With the members of the Third legion and their allies spread through out swathes of books it can at times be quite a task to hunt down the descriptions of them, be it for art, conversions/kitbashes, lore discussions or any number of things. As such my hope with this thread is to make things a bit easier for fellow fans of the legion looking for such details.
This thread shall cover the various Traitors of the Adepta Sororitas and their known accomplices.
The Iconoclast- Masked. Clad from head to foot in close-fitting wargear of porous white material that glistened like porcelain, the Iconoclast was rendered into a blank, indefinable human shape. She thought of a denuded mannequin or an artist’s figure model; the Iconoclast had nothing to define it, no hint of identity or self. The only characteristics that broke the uniformity were the two weapons in the heretic’s gauntleted hands – ancient khopesh-fashion sickle swords, wicked silver curves that flashed in the dull illumination filtering through chapel’s stained glass windows. The ends of the hilts had concealed bolter magazines inside them, allowing the wielder to attack from range if needed.
A great liquid mass of the Celestian’s blood seemed to rise up and engulf the Iconoclast in a wave, drenching the white armour until it was crimson. But then, to Miriya’s horror, the porous surface of the wargear drank in the murdered woman’s blood, soaking it away. The Iconoclast’s faceless visage inclined towards her, as if amused, and then the white-clad figure vaulted towards the Battle Sister with incredible speed.
The blank doll-face turned to face Miriya and up came a hand to waggle a finger in her direction, like a parent giving a child a playful warning not to misbehave. Before she could commit to the act, soft, feminine laughter issued out from beneath the Iconoclast’s mask. The porcelain sheath parted into quarters and retreated back off the face beneath.
I swear I will tear off the Iconoclast’s mask and see the heretic’s true face before I deliver the killing blow. Miriya’s vow echoed in her memory; but here the traitor was revealing itself of its own accord. It was a human face beneath the white covering, a woman’s face. Scarred and florid with the rush of blood, but an aspect that Miriya knew. Severe green eyes. Ash-blonde hair. It was Oleande’s face.
‘You think I am the only one to fall?’ The figure in white laughed and the harsh sound cascaded off the broken walls. ‘The only one who willingly burned her oath for greater power? You know better than that, Sister Miriya. After all, it is your Order that carries the stain of being the first to give up a daughter to the Eightfold Path!’ ‘Do not… speak the name!’ The wounded Battle Sister coughed up blood as she shouted out the words. ‘Sister Superior Miriael Sabathiel!’ shouted the Iconoclast. ‘She of the Order of Our Martyred Lady! Given unto the embrace of the Lord of Dark Delights, and such a waste too…’ She shook her head sadly, mockingly. ‘As callow novices we were taught that no Sister ever falls, but Sabathiel is known. She is the cautionary tale. How do you square that circle, Miriya? None fall, yet one fell? How does it feel to know you are lied to?’ She reached for an answer and could not find one. The Iconoclast – Oleande – saw it in her eyes and smiled. ‘Sabathiel was only the first. She built her own war band out of pious Sisters she enslaved herself from Order of the Argent Shroud, much to their shame… And then there were the others, quietly killed and cut out of history… Or replaced. Like me.’ Oleande strode back to her wounded double and glared at her. ‘All to protect the great lie of the Adepta Sororitas, to shield its brittle heart and soul from the shattering truth of Chaos!’ She drew back and spat in her own face. ‘You see before you the blood-soaked shame of the Valorous Heart. So humiliated they were by my defection to the true gods that they made this lie. Took a Sister and gave her my aspect, so that none would know. And they’ve been following your crusade ever since, Miriya. Waiting for this moment to come and end me. To seal the secret forever and burn out the indignity that is the heretic Oleande. The Iconoclast who dared to disown them.’
Oleande rose from the ashes, a bruise-purple impact crater in her chest where one of Verity’s shots had hit home. Something unholy and As Oleande fought back, a sickly nest of pallid tendrils wavered out of the entry wound in her chest, each of them ending in a lamprey-maw that danced in the air in search of blood and meat. monstrous was living in there, inside the heretic’s chest cavity where her heart had once beat. Oleande gave a hollow, monstrous bark of laughter. ‘You can’t kill me. I have died a thousand times and the Blood God’s gift always resurrects me…’ She reached up to stroke the squirming mass of tentacle-things emerging from the hole in her chest. ‘I will give him your bones as tribute!’ but to Miriya’s disgust, the detached arm disgorged a bulk of pale tendrils at its severed end, which began to propel it across the ground towards her, like a fat maggot questing for carrion to consume.
