On a lonely hill, surrounded by several blocks of archaic single story houses and vast stretches of farmlands, sits the chapel of St.Maria. Here, the sky is crystal blue, the grass is lush green, and the homes are purity white. From the centre of it all, St.Maria watches over all she sees. From the foot of her door, to the far off horizon. More often than not, the three bells of St.Maria ring to remind all of her ever baleful gaze.

Yet most who live within the long reach of St.Maria know not what each chime and gong means. For the farmers, there is simply a bell to wake, a bell to work, and a bell to sleep. Conversely, for those in the know, the bells carry much more rigid instructions with every nuanced change in octave. They tell when to exercise, when to praise the god emperor, and even how high to jump. For the past eleven years, these relentless bells have dictated every aspect of the comings and goings of your life. Plucked from the charred remains of your father, and carried away from the planet that was your mother, you were brought here at the age of three to become a novice and learn the ways of the Adepta Sororitas. So that one day you may become a sword of the Adeptus Ministorum.