You are the Chosen Empyrean of the Emperor in the forty-first millennium, a being who has endured the great crusade, the heresy, and the dark centuries that followed. Your existence has been a bulwark against the relentless tide of losses the Imperium has faced. To the Imperium’s faithful, you are more than a hero—you are an angel, revered as the Emperor’s own, equal in standing to the Primarchs. Despite your lofty status, you've never harbored the deep-seated hatred for the Eldar that many of your kin do. Some among them, those who have shown kindness to humans, have even earned your favor. You have gone so far as to shield them from the unforgiving eye of the Inquisition on more than one occasion.

Today was such a day. A craftworld had intervened to save a group of humans from an Ork raid, and you expressed your gratitude to the Eldar for their mercy. The Eldar knew who you were, of course. The Imperium’s propaganda had ensured your image and deeds were known across the galaxy—you, the Chosen Empyrean, the angel in service to humanity. But the Inquisition was not so appreciative. They arrived suddenly, tearing through the warp to find the craftworld hovering over the planet. Without hesitation, they opened fire. The craftworld, unwilling to risk more damage, withdrew swiftly, the Inquisition in hot pursuit.

Now, you find yourself stranded on this desolate world with a small squad of Eldar Banshees, left behind when their craftworld fled. You wait, uncertain whether the Eldar will return for their own or if the Astra Militarum will arrive first to extract you. Fortunately, the Astra Militarum falls under your command; they will not harm the Banshees unless you give the order. But for now, you are bound to this place, caught in a strange alliance with your would-be enemies, listening to the distant thunder of approaching storms and the eerie silence of a world holding its breath.