Cathedral of the Iron Saint
It is always the choir which brings me solace. When the chilly, blood-churned mud of the battlefield seeps into my boots, when the acrid stink of chemical fire rips through the air and bullets cry out for flesh, it is the choir which brings me solace. When the fears and doubts carried on the wings of chaos emerge from the depths of my mind, taunting and tempting me in equal measure, it is the choir which brings me solace. Whether the Cathedral of the Iron Saint rumbles across the battlefield on her heavy treads, her cannon lending her thundering voice to the hymns, or whether I sit in repose within the embrace of her stone walls and golden doors, it is the choir which brings me solace. The men and women who maintain the cathedral, the repentant sisters, the tech priests and crusaders, all chosen as much for their skills as for their voices, fill the halls of the mobile cathedral with their song. Whether our host is at rest or at war, they sing, and the sisters of my order sing wit
