The Confessor kept quiet for now. He was far from a commander, even if a good leader. Horacio simply held his shotgun and kept his other weapons close. One blast from his weapon was just barely above the the strength of a single bolt, and it shot far slower if pumped. But as they walked, he knew there was a trick up his sleeve. As he walked with a [i]flip-flop[/i] from his slippers he pulled back the pump for his shotgun in preparation....

The Holy man walked along, flicking across various channels in his vox-bead to hear the screaming of poor bastards being eaten by the Kroot. He muttered a quiet prayer as he walked along, sadness and anger filling him in equal proportion.  

Still he was calm, going along with hymn on his lips. He lapsed out of attention until he heard a shout that brought him back into lucidity. There were the kroot, and the corrupt men who turned their back from the imperium. He looked at the enemy and then looked down at his shotgun. Pointing his firearm vaguely in the direction of the enemy he held down the trigger and then stumbled as the slam-fire spat out all the shells in his weapon in but a second to shower the enemy in pellets. As the smoke swiftly cleared he grinned as he saw two of the xenos and several humans shredded by the shots. But fire was returned swiftly. Several solid shots bounced off of his Rosarius field but a lasbolt just about managed to get through. He recoiled and fell as the beam melted a good chunk of his jaw and chin, the field only partially doing it's job. With a roar that at first was of pain and swiftly transitioned to anger, he adjusted his hat and drew his bolt-pistol. 

Confessor Mazzini ran ahead and let off three bolts with two missing but one hitting a bulkier ogryn-mutant in the head with the imaginable resulting splatter. In the open of the halls he could be taken out well, so he ducked to the side into a room. With two shots left in his small magazine he let out one without looking around the corner and then leaned out to take an aimed one. It was rushed because the enemy took the opportunity to try and finish his life but he vaguely hit his mark with an enemy's legs turning to a red puddle.

Another magazine was loaded in, this one a longer horn-like one with ten shots. He blasted off one before seeing an opening. Several enemies were reloading and the rest were firing else where. He ran to closer cover, all the while suppressing his own path with his pistol. He was about to turn a corner into another room to nestle down in, but realized another heretic was there far too late. The man was not an ogryn, but extremely muscular all the same and heaved his own shotgun with ease to let off both barrels right at the Confessor. Again his field saved him from death, but the combined force knocked him down quite readily. The brute was about to stomp on his head but he didn't account for the old man on the ground still gripping consciousness and his pistol. Arthritic, Horacio raised his pistol to shoot the man but slowed by age only just about hit him in his thigh. The man fell upon Horacio screaming, but that was just as well. The Holy man knew that several more enemies were now aiming on him, and a meat-shield to add to his armour and protective field. 

As the enemy got close they went forth with claw and bayonet. But even at his age, his power-maul meant they had no chance. As he rose he brought it in a wide swipe to bring them all down and turn their bones to powder inside their bodies. The Kroot amongst them leaped to the side however, and brought the hook on the tip of his firearm onto Horacio's shoulder. Horacio grinned for even though the impact hurt even with armour stopping his skin being punctured, it meant he could take the alien with ease. It would not be however, for his second swipe was easily dodged by the enemy, as was his third. In desperation, he ran back into the room proper where he squatted and waited for the enemy to give chase. As the alien rounded the corner hes was at perfect position to bring his maul right onto its left breast. The thing screamed, but it was soon silenced as one hit, and then another and another followed. Angry but also relieved that he narrowly saved his life the Confessor kept hitting the enemy long after it was dead. With his task done he sighed, falling back against the wall and slowly sagging down with his questing fingers pulling his bolt-pistol back in.

From there on, it was an ordinary fight. He stood in the cover of his room and took pot-shots, provided suppressing cover, or occasionally blew an enemy away he no longer had the energy to become a proper war-machine. But he could aid his Sisters, those women who would fight on when he too tired and weakened.