As they neared the drop-zone Tanrim grinned a vicious grin as he realized they were plunging into the Ork Horde. As the drop pod slammed down he unslung one of his chainswords and felt the revving growl of his weapon. Taking a step forward he stopped himself for a moment. The thought of blood and combat was upon him and it took all of his will to force himself to think rationally. He was an apothecary, the team's apothecary, he was their medical crutch, and if he wanted to protect his brothers he needed to keep a level head, lest he lose track of his brothers positions and condition.

Shaking his head he forced himself into a calmer battle-trace, taking one last moment to check his brother's conditions on his helmet's HUD he raced out of the pod, screaming curses and oaths in a mix of gothic and Cretaen. He plowed into the Ork Horde swinging his chainsword and reveling in the slaughter, every once in a while glancing at his helmet's readings to make sure his brothers were still uninjured.