Madoc raised an eyebrow at the Blood Angel's comment, unsure if he should attribute it to ignorance or simple naivety. The young Astartes had clearly never faced the Greenskin menace before, and as such the old Death Guard could not begrudge his lack of insight.
He shook his head. "They're not suicidal, youngblood. Brave as any xenos I've seen--loathe as I am to call them such--the ork possesses a peculiar sort of cunning. They fear not pain, nor failure, driven only by their will to fight. Cut off their legs, and still, they'd crawl into battle. Cut off their arms, and they'd use their teeth as weapons. Cut off the head? Ha! The next ork is just as like to use it as a cudgel." His voice darkened, clouded by the pain of battles past, and Madoc reached out to lay a heavy hand upon Zorael's pauldron. The Death Guard veteran looked him square in the eye, his face deathly serious. "It is folly to presume mankind's own disposition upon the alien mind. Underestimate them at your peril."
Realizing his sudden closeness, Madoc retracted his gauntlet from the crimson shoulder pad, almost looking embarrassed beneath his many scars. "I...have lost too many good men, neophytes and battle-brothers alike, to their wicked kind. I'll not lose another, not if I can help it."