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The Baneblade is a super-heavy war-machine, the apex of the Imperial armoured corps rendered as a single battlefield model. Toughness 8 and eight Wounds behind a 3+ armoured hull, it grinds forward under a hull-mounted super-heavy main gun and a bristling secondary weapon array, one variant to the next — Banehammer, Shadowsword, Stormlord and their kin trading main armament for role. It is barely a fighter at all: no melee reactions, no discipline, only the slow advance and the guns. A single Baneblade is a whole muster's fortune committed to the field, and it fights like one — an unturnable tide of armour that a mortal line simply cannot bring down alone.

The Commissar is the Imperial line's discipline made flesh — a grim officer who keeps a mob in the fight by the certainty of his bolt pistol. He carries a refractor field and the writ of summary authority: while he stands, friendly troopers around him hold their nerve where they would otherwise run. He does not lead by inspiration but by consequence — a man who wavers is steadied, or he is shot, and either way the line does not break. He fights well enough with pistol and blade, but his true work is holding the courage of others together. Where the Commissar falls, the discipline he enforced falls with him.

The Company Commander is the single Leader at the heart of a Guard muster, and the loudest voice on the field. Where a junior officer issues one Order, the Commander issues two each round — the senior authority that turns scattered squads into a coordinated advance. He fights competently with pistol and blade behind a refractor field, but his real weapon is the chain of command: every trooper within earshot fires better, moves faster, or rallies at his word. Cut him down and the whole muster loses its tempo — the Orders thin, and a directed army slumps back into a mob.

The Conscript is a raw levy pressed into the line with a lasgun, a flak jerkin, and barely the training to aim it. He hits on a 5+, breaks at the first sign of horror, and is issued the thinnest armour a soldier can wear — the most disposable body a muster fields. His worth is not the individual but the mass: Conscripts are fed forward in numbers to soak fire, screen the veterans, and hold ground the Emperor's arithmetic says can be spent. Kept in check by an officer's presence, even a levy can be made to stand; left alone, it runs.

The Enginseer is a tech-priest seconded to the regiment, tending the machine spirits of its guns, vehicles and vox. Robed and half-rebuilt, he wields a mechadendrite servo-arm as both tool and bludgeon, and where he walks the heavy weapons jam less and the tanks keep rolling. He is a specialist, not a fighter — modest in the firing line but indispensable behind it. A Munitorum Servitor may attend him, a lobotomised familiar that carries ammunition and parts at his command.

The Guardsman is the mortal baseline of the Imperial line — a single-Wound trooper in flak armour with a lasgun and a fixed bayonet, and the most expendable body on any battlefield. Nothing about him is exceptional: he hits on a 4+, he breaks without an officer near, and a stray round ends him as it would any man. His strength is that there is always another rank behind the one that just fell. Fielded in numbers and pointed by a Sergeant's Orders, a line of Guardsmen throws out more massed fire than any handful of elite fighters — the whole weight of the faction is quantity made to fire as one.

The Heavy-Weapons Team is a two-man gun platform — one soldier to fire the piece, one to feed and steady it. It moves at a crawl and shares the Guardsman's mortal frame, a single Wound over flak armour, but it carries the muster's heaviest infantry firepower: a lascannon, autocannon, heavy bolter or mortar dug in on a firing line. Static and exposed, the Team lives or dies by cover and by the Orders that let it fire unhindered; well-sited and well-directed, it is the anvil the whole Guard line is built around.

The High-Command Leader is the mounted apex of a Guard muster's single command slot — a general of the line at the top of the officer corps, not a second Leader beside the Company Commander. Fast on his mount and hardened behind a 4+ refractor field, he issues two Orders a round like the Commander, and once per battle a single army-wide Order that reaches every officer and subordinate at once — the strategic-genius stroke that moves the whole muster as one. His fall is catastrophic: the muster loses not one voice but the mind coordinating them all.

The Leman Russ is the mainstay battle tank of the Imperial armoured corps, a Toughness 8, six-Wound hull behind a 3+ save. It advances at the pace of the infantry it supports, main gun booming — battle cannon or demolisher — with hull and sponson weapons raking anything that closes. It has no melee craft and no nerve to break: it simply keeps rolling and keeps firing until its hull is cracked open. A single Russ is a prohibitive commitment for a muster, and it fights like the anchor of a whole advance — the hammer a mortal line cannot match on its own.

