NSFW Purgation Trooper – Ashen Beatrice. Only Nuns Model of the Month

There was a time when I thought the smell of kerosene would always disgust me. Now it follows me so faithfully that I notice its absence more than its presence. It settles into wool, leather, hair, the lining beneath armor, the seams of gloves, and even the skin itself. No perfume truly defeats it. I know because I have tried, and I still carry a small bottle of rosewater in my kit despite knowing that within an hour the fuel will overwhelm it completely. Perhaps that is why I continue using it. The fragrance does not need to win in order to matter.

My name is Ashen Beatrice, though once I was simply Beatrice, a woman with soft hands, expensive tastes I could rarely afford, and a habit of lingering too long before mirrors. I liked ribbons, polished buckles, hot baths, clean sheets, and the quiet pleasure of taking care with my appearance even when there was no one in particular to impress. I still like those things. The war has not cured me of them; if anything, it has made me more attentive to every small comfort that survives it.

People are often surprised by that. They see the armor, the fuel lines, the lead urns and the soot, and assume that whatever woman once lived beneath all of it must have disappeared long ago. They imagine that fire burns vanity away first, that hardship strips a person down to function and leaves nothing soft behind. I have found the opposite to be true. The uglier the world becomes, the more deliberate I am about preserving what is gentle, beautiful, and unnecessary.

I know exactly how good cool water feels against burned skin after a long day. I know the relief of loosening straps that have pressed into the same places for hours, and the strange intimacy of another woman helping with buckles when my fingers are too tired to manage them myself. I know how luxurious clean linen can seem after several nights spent sleeping near walls blackened by smoke, and how precious a few quiet minutes with a comb can become when most of the day has been spent beneath a helmet.

Even my scars became part of that understanding.

For a long time I tried to hide them. There is a pale line along my stomach, burns across one shoulder, and smaller marks around my hips where the chains of the urns have rubbed against the same places for years. I once thought they made me less feminine, as though softness and damage could not belong to the same body. Now I find that idea almost childish. A woman’s body does not cease to be beautiful because the world has written upon it. Mine has simply accumulated evidence of where it has been.

Sometimes, after returning from an expedition, I stand before a mirror without armor and trace those marks with my fingertips. Not because I am proud of them, and not because I wish to dramatize what they represent. I do it because I like the reassurance of recognition. We spend too much time near things that distort memory, imitate voices, alter flesh, and make people uncertain of what belongs to them. Knowing the shape of my own body has become a private comfort. This scar came from the crypt. That burn came from the shrine. One mark was entirely my own stupidity. Another I still prefer not to explain. They form a history I can touch.

That matters to me.

It reminds me that I am still Beatrice beneath the soot, the metal, and the name others gave me.

I am not always brave. Experience did not make fear disappear; it only taught me how to live beside it. There are moments before a breach when my mouth goes dry and every sensation becomes painfully clear—the pressure of armor against my chest, the weight of the urns at my hips, the pulse in my throat, the roughness of fabric beneath my collar. Fear makes the body impossible to ignore. Then the moment passes, the door opens, and what was imagined becomes real. Reality, however terrible, is often easier than anticipation.

Afterward, when the flames have died down and the air tastes of smoke, I rarely feel triumphant. Mostly I feel tired. I sit somewhere quiet, remove my gloves, and look at my hands. They are not soft anymore. There are calluses across the palms, burns along the fingers, and old cuts that never quite faded. Still, I like them.

They have held weapons, certainly, but that is not all they have done. They have braided another trooper’s hair before dawn, buttoned a friend’s collar while her hands were shaking, poured wine into chipped cups after nights none of us wanted to discuss, and once painted another woman’s nails with a tiny bottle of red lacquer she had carried through three campaigns. I did a terrible job. We laughed so hard that someone nearly spilled the rest of the bottle.

I remember that evening more clearly than many battles.

Moments like that are why I have never believed tenderness to be weakness. The Order teaches vigilance, discipline, and the importance of understanding what remains after the fire, but none of that has convinced me that gentleness is useless. Quite the opposite. After seeing enough death, tenderness begins to feel like one of the few things worth protecting precisely because it serves no practical purpose. It is simply something human beings still choose to give one another when almost everything else has been demanded, rationed, or taken away.

That is why I keep the rosewater. It is why I still own an ivory-handled comb with one broken tooth and a silk ribbon I hide beneath the collar of my armor. It is why, whenever possible, I wash the soot from my face before sleeping even though I know tomorrow will put it back. These habits do not make me less suited to what I do. They remind me that duty has not consumed everything else.

Some would call that vanity.

Perhaps it is.

I have made peace with vanity.

There are worse things to carry.

The urns themselves are heavy enough.

I carry several of them, sealed in lead and chained securely across my armor. Their weight leaves marks, and after long marches I can tell which vessel has been pulling against which part of my body. I have been offered chances to surrender some of them to the Order’s vaults, but I never have. Not because I feel affection for what they contain, and not because I imagine myself uniquely worthy of the burden. I simply believe that if I was there when the fire ended, then what remained became part of my responsibility.

That is the side of purgation most people never see. They remember flames because flames are dramatic. They do not think about the ash afterward, the careful gathering, the lead seals, the cataloguing, the quiet weight added to a chain. Fire is only the visible moment. Responsibility is what remains when the spectacle is gone.

Perhaps that is why I have come to think of myself in much the same way.

People see the armor, the scars, the soot, the weapon, and the smell of kerosene. They see the obvious things first.

I do not blame them.

But those are not the parts of me I work hardest to preserve.

I preserve the woman who still likes perfume even when it has no chance of lasting. The woman who enjoys soft fabric against tired skin. The woman who notices when another trooper’s hands are trembling and quietly takes over the buckle she cannot fasten. The woman who can sit beside a basin at midnight, washing ash from her face, and still care whether a ribbon sits properly in her hair.

That woman is not separate from Ashen Beatrice.

She is the reason Ashen Beatrice still exists.

If the world insists on surrounding me with smoke, iron, and ash, then I will carry those things because I must. But I will not allow them to decide everything I become.

“Fire may decide what remains of the world. I still decide what remains of me.”

🎨 A dream for painters and grimdark collectors

One model – “NSFW Purgation Trooper – Ashen Beatrice. Only Nuns Model of the Month”, designed by Wargames Crew

Total size 40mm

Base size is 32mm

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