeming conspicuous, and they made their way towards the gates. A sentry stood there, a stocky-built woman with little of a woman about her at all. She stood cradling the head of a large mace between interlocked hands. Sniffing the air with a certain glee, she nodded to the missionary and glared at the sister who followed.
"A lost sister returns to us!" He called out. The sentry snorted in distaste, but dared not stop him. "This is truly a sign... Yes, I must tell everyone, to lift the spirits of the hundreds-"
"The hundreds?" Sofie called in despair.
"You wouldn't know, Sister." The sentry glared at her, eyes flaming with rage. She seemed to throb with hatred as she continued. "You failed, and then ran away, did you? And found a new group with new attire."
The Missionary paused, looking with pursed lips as if deciding who to reprimand. Then he burst into a bout of laughter. "Oh my! As stalwart as ever, Agnes. You truly are the Bastion!" He strode on, patting her shoulder like a father - or rather, like an uncle. It was bewildering, and as Sofie followed, the puzzled gaze of Agnes the Bastion followed her. Then he turned to Sofie.
"Through these doors, yes." He said, resting a palm on the smaller, but still lavishly sculpted, oak double-doors. "Everyone who is sane, who is innocent and who is faithful. Hundreds of them, we think. This place is a refuge for all that Sigmar cherishes, and we will treat it as such!"
Sofie nodded obediently. He was strange, it wasn't just her misremembering. Michael had never been quite so.. ecstatic.
The doors opened, and the figures stepped through. Immediately, Sofie was set upon by the commotion of hundreds of refugees, all crowded nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in this chapel hall. She had always thought it so vast as a child, but seeing the tightness now - she had barely passed a metre, and already felt the rubbing of shoulders against her and the closing in of the din. Everyone she passed on her way to the altar, where another member of the order sat perusing a text of some sort, she saw a similar picture: Faces that were tired and degraded, like those on the outside.
These were different though, and it filled her with happiness. She watched a pair of children, probably twins, zig-zagging between gaps in the clusters and groups. One of them ran face-first into her, stumbled and grinned sheepishly.
"Sorry!" He squeaked, and ran off. The other boy followed with a chuckle.
Off to the right, a pair of women were discussing the attire that the Sisters wore, with no lack of derision and pity in their expression. As she passed them, they looked at her, nodding respectfully and smiling as if their point had been proven.
Sofie arrived at the altar, kneeling as was customary, and she couldn't help but grin. The marks of fatigue that these people had were tempered by hope, and their eyes were not weary and saddened as those of the Imperial soldiers had been. Instead, they seemed to have a happiness that was admirable, and a stubbornness that was certainly welcome during times like this.
The Sister-Superior looked from her text, and her eyes widened in surprise.
"Sofie?" She called tentatively. Her lips parted into a warm, motherly smile. "You must be exhausted, come. Your sisters will be so happy you survived!" She stood up, advanced towards the Sister and paused. Her eyes narrowing, she scrutinized her and bit her lip, sighing. "I see you are fatigued.. you must rest." The Superior turned, cupping her hand over her temple to hide what seemed to be a glare. She gestured with an aged finger for Sofie to follow, and she did so.
She was directed to an old storeroom, with a rough grey rug fresh with the outline of shelving which had since been removed. The walls were unpainted and undone, so that the bricks - which had been stained by the years - were clearly visible. A single square window hung at head-height, and the light of a cheerful day broke through. There was a grating in the centre of the room. Sofie knelt down and rested her ear against it. She could hear the dripping of water far below; it must have led to a sewer.
She was too tired to ponder it any further - or, at least, she felt she must have been - and she led down on an old oak crate, which had been prepared as a make-shift bed with an old potato sack stuffed with feathers and wool.