The Army of the Iconoclast- They were nightmare figures. A ragged mix of commoners, civilians, enforcers and guardsmen from every reach of the planet, all of them fallen to the blood-soaked madness of the Mark of Khorne. Their eyes were wide, lost to unreason and death-lust. Their clothing was coated in a slurry of congealed blood, organ meat and other body matter; some wore conical hoods made from the skins of those they had killed, some in crude armour fashioned from lashed-together human femur bones. They carried weapons of all kinds, from war-swords and makeshift stone clubs to lascarbines and autostubbers. The Iconoclast was in full flow of combat, fighting among a troop of traitor soldiers in debased Auxilia carapace armour festooned with spikes and kill-cult runes.
Sister superior Miriael Sabathiel – ‘My lord Balzaropht has plans for me.''
‘There were three incidents, mass-killings. The perpetrator made a great effort to suggest they were the work of a battle sister.’
A shadow disengaged itself from the night. Just a shadow, hunched and puppet-like, its long, shaggy hair backlit by the glow of the snowfall.
Canoness Olga Karamanz swung around and raised her mace into the third quarter defence. The sword, its blade as bright as the snowlight, was already inside her guard. It ripped through her gown and plate armour, and opened her body to the spine.
Miriael's warband- ‘Sabathiel was only the first. She built her own war band out of pious Sisters she enslaved herself from Order of the Argent Shroud, much to their shame…And then there were the others, quietly killed and cut out of history… Or replaced. Like me.’
Tegget- Long shaggy hair. Equipped with a hunting las, two kestrel lures and a muted AT-bike. Would later hunt eldar for Miriael.
The loan of an expensive, self-heating bodyglove was another. Most of all, it was the nature of the request. He buckled up his armoured jack, slid his hunting las from the bike’s saddle boot, and threw two of his best psyber lures into the air. The metal blades of their wings opened as they ran free, and they circled the treetops with gentle beats. Both of them were small aquila-form: artificial kestrels wrought from steel and compound ceramics. Tegget pressed his left cheekbone, and the ocular implant in his left eye socket began to display, split-screen, the view from the lures. Lowen Tegget had known hardship. He was ex-Guard, ex-stormtroop elite. He’d seen some living hells, and dreamt of them still, some nights. This cold was just a trifle. He moved in through the ruins, all the while rubbing the powercell of his hunting las with his heated glove to keep it lively. It was a rough-set woodsman in an armoured jack, swaying and pale, wounded. He held a hunting las across his chest, but made no attempt to raise it.
This thread shall cover the various Traitors of the Adepta Sororitas and their known accomplices.
The Iconoclast- Masked. Clad from head to foot in close-fitting wargear of porous white material that glistened like porcelain, the Iconoclast was rendered into a blank, indefinable human shape. She thought of a denuded mannequin or an artist’s figure model; the Iconoclast had nothing to define it, no hint of identity or self. The only characteristics that broke the uniformity were the two weapons in the heretic’s gauntleted hands – ancient khopesh-fashion sickle swords, wicked silver curves that flashed in the dull illumination filtering through chapel’s stained glass windows. The ends of the hilts had concealed bolter magazines inside them, allowing the wielder to attack from range if needed.
A great liquid mass of the Celestian’s blood seemed to rise up and engulf the Iconoclast in a wave, drenching the white armour until it was crimson. But then, to Miriya’s horror, the porous surface of the wargear drank in the murdered woman’s blood, soaking it away. The Iconoclast’s faceless visage inclined towards her, as if amused, and then the white-clad figure vaulted towards the Battle Sister with incredible speed.
The blank doll-face turned to face Miriya and up came a hand to waggle a finger in her direction, like a parent giving a child a playful warning not to misbehave. Before she could commit to the act, soft, feminine laughter issued out from beneath the Iconoclast’s mask. The porcelain sheath parted into quarters and retreated back off the face beneath.
I swear I will tear off the Iconoclast’s mask and see the heretic’s true face before I deliver the killing blow. Miriya’s vow echoed in her memory; but here the traitor was revealing itself of its own accord. It was a human face beneath the white covering, a woman’s face. Scarred and florid with the rush of blood, but an aspect that Miriya knew. Severe green eyes. Ash-blonde hair. It was Oleande’s face.
