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Sergeant Grovak fumbled in the mud for his sidearm as his foe closed the distance.
Malice was palpable in the air, as if exuded from one of the ruptured hoses that adorned the Thing's barbaric Armour System. Malcolm Grovak had encountered many a heretic and fiend amongst the stars, but never one that could deprive him of his tactical bearing in such a way.
It was everything about this diabolical vulture in human, or perhaps abhuman, form that triggered the once droll Sergeant into a fit of panic as he dug through the mud. He could only seem to find his late comrades and none of them seem obliged to help. As screaming was heard from the second line, the sergeant remembered that in his terror he had forgotten to harm the others. Only a lack of interest pervaded over this fact in his mind as the heretic took step after deliberating in iron shod boots. This avatar of spite moved with a purpose that seemed almost patient for the possible kill at hand, whereas many of his kin would not have the resolve to postpone the slaughter of an imperial servant.

Finally a connection was made, both with the trigger his ginger was now wrapped around and in regards to the station of his foe. This was no ordinary traitor to mankind; this was an Arch
Traitor, a mastermind behind the foe's initiative. Without the panic of being devoid of a weapon tainting his sensibility, it was clearly evident that this devil wielded the calibre of combat gear that it's subordinates oh so rarely could afford. A fowl text crawled across open pit-nostrils serving as a nose, and descended below the rusted array of plate which served as a gorget.

It laughed in an obscene tongue, too fowl for the Sergeant to do anything, save act upon compulsion. Malcolm wretched his gun from It's sloppy trap and fired. Triumph turned into confusion, then once more to triumph as SGT Gorvak realized he had found only a flair gun. This second bout of triumph would be the last Malcolm would ever know as the pyrotechnic shot breached the heretic officer's cheek. After a moment of dumbfounded ness on both their parts, the Arch Traitor spat out flesh that was once his mouth, along with a rapidly cooling orb.

The foul language emitted before was repeated, only this time, the SGT's for was not beg king it; dozens of dregs, turncoats, and cultists were standing atop the trench works, howling a an obscene language.

Most of the cultist leader's jaw was little more than charred gristle. It could not join it's cohorts in their baying, so it simply howled. Sergeant Gorvak regretted only that he no longer had men under his command to answer it for him. Those men he would have thrown in the mud slicks in order to affect personal escape where not being raised on rickety torture contraptions over the broken defense line, that they may view the SGT's last moments. Malcolm cursed them as a reciprocating chain sword blade wove itself through his gut, the chain revolving
between the reservoir in the Arch Traitor's arm and his own pulped innards.