rolled 48 = 48
"DEATH TO THE HERETIC!"
He had came out of nowhere, his boltpistol emmitting a soft retort before his fellow cultist was blown to smithereens next to him. The Space Marine raised his chainsword high, the quiet roar it's engine barely heard. In helpless surprise the cultist threw up his hands, and in a crunch, was buried beneath the giants armor.
When the cultist woke next, he cried out in pain. The Space Marine had fallen upon him mid swing, and trapped the heretic under his armors weight. At first came pain, the crushing force of the armor had surely destroyed his lower body, but the suffering wasn't over yet. The cultist could only meekly curse the horrible prediciment and scratch at the giant's impenetrable armor with his bare hands, before resigning himself to wait for whoever felled the Marine to show up.
Days later, the cultist, still trapped under the Marine, was suckling on some flowers he had close by. The small amount of sugar had kept him going, but still no sign of the rescue. He wondered what blow had taken this hulking form. What sort of fate had taken place to destroy this Marine? He prayed frequently, and fruitlessly to Tzeentch for the answers.
A week later, the cultist was on his last rites. Dehydrated, malnurished and weak. He could only watch as some minor predators of the world he was on draw closer, their razor sharp teeth in full focus. Maybe this was the answer? The cultist thought, Maybe this was the final gift? The Space Marine had other plans. When the creatures were close enough to strike, the cultist weakly lifted his hands, accepting his fate to these growling creatures. A moment later, the fate was stolen from him as the Marine shifted, and lazily batted the creatures away. The cultists torment persisted.