Primaris Psyker - Commander of Platoon 7 "Remnants"
The Zangors attention seemed to be less coordinated. They seemed to be searching for the psyker who had drained their witch cousin. Each strike they made seemed a little distracted and more watchful.
Still the men around him died. The deamon tzangoor easily batted aside the mono sword of an armsman and went to run him through with practiced ease. One man, a chef, then cleaved down on the tzangoors bicep with a chain cleaver from the kitchen as though he was waiting for this moment. It managed to completely separate the tzangoors sword arm from the body. The deamon screeched in anger turned, and the arm reconnected itself back onto where it had been separated. The deamon cursed at him.
Meanwhile Paolo was in melee with yet another. The Harakoni guardsman was trying to dodge attacks and find a weapon. He had drawn his stub pistol and was trying to unload it into the nearest threat. Pop-pop.
Paolo looked up from his crouch and saw his combat knives laying on the ground then his stomach lurched as if it had been picked up and thrown several meters and the surrounding ether seemed to crackle like a tesla coil.
"Oh no" he said
as he started to hear the pink horrors keening scream.
Gathering his senses he grabbed the Warhawk guardsman and pulled him back out of the frey.
"Grenades! Now at their back!"
The guardsman knew his orders and stepped back with the fury grenade taken from his belt.
For a single moment he tried to place himself outside of the fighting, into a state of calm.
And all went quet.
He flicked the pin out with his thumb one handedly.
The fury grenade, which was a large sized oddly shaped pineapple painted brown flew over the heads of the melee and even the beasts and expertly clattered off the roof to land behind the enemy line.
In a moment it exploded.
Unlike normal grenades, there was no shockwave or fragments. Instead a white sheet of flames shot up at the back of the tzaangors in between the advancing horrors. Instead of dying down the flames only increased and shot white hot tendrils lancing at the backs of the tzaangors. The air in the hallway became as hot as steam. The grenade just sat there spitting out a wall of flames for what felt like minutes but was only seconds.
The tzaangors screeched in surprise and pain.
"Good" the guardsman thought.
"they dont like flame, just as they say..."
Almost everything within range was completely conflagrated, the advancing cultists, the tzaangors and the pink horrors were forced to wind and alter their course mid air to halt their advance keening and crying.
There was, of course, friendly fire. Some of the Naval Armsman had to jump back as the crazed burning enemies tried to writhe and twist outside of the sheet of white-hot flame. However the flames bounced off of their flak armour and singed their hair only. The completely surprised chaos fell onto the waiting bayonets and chainswords and the Armsmen used this moment to enact generations of revenge upon them, with frightening force.
Paolo stood at the back ready to cast his next power.
Whispering a prayer to himself.
"In the name of the triumvirate, just as it was on Terra past..."
He raised his arms about him in a V to focus his energy.
"To armour those who are blessed..."
"They called it..."
"D R A K E S K I N"
Energy in the shape of a blue bubble burst forth from his body.
Every man of the imperium within range skin started to darken and char to that as black as a salamander's marine. The distractions of pain dulled to a mere background. The burning stopped.
Cultists blades that would have bit, now only grazed in shallow cuts.
The Anger and the fury of the Armsmen was not dissuaded by the distraction of both them and their allies turning charcoal black. In some ways it was as though a picture of art hanging in some gallery.