Fighting With Faith- Thirtieth Entry



Benlian stepped back into the gloomy recess of his company’s tent. He seemed elated, a look on his face which sparked a moments glance from the assembled soldiers in the central area of the tent.

“Where you been, Ben? Seems like you just came out of the Throne Room itself.” chuckled someone from amongst the troops.

“Shut up, stay still.” Benlian managed to answer and fell in line at the head of the company before the lean form of Commissar Leetol and Tactican Abjax who seemed to be forever at his side strode into the tent.

It was pin drop silence as Commissar Leetol and his assistant positioned themselves in front of Benlian, facing the soldiers. Leetol's face was stern and impassive; Abjax was no different. The atmosphere was unnerving.

Leetol cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, Operation Tea-Strike II shall commence by oh-eight hundred tomorrow morning you will be briefed tomorrow. Be ready. Also…”

His voice trailed off as he remained in silence to wait for the excited murmuring ahead of him to subside.

“It is of no coincidence that we are fighting against Tyranid cultists that are also human.” Leetol stated nonchalantly.

“Hence it would also be no coincidence that any one of us here would be one of theirs.” Leetol stated again coolly, as a matter-of-factly.

“Thus we have acquired the assistance of several highly trained psykers, complementary from the Navis Nobilites. They will be around you and amongst you. Be warned. Good evening and we shall meet again tomorrow,” Leetol said, before turning on his heels and walking out of the tent along with Abjax, leaving the dazed and surprised soldiers staring inquisitively around them.

Two rows behind Benlian, Marcum issued a whistle.

“Ooh, so it’s another game of psykers and cultists, eh?” Joil Trong, a scout, mused out aloud.

“All right guys, you heard the man; let the psykers and Arbites do their jobs, we need rest now.” Benlian said, gesturing for everyone to return to their bunks. He himself proceeded to his own.

He lay down on his bed, ignoring the shouts, grunts and babble of rumours being said all around him as the soldiers prepared their equipments and some had already went to bed.

Jatherine…something about her just tingles my senses, like how I first discovered sweets. That joy of learning something that will always appear pleasing and comforting about her… Benlian thought to himself.

“Benlian! Starut’s gone!” Marcum’s lean frame and wide eyes suddenly filled Benlian’s view.

“Huh-what? Gone? Where?” Benlian murmured as he groggily got to his feet and shambled to Starut’s bunk. It was empty, save for his backpack and rations.

“Where could he have gone to at this time…”Benlian moaned irritably as he fumbled with his hair. A lot of paper work would have to be done for missing personnel.

“Your company is clean.” A ghostly voice suddenly floated into his ears. It was cold, evident of a deeper meaning to what he/she just said. Benlian couldn’t tell what gender it was coming from.

Benlian turned around to face the figure. It was dressed in standard military attire, just as everyone else within the tent. Benlian hasn’t seen this person before.

It was a male. His face was gaunt, hallowed and thin. His complexion was no darker then white ivory. Compared to the tanned ex-Frazium harvesters around him, he looked like a ghostly apparition.

“I am Phison Feng. Psyker of the Scholastia Psykana. And you are Benlian, are you not?” it inquired. Its eyes seemed dazed and distant, as though reading the thoughts running through Benlian’s mind at the very moment. The feeling felt vaguely familiar.

Sweat drops beaded Benlian’s forehead. A psyker!

“Yes...I am Benlian. Why have Starut disappeared?” Benlian managed to utter, still unable to comprehend his first encounter with a psyker. An intangible aura seemed to envelope Benlian as he spoke.

“As I said, your company is cleansed. Evil has been rooted out of it.” The psyker stated coolly, its calm eyes gazing around the tent. Most of the soldiers were asleep already, their glow globes placed into the acloves above them deactivated.

It hit Benlian. Starut: The leering tattoos. The awry behaviour which he seemed to be putting up since Operation Tea-Strike began. The insane laughter he erupts with whenever mishaps falls upon anyone.

“He’s a cultist.” Benlian whispered, fear and anger both evident in his voice.

“And he has left to report to his true leaders, Benlian.” The psyker whispered back enigmatically.

No no no… Benlian moaned as he sat down onto the ground, already thinking about what he should do next. The psyker looked down upon the sulking figure and shared Benlian’s concern. He thought no longer and strode silently out of the tent, returning to his quarters.

