'You will pay for this!', spat Sister Maria, a fledgling member of the Adepta Sororitas and the only survivor of her convent's failed assault.
The ceramite battleplate and ceremonial habit she once prized had been sundered and scattered about the chamber, discarded with a dispassionate flick; with it, her decency had been lain bare. Strength suited the nun's feminine form, as fertile as she was robust. Each muscle contoured and every curve emphasized. An invisible bondage of warp-twisted energies seized her wrists and ankles, binding the loyalist in a rigid kneeling position, hands clasped behind her head. The battle-sister would have thrashed and snarled with increased vigor had the shimmering, turquoise gauntlet of her captor not held so firm upon her snowy crown.
The air lingered with some echoing psychic thrum, yet it felt measured and purposeful. Its wavelength shortened and focused, and even a sister-of-battle such as Maria could barely concentrate with the magisterial voice now probing her mind, 'Potential. It is malleable and will suffice; Tzeentch has planned it, as he has done with all designs.'
The abductor spoke both aloud and from within, almost statuesque in his placidity. Clad in the ancient Egyptian motifs of primordial Terra, Maria's tormentor was no mere agent of the immaterium. This was a navigator of the murky Warp, a scion and a scholar. The unenlightened may have perceived him a mere sorcerer, though that was insufficient. His father was of The Red, an exiled prince with one thousand sons; all brothers to dust. His world was once Prospero, though that was a dream long forgotten.
Sister Maria struggled to maintain her fierce gaze as it met that of the azure-plated exalted one; gilded horns ascended jutted from the crown of his helmet and curved like a wicked daemon's. He did not scream or jest or proclaim, but rather exerted a mere fraction of his sorcerous willpower; it was almost enough to break her. Ten millennia of patience; the sorcerer felt no need to yell, 'Girl,' he telepathed out, 'you are adequate. Renounce the Corpse-God and unlock your true potential as my apprentice; I have willed it and it shall be so.' A small shock of warp-lightning wormed from his fingertips, down her silvery bob and shot to the tips of Maria's curled toes; a tease of what he had in store.
Each word was its own mind-numbing infringement. Dark ministrations that roused her untrained mind, and drew upon a forbidden thirst for knowledge and self-discovery. Every burst of the Chaos Champion's galvanizing touch was a synapse-frying surge of mental rewiring. With her staunch conviction to the God-Emperor she resisted but could feel the arch-magus probing deeper, and deeper and deeper until her faith was truly put to the test.