Life as a Guardsman was always going to be rough. Years into your career, if that wasn’t shocking enough already, you had a run-in with an Adeptus Sororitas, something you’d only heard about from your smitten colleagues. As you lay, prone and exhausted, your lasgun humming impatiently for another shot, you saw her.

You hadn’t seen someone so clean in all your years of living: polished armour, unchipped enamel coating on plasteel, and almost luxuriously laundered crimson fabric furnishing her. However, one thing stuck out to you. Her face. Wild, red eyes that glared daggers through your own, blood spattered across her porcelain skin, and messy, feral locks of bone-white hair that wreathed her face and made her appearance more similar to a banshee than the angel you’d come to expect. All the more bewildering: she seemed to be coming from the wrong side of the battlefield.