<strong>Pyrist Cain, IG Landing Zone, Transport DZ Area</strong><br/><br/>In a seperate transport, Cain awaited front and center of the drop doors. The thunder and rattle of errant shoota slugs hit the hull and popped the paint on the inside of the transport hull to fleck the few troopers near Cain. Many were whispering prayers to the God-Emporer or to their lasguns. Greener troops figeted while veterans stood aloof.<br/><br/>To those that didnt know better, Pyrist Cain could have appeared to figet like the rookies, but he was trembling in anticipation. The Psykic radiance of combat pushed many sharp emotions to the fore, especially the greenskin notion of a good scrap. A lesser initiate could be swept up in that pulsing sea of fear, dischord, and rage, but a true practitioner rode it like a razor's edge.<br/><br/>With a shudder of the struts, the drop door folded down to spill its meager contents of humanity to reinforce the line. The Ogryns had made headway and were engaging the orks as Cain strode down the landing ramp of his transport with measured confidence toward the battle lines. An errant slugga round richochet'ed off the psychic shield that wreathed him and was bolstered by runes and wards on his person.<br/><br/>The inlaid gold and platinum of Cain's staff began to glow a dull amber. Energy surged and corruscaded through Cain's nerves and veins and lanced through his fist as he violently punched the air in front of him. A laughable gesture were it not for the red lightning and yellow flame that sprang forth and lanced for greenskins pushing hard at the battle line.<br/><br/>Continuing his march, Cain made a beeline to where he thought the Commissar was, though he could not see the man.