Outside the tents, a trickle of militarily dressed psykers were already walking out of their respectively assigned company tents and heading to the psykers quarters, to report what they had found out and who were tainted.

Psykers and cultists were amongst the Imperialists. The battle has taken on a new turn.

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Ninth Entry

It seemed even Lent Broxton’s cheerful tune of an old ode from his hamlet back on his planet couldn’t lift the spirits of the soldiers of Bel Company. Hastily completed a standard Imperial year and a half of military training, they had gained nothing to prepare them for the loss.

It was obvious from the grim faces of everyone that they had all done their fair share of mourning for the loss. Most of the company members had been discharged from the care of the medicae officials and only three members remain in critical condition in the “butcher tent”, the Guard slang, as screams of agony could be constantly heard coming from within.

“Shut it will you?” an irritated Marcum Gret, one of the four scouts of the company, snapped. He threw the blade on a rock he was using to sharpen onto the dusty floor, kicking up a small wisp of sand. From his crouching position, he glanced up to Lent’s intimidating figure of six feet of bulk and glared at him.

“You got a problem with a little whistling of mine, Gret?” Lent retorted, voice sounding menacing and hinting what everyone could guess.

“Yeah, I do have a problem. But it’s not the whistling; it’s you.” Marcum answered, just as he leapt onto his feet and executed a swift punch to Lent’s jaw.

Starut, not far off in the dark recesses of the tent, sniggered. His giggling soon filled the area as Lent recovered from the initial shock and muttered an incoherent string of curses and sent a bone-crunching kick to Marcum’s shin, which Marcum nimbly parried with his knee.

Brawl between a heavy supporter and a scout? Interesting…Starut thought gleefully as he instantaneously set his lasgun which he was polishing down onto his bed and scrambled nearer to the centre of the tent, eyes growing wide with excitement as punches, kicks and curses become louder and more aggressive.

“Ben…Ben…BEN!” Stratile bellowed crossly over the escalating commotion occurring across the tent into Benlian’s snoozing silhouette as he hammered a ration bottle onto Benlian’s back.

“Huh? What?” Benlian groggily replied as he turned over to face Stratile. From the sight of his face, Stratile could tell Benlian hadn’t gotten over the loss.

Stratile remained silent, keeping his understanding gaze fixed on Benlian. Benlian cocked his head to his right, obviously hearing something. He grunted as he heaved his body up sluggishly to his feet and squinted towards the other side of the tent.

“WHAT THE HELL YOU CHABAS THINK YOU’RE DOING!” Benlian hollered towards the fighting duo as he sprinted towards the scene, face livid and outraged.

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It seemed as if both Lent and Marcum had been fending off a whole wave of Orks. They were had bruised on their faces, legs and arms. Lent had a bleeding nose and fractured wrist. Marcum wasn’t any better with a broken nose and a badly bruised knee.

Benlian stood between the sitting figures of both of them, brandishing a baton and glaring down at them. He had to break up the fight the old way.

After fifteen minutes of discussion, occasionally bordering on an argument, it had been concluded that this fight was sparked off from over stretched tension, stress and unchecked emotions.

“Damn it, I’m out of here.” Benlian muttered peevishly as he threw the baton down onto the ground and strode out of the tent, into the cool night air.


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It was nothing like in the tents as it was outside. It was calm, cool and quiet. An occasional chorus of laughter or rattling of pots and pans emanated from the open gaps of the tents.

It seemed everyone had forgotten what just took place a month ago.

Dinner at the mass hall just concluded about an hour ago and now most of the soldiers were in their tents, polishing their boots and lasguns, sharpening their bayonets and other standard military equipment maintenance procedures.

Benlian kept on walking, pass crude looking yet effective barricades erected along the main road where convoys of equipment, reinforcements and food supplies constantly rumble past in the day, and pass sentry posts, occasionally giving a slight nod or a friendly wave to a familiar face.

Far off to his left, down the ridge, was the massive hulk of the abandoned warehouse, now home to foul festering creatures. Benlian thought he saw huddled figures in robes at the roof of the warehouse, but decided not to look any further. He had lost his friend to them and soon, he knew, the time would come for him and Bel Company to avenge their loss.

Benlian soon arrived at his most favourite spot of the camp. It was a promontory, of which its tip was gradually sloping upwards, as if it was a curled finger which was pointing upwards to the sky. He would lean back onto the cool Rimble material of which the rock was made of and stare out into the sky, gazing and pondering.

