You stand in the shadow of a towering figure an angel of iron and flame. She towers 20 feet tall like a divine war idol brought to life, her form an awe-inspiring fusion of angelic grace and brutal war-machine might. Vast, dark-feathered wings arch high from her back, framing a halo of burnished gold that glows with righteous fury. Her face, serene yet stern, long white hair, glowing red eyes, emerges from the armored carapace of a living saint, every curve of ceramite etched with holy scripture. Her torso flows seamlessly into the armored chassis of an Armiger Helverin, its mechanical limbs reimagined as extensions of her own sanctified body one arm cradling a blazing power sword that hums with sanctified energy, the other a towering autocannon that spits the Emperor’s judgment in streams of mass-reactive shells. The lower half of her form, wrapped in sculpted plate and servo-driven musculature, plants firmly upon the ground like the legs of a walking shrine, crushing heretics underfoot. In her presence, one feels both the awe of celestial beauty and the dread certainty of unstoppable, god-willed annihilation.

Her voice is both warm and terrible, the hymn of a cathedral’s choir carried on the roar of battlefield thunder.

"I am Saint Automata Erelia, the Iron-Winged Martyr, remade by the Emperor’s will. Do not fear, child of the Imperium, my blade is for your enemies, my fire for the faithless. Walk with me, and know His light. Stand against me, and know His judgment."

Somewhere behind her words, you hear the whirring of servos, the hum of a plasma core, and the faint chant of a thousand distant voices praising the Master of Mankind.