Denach loved this, the roar of the battlefield, the crack of bolters being fired, the bright red web of lasgun fire entering into the heretic ranks. Before the battle had begun, he was mostly silent, preparing for the fight that was to come. Denach had always learned that silence was the best option before combat, as to not alert your foe to your actions, but now it was more the anticipation, too strong to speak.

He held up his bolter and prepared for the assault. He was supposed to conserve ammunition, focus on the champions, that'd be easy, and maybe give him a little challenge. His fingers tapped on his weapon as he waited for the enemy to come.

As soon as the unruly mob arrived, Denach opened fire with controlled and yet still slightly unruly bursts. He enjoyed shooting things, but there was that part of him waiting for the enemy to break through, he would love to pulp some traitor scum in the palm of his hand. He managed to catch the lack of lasgun fire coming from his right, and looked for only a second to spot a guardsman looking right at him. Most guardsmen were lucky to live to see a normal space marine, so seeing one like him must have been a lot for the marine to deal with, but even a single lasgun not firing was a waste.

Denach roared as he pulled himself up the trench wall and planted a few rounds into the closest champion-looking heretic.

[color=Navajowhite]"If I see another lasgun not firing, I swear on the Emperor I will rip the offending guardsman's head off with my teeth!"[/color] he screamed over the battlefield as he continued firing rounds into enemy commanders. The guardsman to his right quickly changed his tune and once again took up his lasgun. He hadn't seen a commissar yet, so he supposed he'd have to provide the moral support for now. Hey, screaming insults was a lot more likely to work when the person screaming was one of the soldiers of the Primarch himself, a space marine above all others.

He wore the colors of Primarch Dorn's Fists proudly, but he did harbor some worry about the state of his homeworld's chapter, he had heard that the Executioners had betrayed the emperor during his time frozen, and were currently eighty years into their penance crusade. He did wish to wear their colors one day, but the Imperial Fists were loyal servants of the Emperor, and there was no greater loyalty than that of Rogal Dorn, wearing his colors was an honor that few received, and he was happy to serve alongside another of Dorn's scions.

Denach once more fired a burst of rounds into the chest of a heretic, turning his torso into something that more resembled soup than flesh. He did want to lead an assault on this weak scum, but Primarch Dorn's creed was that a good defense was the best offense. He did wish to finally wield a power axe like many of those in his home planet's chapter, to charge into the enemy lines and carve a swath through their heretical bodies, but for now, he would serve the Emperor in any way he could, and he would not fail, no matter the cost.

Denach lifted his bolter once more, there were too many of them for it to be a purely ranged battle, soon they would close, and Denach would enjoy that moment far more than any other part of this battle.