This time, Benlian tried to match the constellations he was seeing here to the ones he used to see back home, which seemed like a lifetime away. Hopefully, he could mix and match some and pinpoint the exact location of his homeworld. That thought excited him and he immediately began on the task.

Benlian was so engrossed in his activity that he did not notice the approaching figure from his front.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice, suddenly intruded into Benlian’s thoughts. Benlian was startled. It sounded different. More delicate, more fragile, a touch of tenderness to it; as if the crude and rough way in which himself and his comrades communicated in were discarded, only to be replaced by a light and angelic tone.

Benlian lifted his head and looked ahead. It was a female, no older then Benlian, with a perfect posture and long straight black hair, or what Benlian thought was in the moon light, cascading down around her shoulders, ending in delicate curls above her chest. Her big and round eyes radiated innocence and a something in it made him gaze a moment longer.

She was slim and petite, and dressed in a white cloak. On her left side of her cloak, above her chest, was the Medicae insignia.

“Hi…” Benlian said uneasily. He was not only surprised by her looks, but also by the special aura which she seemed to exude effortlessly. This aura of hers made Benlian’s heart beat faster, and the somehow he couldn’t find the courage to say anything other then a simple “Hi”.

She seemed to float to where Benlian was and stood beside him.

“May I?” She inquired, gesturing at the empty space beside Benlian.

“Sure…” Benlian replied, eyes still fixed intently on this new stranger. Why the hell do I suddenly feel so timid? He thought grumpily to himself.

It seemed as if the laws of gravity was not acting upon her as she gracefully leaned forward and sat down next to Benlian.

An agonising moment of silence fell upon them. Benlian cursed to himself for not saying anything.

Wait, who is she? I don’t even know who she is. Benlian thought.

“So, what’s your name?” He asked.

“Jatherine.” She replied, flinging her hair elegantly around her neck as she turned her head to face Benlian. Benlian took in her refined features at a quick glance. Big, round eyes which seemed to stretch into endless depths, a sharp nose, smooth skin and beautifully crafted lips which Benlian thought all it needed was cosmetics to achieve the title of ‘perfection’.

His heart beat was raised even higher as she smiled, revealing an implacable set of white teeth. Benlian for a moment was mesmerised by the sight of her smiling face in the moon light, but ceased immediately, cursing at himself again for being so weak.

You barely know her you fool! What you taking yourself for?!

“What’s yours?” her angelic voice came into his mind, breaking his self-admonishment.

“Benlian. I serve in the Asat Guard division.” Benlian said as he reluctantly took his eyes off Jatherine to look up into the sky, where he spotted a luminescent object flying through it.

“I see…I serve in the Asat Medicae division, just finished my duty session.” She said.

Looking back at Jatherine now, Benlian couldn’t compare which was more captivating: Her, or the star asunder sky.

Silence was between them once more as they leaned back, taking in the view and peacefulness.

“Let me guess, this is your favourite spot in the camp too?” she asked meekly, smiling.

“Yes, you too I suppose?” Benlian replied.

“Have been coming here every time I end my sessions. Away from the operations, the screaming, the agony.” Jatherine conceded, at the same moment her eyes seemed to flash to memories, on the past months happenings.


Benlian could tell she was not recalling fond memories as Jatherine’s eyes seemd to become watery and a frown began to form on her forehead.

She gonna cry? Benlian asked himself.

Jatherine muttered something under her breath as she sat up and from the back, Benlian could tell she was sobbing.

Instinctively, Benlian joined her by her side and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He fumbled around in his pockets for a tissue and handed her a piece.

“Thank you. I’m so sorry I broke down. I’ve seen so many deaths, so much blood, and so much pain. It’s as if the battlefield is being fought in the Medicae tents itself.” Jatherine said through gasps of breath as she sobbed.

“Yes, I understand…it is the same here for the Guard.” Benlian said, himself suddenly feeling sullen and sad.

Their armour and banner decors are great. 

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Eighth Entry

Benlian was awoken from a sharp pain tearing its way across his left sheen to his pelvis. He opened his eyes. He stared back at a ruddy tent’s ceiling, its surface rough and uneven, rusted and crusted with all manner of weathered and oxidised materials stuck on it.

