As the howling hoard approached Cholon thumbed the release stud on the revolving chamber for his rifles grenade launcher. He already knew full well what he had loaded to fire. Two frag explosives and one krak, the same as it was ten minutes prior. But he double checked anyway for the sake of feeding a habit. 

When the first twisted and sad form broke through the rockcrete dust Cholon's targeting cogitator briefly scanned over and locked a reticule overtop. The machine spirit of his armour seemed to aid in tweaking and making minute adjustments to his aim until the overlay of his weapon's line of fire matched perfectly with the targeter's own projections. But one warped and twisted soul soon became a dozen warped and twist souls, which in turn became a thousand. The limited cogitator in his helmet strained to process each and every new target that came into its view but Cholon soon dismissed its efforts with a blink as it quickly became a pointless endevour for the machine's spirit. 

Like he was expected Cholon's trigger discipline held firm. Though he knew his rifle could easily wreak havoc from twice the distance of a mortal's las rifle. Once more he cursed the fate that had him fighting this battle while trapped in a whole. Wild shots scattered around his sillouette, some striking off the armour leaving marks and scorch dust in the paint. 


He began his death tally by firing a frag explosive directly into the oncoming horde. With a hollow 'thwoop' and deceptively gentle arc through the air the explosive impacted one of the heretics directly in the chest and threw him backwards for barely a moment before the charge detonated. Killing it, and the nearest four sorrounding traitors and hampering several more with vicious shrapnel. 

From there on it was merely a test of patience and trigger discipline. And while his armoured boots stayed firmly planted with each controlled shot he placed into the hoard the muscle and flesh inside was twitching with the need to move... somewhere.... forward, backward, anywhere.

Even as las fire and mass reactive shells reaped a horrifying tally, Cholon knew this was going to come down to a brawl of fists and knives. Firing his bolt rifle one handed, as accuracy hardly mattered even to a space marine at the distance now between him and the enemy. The Chogorian unsheathed his long combat blade, almost as lengthy from tip to pommel as one of the guardsman las-rifles, and held it ready to pierce the throat of the first unfortunate to reach him.

"FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE KHAN!" The Chogorian roared his first words of the battle, indeed his first words for some hours since the bombarding first began. The warcry was amplified by his helmet vox to a thunderous boom tyat spoke volumes of primal heritage and savage intenions.