The STL Trenches

Amidst the smoke and sacrilege of mechanized slaughter, walks the Exactor — a divine sentinel of the Sacred Costalera, an order of militant nuns forged in flame and fervor. Clad in austere robes reinforced with chainmail and marked by holy sigils, the Exactor is the embodiment of divine judgment: an orthodoxy officer whose sacred duty is to instill the Fear of the Divine in the wavering hearts of soldiers. Where chaplains bring comfort, the Exactor brings consequence. She walks the lines not to soothe, but to scour. Her presence alone, a towering figure with a cruciform stave in one hand and a sanctified lash in the other, is enough to quiet murmured blasphemies and straighten spines bowed by doubt. Her eyes, ringed with ash and penance, see not only the body but the soul, and she is quick to mete out holy punishment to those who stray from the righteous path. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

The Corpus Dei, known as She Who Sees Clearer Blind, protected them in silence. Her name was lost, but her legend moved through the trenches like mustard gas. They said she had once been a nun, chosen as the First Vessel. Upon partaking of the Sacramenta Viscera — the divine raw, bleeding muscle, she changed. The iron diadem of thorns driven into her eyes had gouged out her sight, but opened other visions. Robed in tattered vestments that flowed like a foul cloud of decay, she strode across No Man’s Land chained in relics, the bones of martyrs, bells, and chimes, clinking softly with each step. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

In the shattered wastelands between the trenches, where mud swallows men and the air itself reeks of cordite and rot, rumors spoke in hushed tones of the Ignis Viventem — The Living Fire. A grotesque fusion of punishment and salvation, they were not soldiers by choice, but condemned souls, deserters, war criminals, and the mad, volunteering for redemption through inferno. Their bodies were bound in tattered coils of rope. Strapped across their chests, thighs, and backs were crude satchels of volatile explosives, hastily stitched by trembling hands in rear-line bunkers. The Viventem bore no insignia. Their drapes were scorched rags, their faces masked in iron cages, save for their eyes—wild, fervent, unblinking. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

In the blood-choked no-man’s-land, across an ocean of mud where gas peels lungs from the soul, there walks an abomination swathed in sanctity and sorrow — the Machina Sanctifica. Towering over barbed wire and cratered earth, this colossal suit of sacred bronze groans like a cathedral in pain, its grinding joints belching smoke that reeks of incense and diesel. The battlefield holds its breath when the titan moves — not out of awe, but dread. Assembled in the clandestine forges beneath ruined monasteries, the Machina Sanctifica is a war-engine fuelled not only by heavy oil and hydraulic fury but by something far more esoteric: faith and pain. Entombed within its cruciform interior, a monk-warrior is sealed alive in bronze, flesh melded to machine, clad in sackcloth and chains. Their existence is an unceasing crucible of agony and devotion. Every motion made within the machine is a prayer of suffering; every cry, a litany of vengeance. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

Under the command of the Monialis, the Sacred Costalera transform from wandering zealots into a fearsome, if unrecognized, militant sisterhood. They are part doomsday cult, part battlefield miracle, part vengeance incarnate. With the Monialis at their head, they walk from trench to trench cleansing heretical enemies with fire and faith. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

The Sacred Costalera’s weapons of choice are flamethrowers — righteous tools of wrath that are as much a symbol of divine judgment as they are instruments of war. Each flamethrower is an extension of their fervent belief, crafted with care and adorned with sacred icons and sigils that ward against evil and protect the women in their charge. These flamethrowers are not merely devices of destruction — they are extensions of the nuns’ vows to banish darkness, spread holy light, and purify the world of the monstrous evil they see in battle. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

In the mist-covered trenches of the Western Front, where the earth trembled with the thunder of artillery and the skies choked with smoke and death, there emerged an order of women who were both feared and revered — the Sacred Costalera. Their reputation spread like wildfire among the soldiers, whispered in hushed tones as tales of their bravery and mysticism coursed through the front lines. They were no ordinary nuns, they are the Progressors armed with weapons of flame and fortitude, they carry sacred fire into the trenches, casting both light and terror upon the battlefield. Founded in the late 18th century in the secluded hills of southern Italy, the Sacred Costalera are known for their unwavering faith and their deeply spiritual connection to the divine. As the Holy War escalated, these women felt an undeniable call to the battlefields. They were not sent to the frontlines as medics or caregivers—no, the Sacred Costalera are warriors. Includes both supported and unsupported files.

Adorned with habits of tattered flowing robes and coarse fabrics, the Costalera are unlike any nuns the world has seen. Their hoods are embroidered with symbols of protection — golden crosses and ancient runes of old, each meant to ward off the malevolent spirits of heretical forces. They are also drawn to wearing the Ironcrown Thorns or the Martyr’s Veil, giving them miraculous sight under darkened skies to deliver their cleansing fire. Around their necks, they wear heavy silver chains upon which hang intricate totems, small relics of saints long passed, imbued with prayers and blessings to protect them as they deliver their righteous fury. Includes both supported and unsupported files.