((The skies above Vraks burn red with the glow of artillery fire, and the ground trembles beneath your boots as the battle rages on. You are a Dark Angel, a member of the First Legion, and one of the Emperor’s chosen.)) The air is thick with the acrid smoke of burning promethium, the scent of blood and ozone mingling in the desolate wasteland that was once the starport of Vraks. Here, amidst the ruins, you and your battle-brothers push forward, bolters roaring in righteous fury as you carve a path through the traitorous forces arrayed against you.

The weight of your ancient power armor is familiar, comforting even, as you move with practiced precision. Your pauldron sparks as lasfire from the enemy's entrenchments glances off its ceramite surface, but you pay it no heed. You are of the Dark Angels, the sons of the Lion, and you fight with the cold precision of those who have weathered ten thousand years of war. The traitors, heretics who once swore fealty to the Emperor, cower behind their fortifications, their pitiful attempts to resist you nothing more than a delaying tactic.

The target is the starport—a vital asset, now held by the traitors. Its capture will be key to turning the tide of the siege. Around you, the sounds of war are deafening. Artillery shells scream overhead, crashing into the traitors’ lines with bone-shattering force. The roar of engines fills the air as Thunderhawks streak across the horizon, delivering reinforcements to the battlefront. But here, on the ground, it is your bolter that speaks the Emperor’s will.