‘You think I am the only one to fall?’ The figure in white laughed and the harsh sound cascaded off the broken walls. ‘The only one who willingly burned her oath for greater power? You know better than that, Sister Miriya. After all, it is your Order that carries the stain of being the first to give up a daughter to the Eightfold Path!’ ‘Do not… speak the name!’ The wounded Battle Sister coughed up blood as she shouted out the words. ‘Sister Superior Miriael Sabathiel!’ shouted the Iconoclast. ‘She of the Order of Our Martyred Lady! Given unto the embrace of the Lord of Dark Delights, and such a waste too…’ She shook her head sadly, mockingly. ‘As callow novices we were taught that no Sister ever falls, but Sabathiel is known. She is the cautionary tale. How do you square that circle, Miriya? None fall, yet one fell? How does it feel to know you are lied to?’ She reached for an answer and could not find one. The Iconoclast – Oleande – saw it in her eyes and smiled. ‘Sabathiel was only the first. She built her own war band out of pious Sisters she enslaved herself from Order of the Argent Shroud, much to their shame… And then there were the others, quietly killed and cut out of history… Or replaced. Like me.’ Oleande strode back to her wounded double and glared at her. ‘All to protect the great lie of the Adepta Sororitas, to shield its brittle heart and soul from the shattering truth of Chaos!’ She drew back and spat in her own face. ‘You see before you the blood-soaked shame of the Valorous Heart. So humiliated they were by my defection to the true gods that they made this lie. Took a Sister and gave her my aspect, so that none would know. And they’ve been following your crusade ever since, Miriya. Waiting for this moment to come and end me. To seal the secret forever and burn out the indignity that is the heretic Oleande. The Iconoclast who dared to disown them.’
Oleande rose from the ashes, a bruise-purple impact crater in her chest where one of Verity’s shots had hit home. Something unholy and As Oleande fought back, a sickly nest of pallid tendrils wavered out of the entry wound in her chest, each of them ending in a lamprey-maw that danced in the air in search of blood and meat. monstrous was living in there, inside the heretic’s chest cavity where her heart had once beat. Oleande gave a hollow, monstrous bark of laughter. ‘You can’t kill me. I have died a thousand times and the Blood God’s gift always resurrects me…’ She reached up to stroke the squirming mass of tentacle-things emerging from the hole in her chest. ‘I will give him your bones as tribute!’ but to Miriya’s disgust, the detached arm disgorged a bulk of pale tendrils at its severed end, which began to propel it across the ground towards her, like a fat maggot questing for carrion to consume.
The Army of the Iconoclast- They were nightmare figures. A ragged mix of commoners, civilians, enforcers and guardsmen from every reach of the planet, all of them fallen to the blood-soaked madness of the Mark of Khorne. Their eyes were wide, lost to unreason and death-lust. Their clothing was coated in a slurry of congealed blood, organ meat and other body matter; some wore conical hoods made from the skins of those they had killed, some in crude armour fashioned from lashed-together human femur bones. They carried weapons of all kinds, from war-swords and makeshift stone clubs to lascarbines and autostubbers. The Iconoclast was in full flow of combat, fighting among a troop of traitor soldiers in debased Auxilia carapace armour festooned with spikes and kill-cult runes.
Sister superior Miriael Sabathiel – ‘My lord Balzaropht has plans for me.''
‘There were three incidents, mass-killings. The perpetrator made a great effort to suggest they were the work of a battle sister.’
A shadow disengaged itself from the night. Just a shadow, hunched and puppet-like, its long, shaggy hair backlit by the glow of the snowfall.
Canoness Olga Karamanz swung around and raised her mace into the third quarter defence. The sword, its blade as bright as the snowlight, was already inside her guard. It ripped through her gown and plate armour, and opened her body to the spine.
Miriael's warband- ‘Sabathiel was only the first. She built her own war band out of pious Sisters she enslaved herself from Order of the Argent Shroud, much to their shame…And then there were the others, quietly killed and cut out of history… Or replaced. Like me.’
Tegget- Long shaggy hair. Equipped with a hunting las, two kestrel lures and a muted AT-bike. Would later hunt eldar for Miriael.
The loan of an expensive, self-heating bodyglove was another. Most of all, it was the nature of the request. He buckled up his armoured jack, slid his hunting las from the bike’s saddle boot, and threw two of his best psyber lures into the air. The metal blades of their wings opened as they ran free, and they circled the treetops with gentle beats. Both of them were small aquila-form: artificial kestrels wrought from steel and compound ceramics. Tegget pressed his left cheekbone, and the ocular implant in his left eye socket began to display, split-screen, the view from the lures. Lowen Tegget had known hardship. He was ex-Guard, ex-stormtroop elite. He’d seen some living hells, and dreamt of them still, some nights. This cold was just a trifle. He moved in through the ruins, all the while rubbing the powercell of his hunting las with his heated glove to keep it lively. It was a rough-set woodsman in an armoured jack, swaying and pale, wounded. He held a hunting las across his chest, but made no attempt to raise it.
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