Ignoring the agonising pain, Benlian lifted his torso and leaned against the cold and hard wall behind him. He took in what he saw with dread and fear. His left leg was in a massive bandage. It seemed that his left leg was badly injured as it was twice it normal size.

Probably the most organised thing in the vast meditorium hall was the arrangement of beds. Hundreds of it was neatly arranged in rows upon rows, in separate clusters according to their degree of damage.

Benlian looked down his own row, and could see that his was the least of the lot. He saw his own company’s medic, Shralk, with a bandaged leg and right arm wrapped tightly across his chest. For his obvious injuries, Shralk still appeared nonchalance as he used his free hand to read a romance novel. He seemed engrossed.

Further down the hall, Benlian could vaguely hear a constant stream of moaning and groaning from the more unlucky victims of the ambush. Then it hit him.

Ambush.

Medicae officials.

What am I doing here?!

Benlian’s heart rate began to soar. The heart beat monitoring system beside him began to emit shrill whining tone.

“Shralk! SHRALK!” Benlian shouted two beds down towards his medic.

“Ben? Didn’t realise you were here too. How-”

“HUSH! What happened, after the ambush?” Benlian roared back.

Shralk’s face immediately seemed bereaved and dejected. He sighed, “I just heard the reports from one of them nurses. Bel Company had the worst of it. Five dead, all the other fifteen wounded. Two of us seem to be the luckiest.”

Benlian’s eyes, shocked and wide open, darted back and forth across the room, looking for his fellow company mates.

“Don’t bother Ben; remember what I said that we’re the lucky ones. The others are all under critical care, off to the other side of this tent.” Shralk said as he casually leaned forward to stretch out his arm to scratch his back

“You seem pretty damn calm about what happened.” Benlian said, eyes glaring at Shralk.

“Hey, what is there to do? Anyway, us medics were taught not to feel any remorse for fallen comrades, they have done their duty, and we have tried our best.” Shralk retorted back.

“Who are the five?” Benlian asked, clearly desperate for the answer.

Shralk sighed deeply and said, “Emperor guides our lives. Three of them were from Squad B so it wouldn’t matter who they are. But…”

“But what?!” Benlian urged.

“Ben, Zeralton is dead. Shot cleanly in the head by a stray bullet. Starut has…” Shralk let his sentence trail off as he could sense the immediate effect the news had on Benlian. He understood how Benlian felt and just left him to his own mourning. Shralk picked up his romance novel again and began reading.

Benlian did not bother hearing the rest. He couldn’t. His friend, his kith, was dead. What he experienced with Zeralton could never again be experienced, what he did with Zeralton could never be done again. He was dead.

A bed was suddenly carted past him by frantic looking medicae officials. On the bed was a man in agony. He was screaming to himself, half swearing, and half praying. His right leg was blown off from the knee and blood was still gouting freely from the wound. He had numerous other cuts on his body which the nurses were trying very hard to stem the flow.

The screaming soon trailed off as the man was carted further to the other side of the massive tent, leaving the people who briskly witnessed it thanking the Emperor for his blessings.

This is the reality of war. Benlian realised. People die as though they had never lived. Some die as though they had never died, blown apart to atoms and flung to distant places, never able to be recollected and cremated. And some live as though they have died.

They will pay...

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Seventh Entry

“HAHAHA!” a malicious cackle of laughter erupted from Elshilta’s putrid lips.

He sat on his grand armchair of moldy tanned and stretched sacrificed human and Tyranid skin, somehow managing to remain impervious to the foul stench that has clouded the surrounding air.

His eight legs were splayed about him, as though ready to strike at any oncoming enemy and leap immediately into the fray. His segmented right arm grasped tightly onto a heavily modificated laspistol, at his side on an armrest.

The other arm clutched a human skull.

The atmosphere in the new hideout was tense, although as Elshilta was impervious to the foul stench that pervaded it, he was as well impassive to the darting glares and venomous glances from his adjutants.

“Just what is that thing laughing about? Where will we get our reinforcements?! ” Lolgrim hissed irritably to the scowling face of Zulkan beside him.

“I don’t know, but he seems pleased about what is happening, have faith.” Zulkan snarled, gesturing for Lolgrim to cease his dissent.

