Winstanley was appalled by the savagery of their foes, but still, their rage was nothing compared to the Orks that the Praetorian was accustomed to fighting. Taking a knee with precise and parade practised efficiency, Winstanley squeezed the trigger on his hot-shot lasgun spraying forth a fully automatic hail of laser fire. Three incandescent bolts found their marks in the flesh of the hated enemy, toppling one of them as his body was immolated by the sheer energy of the bolts that passed through his charred corpse. A second heretic was also hit by a glancing blow that scorched his armour and flesh with ease, though he simply roared in rage at the guardsmen before him.

"Hold this line! There's not many left now!" He bellowed, trying to convey both courage and information to the soldiers about himself, a natural, ingrained stormtrooper talent.

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The sole remaining heretic, a dishevelled man with emaciated features and a gaunt look about himself, had a dismayed look plastered across his scarred face. He had just witnessed some of the greatest and most bloodthirsty warriors he knew get mown down by the Emperor's lapdogs. He would have none of this, or rather those above him would not. With all the grace of a drunken Ork, the man began to simply flee with all the speed that his malnourished legs would allow him... An easy target, but perhaps mercy will prevail...