The M36 Kantrael Pattern Lasrifle, the standard-issue weapon of the Cadian Shock Troopers (or what was left of them), and indeed a great many Guard formations the galaxy over. It was a reasonably lightweight weapon, one with a simple charge pack, a bayonet lug and a focused beam of energy capable of burning a hole through the toughened skull of a Genestealer – if somewhat overcharged.

Colour-Sergeant Kinsley wiped the last of any remaining dirt from his own weapon, butt placed on the ground of the ship as his own ad-hoc platoon awaited their own 'turn' in boarding one of the leviathan-like troops transports, or 'Tetrarch' landers as they called them; they had been waiting in an admittedly rugged parade line for some time now, the urge to yell at the more lax soldiers remaining buried within his chest [i]for the moment[/i].

It was upon glancing back up from his work on the barrel of his weapon that he noticed their platoon commander, an Acting Lieutenant from Valhalla if he was not mistaken by the distinctive uniform and marks of rank. Kinsley had never been to Valhalla, nor fought beside a regiment of the famed 'Ice Soldiers' from what was by all accounts a giant ball of frozen nothingness, but that he knew them by repute alone was enough to make him place his cleaning rag back within his knapsack and chew his lips in thought for a moment.

He knew what must be going through the man's mind as he watched - for it was the same thing going through the minds of so many others amidst the hustle-and-bustle of the deck – the very same expression of nervousness, probably wondering what was happening on the other side of the metallic bulkheads around them, reflecting on just how he had ended up as an acting officer of commissioned rank and more.

Such thoughts went differently through the psyche of the Colour-Sergeant, the Praetorian NCO simply allowing them to rise to the surface and then discarding them as so much unwanted scrap, his experiences in life having taught him to keep his thoughts on exactly where he was and very much on what was going on around him. That was all.

When the Company Commander bellowed for his soldiers to file into the landers Kinsley went into a somewhat automated mode, slinging his lasgun over his shoulder and snapping into line with practised efficiency, marching right-foot forward toward his penultimate destination only when Artyom gave the command to do so.

“Single file, leading by the right, Quick march!”

Did the fact that they would be closest to the crafts door – a door that would yawn open when they landed, exposing them to God-Emperor knew what dangers – cause the Praetorian to become unnerved? By the Throne, no sir! If anything the former Hiver could feel that cool calmness washing over him that came with each anticipation of battle, from the grassy savannah of Elriga IX to the rust-stained factorums of Segomo Seven-Two-Five, where his regiment had advanced alongside the Drookians and Death Korps and been blasted by bolt and beam, a composure  spoken of by many outside his people that was instilled into each and every one of them by rod and lash and order.

Kinsley made sure he was directly to the side of his commanding officer, leaning back into his restraints after stowing his haversack, weapon never leaving his hand, and enjoying momentarily the lack of noise.

[b]“Soldiers of the Imperium, Do not be afraid....”[/b]

Propaganda, speeches from arrogant Generals, all such things were filtered out by the ears of the red-coated Guardsman, who instead slipped his pith helmet – the shining brass badge of his former regiment still fixed firmly to the front of it – over his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

May as well get a bit of rest in before the killing began.