“FOOLS! Do you not see? Our Myceptic Spores were found; in exchange for the attention of the weakling Imperials! Be it the Arbites, Inquisition or the Imperial Guard, all of their forces are on the spores, not us!” Elshilta exclaimed, exuding an unwavering statement, barely suppressing his excitement, anticipation and impatience.

Soon, around the gorily decorated vaulted circular room of the newly erected hideout, snarling faces and heated debates ceased. Applause and attention was immediately given upon the hulking figure on the podium.

“Be silent.” Elshilta boomed across the room. “For it is now down to us to pave the way before our Mother fleet arrives.

“You all,” Elshilta gestured with one of his limbs at the mass of cultist and mutant warriors assembled before him. “Have been given a mission. It is your destiny, it is your fate. It is of great value that you are to succeed, for in not doing so, will result in death and defeat. With the majority of the military efforts of Homeworld Asat concentrated on the imminent destruction of our Myceptic Spores and its denizens whom we are sure that will fight fearlessly to the very end, the very heart of the Asat System is gaping open at us. Right now, fellow followers of the greater being, WE SHALL SEIZE IT.”

Bellows, shouts and roars erupted endlessly from every mouth of every assembled warrior, all raising their weapons and bio-enhancements in audacity.

“Now you see.” An applauding Zulkan whom was also grinning ear to ear said as he cast a sidelong glance at Lolgrim.

My fine collection of Black Library books...and growing. 

...and a Space Marine Terminator! This one kinda looks sucky though. 

Ok this never really has been shown to anyone...but since this is my blog dedicated to Wh40K....here goes. My depiction of a Space Marine! 

Ma beautifully rendered computer desktop. See? No adult search engines. XD 

Vandalism at it's best. 

It's gettin a little tight argh. 0.o happen to notice myself that my boxers aren't there...wonder where it went..

My rather cluttered study table...not the whole thing though. Yea I'm pretty sentimental hence for the pasted pics :D 

Sasssyyy 

My baby... 

Don't ask me what these two are looking at... 

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Sixth Entry

The sound of a curt tap of polished boots at the heels of War Tactican Rezzial Hemfa brought Warmaster Chandoil out of his deep thinking. They both wore the same Imperial insignia at the back of their cloaks, and the grim telltale looks on their weary faces.

Chandroil turned away from his office’s windows, and faced the War Tactican.

“Evening, Warmaster.” Rezzial growled his voice, in its usual deep toned, husky whisper as he executed a slight but smart salute.

No other formalities were needed; at around the same of age, the Warmaster and War Tactican had been through much together and lived to tell the tales of it. From waves of greenskins to hordes of renegade Guardsmen, they had been through it and seen the end it.

Rezzial casually reached forward to pull the black tanned leather settee ahead of him towards his thin framed body and flopped onto it. He then raised two long and thin legs and politely placed it gently onto the Warmaster’s exquisitely burnished great oak table between him and the Warmaster, before whipping out an expensive cigar to light and began puffing conspicuously.

“Intelligence paid off well?” Chandroil asked.

“Of the ten that were deployed, five companies have fallen back, two remaining at site at half strength. Not even the walls have been breached. And that Elshita chabba wasn’t in that damn convoy. Wuld’ya think?” Rezzial irreproachably slurred back.

“But…” Chandroil mused out aloud.

A thin smile began to form on Rezzial’s lips, gradually turning into a wide grin.

“You damn optimist…yes it’s a good thing we found where those damn Myceptic Spores were hauled to.” Rezzial said.

“Emperor’s holy hand is guiding us at this very moment. We may have not killed the head but we have crippled the body.” Chandroil said, his voice brimming with delight.

“Aye.” Rezzial concurred as he stood up and withdrew data slates from the deep recesses within his great cloak and placed it on the Warmaster’s table.

“Operation Tea-Strike II shall commence in two days time, at eight hundred hours, Imperial time. Details are within these. Waiting for your authorisation.” Rezzial muttered as he gestured to the data slates laid out on the table and daintily sauntered out of the office, heaving open the wide Adamantium doors with a slight grunt.

Courage and honour! 

Smite thou foe. 

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Fifth Entry

Small droplets of sweat coursed down Benlian’s face. He had been in the same position for the past forty-five minutes, crouching in his full battle dress and equipment. He held his lasgun tightly in his right hand, his other hand was clutching onto the rusted railing in front of him, hoping to find support for his already overwhelmed weight.