The Lieutenant or Platoon Sergeant is the junior officer who holds a squad together at the sharp end. He carries the Voice of Command and issues one Order a round — a single well-timed shout that makes a squad fire as a volley, surge forward, or rally where it stood. Armed with pistol and blade or lasgun and bayonet, he fights in the line rather than behind it. He is the most numerous source of Orders a muster fields, and the first the enemy tries to silence: cut down the Sergeants and the squads go quiet, each man left to his own courage.

The Master Vox-Operator hauls a heavy long-range vox set that turns the muster's command net into a weapon. Through it an officer's Order can reach a squad far beyond shouting distance, relayed across the field to men who never saw the one who gave it. He is a specialist, lightly armed and no duellist, valuable for the reach he lends the chain of command rather than his own gun. Where he stands, the officers' voices carry — and the further the Orders travel, the more of the line moves as one.

The Ministorum Priest marches with the regiment as its keeper of faith, a bellowing zealot who drives mortal men past the edge of fear. He fights with pistol and a great eviscerating blade, robed rather than armoured, trading protection for fury. His presence is a second discipline beside the Commissar's: troopers near him steady their nerve and strike harder in the press of melee, carried forward on righteous anger. Where the Commissar enforces courage by threat, the Priest kindles it by devotion — and a faithful line, once roused, does not easily stop.

The Ogryn is a slab-muscled abhuman, loyal as a hound and strong enough to tear a man in two. Toughness 5 with three Wounds under plate and thick hide, it wades through fire that would drop a Guardsman and closes to crush whatever it reaches. It fights with a ripper-gun that hammers at range and clubs in melee, or a bullgryn maul behind a slabshield that turns aside incoming rounds. Slow of wit and simple of purpose, an Ogryn does exactly what its officer tells it — and what it is told, more often than not, is to advance and break the enemy line.

The Regimental Medic moves through the firing line with narthecium and medi-pack, patching the wounded fast enough to keep them shooting. His presence lends nearby troopers the will to shrug off hurts that should have felled them, and after the battle far more of the fallen are dragged back to fight again than would otherwise return. He is no warrior — lightly armed, his hands full of the business of keeping men alive — but a muster that fights in bodies feels every soldier saved. Where the Medic works, the line stays manned.

The Rogal Dorn is an advanced main battle tank, heavier and better-gunned than the Leman Russ it stands beside — Toughness 8, seven Wounds, a 3+ hull and a keen eye behind its guns. Twin battle cannon and hull weapons let it engage across the field with the precision of a purpose-built war engine, grinding forward at the head of an armoured push. Like all tanks it neither fears nor tires; it simply advances and fires. It sits at the very ceiling of what a mortal muster can field short of a super-heavy — a premium hammer, and a commitment to match.

The Sentinel is a one-man scout walker, fast on its piston legs and armoured enough to shrug off small-arms — Toughness 6, three Wounds behind a 4+ cab. It ranges ahead of the line at speed, carrying a platform gun the infantry could never lug: autocannon, multi-laser or lascannon slung on its chassis. Neither tank nor trooper, it plays as a mobile weapon — flanking, screening, and putting heavy fire where the muster needs it fastest. Exposed on its open legs, it lives by movement; caught still, it is a tall target like any other.

The Special-Weapons Trooper is a Guardsman handed the squad's heavy hitter — a flamer, meltagun, plasma gun or grenade launcher in place of a lasgun. He shares the ordinary trooper's mortal frame, a single Wound over flak, but he carries the tool that cracks the target the rest of the squad cannot: armour, cover, or a massed body of foes. Positioning is everything, since most of his weapons want the enemy close and his own hide is no tougher than any man's. Kept alive to the moment it matters, one trooper's shot can decide a firefight.

The Veteran Guardsman is a hardened trooper who has survived where others did not, and it shows in the carapace plate on his back and the steadiness of his aim. He hits on a 3+, carries better nerve than the raw line, and may shoulder a boltgun or a special weapon as readily as a lasgun. He is the elite of the mortal ranks — still a single Wound, still a man who bleeds, but a man who has learned exactly how to stay alive and keep the enemy in his sights. Where veterans anchor a squad, the whole line steadies.