I've rejigged my contemptor a bit:
++We were wedged between a wall of broken-backed Spartan carcasses and a wave of the Twelfth when he came. The Eaters were at us, a swarming mass of despoilers barking and waving chainaxes above their heads, smothered in viscera. We fired as much as we could before they hit us, although we managed to blast back some. We drew out combat blades â€“ the Eaters cared nothing for themselves, we could see that. As they swung, overextending themselves with the force of their charge, we were able to dispatch more, stabbing them in weak spots in their armour. It was not nearly enough â€“ they were overwhelming us quickly. Soon, only four of our original sixteen stood. Our sergeant had fallen; I couldnâ€™t make out details through the mass of bodies.
The he crested the hill. We all turned, and we took the opportunity to scramble back from the despoilers. At first, he looked like simply another of Angronâ€™s madmen; armour battered, paint chipping off and blackened by fire, dripping with blood, having torn off his own helm to reveal his pale, creased and snarling face. Then we spotted symbols, claws and â€˜xâ€™s scattered across his carapace. The Eaters turned back to us briefly, one swinging a chainaxe into Heshanâ€™s chest, who had been too slow to escape their reach, before vaulting over the assorted dead and darting towards the cover of a crater. The Dreadnought did not change pace, simply stalking after them and picking them off one by one with his Kheres.
Heshan was screaming over the vox. The axe had chewed into his flesh, leaving a gash that spanned the breadth of his chest. Even through the gap in the power armour, we could see the wound was deep. He would not have lived. We pleaded to him, I remember. Called out to him, begging him to help us to safety, bring Heshan back to the impromptu command post that our group of survivors had set up. He did not turn to look at us. The screaming grew louder, then was cut off by a high whine, a blast and a flash of light. When our eyes adjusted, a hole had been bored through Heshanâ€™s faceplate, and the dreadnoughtâ€™s plasma blaster was raised. And, at that, he broke out into a wordless, loping run, clattering towards where Angronâ€™s Twelfth had fled. That was the last we saw of him, our broken saviour.++
From the account of Reliquor Santor, XVII Legion, Survivor of the Dropsite Massacre