His face was slick with perspiration, his eye brows knotted in an unfriendly grimace. His muscles were tensed, his thighs and forearm already quivering from the additional weight being pushed down upon him on his back and shoulders.

It was midday, and the twin suns were high overhead. It was sweltering hot, with visible convection currents and no winds blew. The street was pin-drop silence.

“Enemy targets on the move. Bel Company, proceed to your specified coordinates. Low and stealthily, out.” A calm and cool voice of an arbites agent came over the microbead placed in Benlian’s ear.

Benlian, chosen acting squad leader, signaled the rest of his squad members to out. They candidly gave a sigh of relief as they stood up to a low stoop and began to advance cautiously. They prowled the rockrete ground of Sector XX-II of the mutant section of Valingdom, arms at ready and senses tune to their surroundings.

Code named Tea-strike, the meticulous and canny agents of the Planetary Arbites of the Asat Homeworld division were working together with the grunts of the Asat System Imperial Guard regiment.

Intelligence were gathered regarding the function of a major meeting amongst the leaders of the various Genestealer cults and mutants leaders in the Asat system.

Bel Company, along with Callus Company were deployed on the East facing of the enemy’s octagonal hideout. It was a vast hanger, abandoned ages ago by its denizens far less human. Ominous shadows and thick, lustrous vines grew erratically from cracks and joints on the scaled walls of the hanger. Small insectoid organisms scuttled speedily out of the way of the forests of Imperial Guard standard issue boots being stomped onto the ground around them.

Bel Company was now at their pre-determined location. It faced a junction where there was a fork road. They were at the North-East facing of the hanger. The fork road branched off to the Northern entrance, while the other branched off to the Eastern entrance, which Callus Company was covering.

Enemy patrols of deformed mutants and prowling Genestealers were everywhere. Sentries were guarding the main entrances and already more mutants and Tyranids could be seen pouring into the compound from the South and West entrances.

The Imperial units were waiting for the main leader mutant, named Elshilta to arrive. He was known to have eight metallic limbs, and a hideous face which defied any human form of recognition. Orders for this mission was to intercept his convoy heading to the hanger and destroy it.

“What’s taking that damn chabba so long?” an agitated Lamus Gelok groaned beside Benlian. His face was flushed red, obviously not acclimatised to the scorching weather due to where he was from. He hailed from the outer planet of Fashion, where it was ice cold all yot round with the only source of heat from fires or the warmth of human body contact.

“Probably lost a leg of his.” Lent sniggered, two paces down the line of crouching troops.

A light rabble of laughter coursed down the line but was soon silenced by a simple wave of Benlian’s hand. All mouths immediately went shut and eyes peeled towards the far North-East road, going away from the hanger and snaking away into the mutant habs.

A convoy of enemy vehicles could be seen arriving, flanked by even more vehicles armed with lascannons, grenade launchers and an assortment of other armaments which could easily tear apart a whole company of soldiers within minutes.

The convoy kicked up a dust swirl, obscuring the entire view of the vehicles for a moment before dissipating.

“What the-” Shralk Lopen, medic of Bel Company’s remark was cut off by a sharp hiss by Benlian.

“Damn it, we don’t need to know.”

“Arbites H-Q unit to all units, on standby.” The calm and cool voice came over again.

This was Bel Company’s first real combat mission, and Benlian could barely contain his excitement and anticipation. He could also sensed his squad mates too as they shifted anxiously within their position.

“Company, perform checks on equipment and weapons.” Benlian said.

A whizzing sound could be heard faintly, until it grew greater in decibels which drew the curious glances from the soldiers away from their last minute checks to the oncoming convoy.

“INCOMING!” someone yelled into the microbead.

Bullets began peppering the sand ridge around Bel Company, throwing up wisps and swirls of sand. A soldier was shot in the shoulder, falling to the ground screaming in agony.

“Shralk! Tend to him!” Benlian ordered immediately.

A blast of sand and shrapnel blew into Benlian’s face, causing him along with the rest of Bel Company to be partially blind for a moment. The next thing Benlian, knew was that all hell broke loose and when the dust settled, a horde of horrifying Hormagaunts were charging straight at them.

“FIRE AT WILL! KEEP SHOOTING!” was all Benlian had to say.

Enter the fearless, the Space Marines. 

"To push on our fellow brothers to even greater feats of bravery." 

Die, heretic. 

Take the pain like an Ork.