The world hummed and the shouts of voidsmen calling out targets and maneuvers as well as the miserable chorus from the invaders all melted away save for a constant drone in the ears of the Kin who laid on the floor helpless for just a second. He was vaguely aware of the world but, like a limb with renewed blood flow, it felt sluggish and out of sync. He could hear the Trader Silas somewhere in the distance before he was aware that the blob hovering over him was the very same, “… are you alright!?”

A groan followed simply with [color=FF8C00]“Aye…”[/color] was all Grummore could muster at the moment as he sluggishly turned to a seated position and fumbled about for his laz beam-cutter that lay in his lap. Once he was situated, he erected himself, saved only by the concentrated fire and stalwart defense of the voidsmen and the enraged bellowing of their commander. As the drone subsided and he became more focused on reality, the purplish shapes revealed creatures the entire opposite of the reality he was trying to perceive. The shifting horrible impossibilities seemed to be where nothing was before. He watched as their shapes morphed and shifted with eyes, mouths, and even limbs molding and remolding over each other, all the while a cacophony of dreaded laughter and chittering poured out from them. He didn’t know where the sorcerer had gone, but these seemed to replace him.

All that he could think about was how much he wished he’d taken the time to bring equipment with him. All at once a shower of molten daemon seemed to rain about him as the Voidmaster created a fantastically macabre display with what used to be the head of a Tzaangor.

[color=FF8C00]“Ack that’ll take ages t’git off”[/color]

He shouted to no one in particular. With a hand growing more steady he steadied his aim onto the cluster of pink and unleashed a volley of cutting laz that seemed to only piss the creatures off earning a return volley of warp fire that struck the same pile he’d been using or the wall about him, momentarily coloring it bizarre immaterial shades and textures. The blazing fire behind them, didn’t, someone had sent a grenade over the top that spat flame like a Salamander of old, coating flesh and armor in gouts fire, the room immediately felt like the heart of a Votann’s crucible as the temperature skyrocketed. And, just as quickly, Grummore heard someone bellow out, “Drakeskin!”

He continued firing, oblivious to his own skin condition now but suddenly felt the discomfort he’d experienced from the concussion ease like a calming draught had just passed his throat, he didn’t know where it came from but he felt grateful.