Recovering from their, so oddly languid state of being, the two remaining heretics are now ready to exact their bloody revenge upon you all. With a wild-eyed cackle of madness, the smaller of the two, a scruffy-looking man clad only in rags and armoured with nothing more than scraps of iron, takes aim at the sleek form of Jack. He fires off a murderous volley of crude lead from his equally primitive-looking firearm, one of the bullets goes wide, hitting the masonry above the assassin's head, but the other two find their mark. One hits the flak armour protected form of his torso, but the other one finds it's way into Jack's unarmoured leg.

The heretic roars with satisfaction that he is the first to draw blood from the loyalist dogs before him, his morale bolstered by the small gang of four more heretics that are making their way towards the sounds of combat. "You shall die here! Loyalist scum!" His voice carries the unmistakable accent of this world, yet warped and corrupted even further.

The brute of a man was last to act, his bulging musculature and sheer bulk making movement harder for him. He strode forwards like a blighted god of war, his body blistering and simultaneously healing from those wounds. He stood above the prone form of Viber, the brute gave a perverse smile, showing off his array of brutally sharpened teeth. With a crashing blow, he threw a single monstrous punch at the Lord Commissar, piercing the armour and into the flesh below it. 

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Grerrar was impatient. He wasn't ever calm. He fidgeted about with all the poise and grace of someone barely masking an addiction, sending the slew of chaos icons dotting his body into a mad, jingling frenzy such was the number of them. He'd been assigned to simply 'keep watch' as his superiors put it, yet he yearned for the sights and smells of real battle. He got exactly what he wanted when another of the sword-wielding heretics alongside him called out that there was a firefight nearby. 

Grerrar smiled, giving a roar of "Onwards! For the Dark Gods!"