I actually have a couple other post ideas ready to go, but today just feels like a Xenos day. The fact that Games Workshop released ‘official’, non-blurry photos of the models probably helped alot.
I just have a few observations and/or speculations since the initial ‘wow that looks purdy!’ stage has passed. About the Eldar book of course. I’m constantly observing everything. All the time. And judging. Even you. (more…)
So the last time I posted it was a little on the serious and dark side, which is something I tend to do when it is a subject that angers me, I get overly passionate. Sorry about that guys, I really much prefer humour and silliness, and that is what I am returning to today. Yes my dear friends, it is time for some more fun with tyranids, YAY.
FUN WITH TYRANIDS: SNAKE MADNESS
Ok, so the title is kind of misleading, but what I am alluding to is the focus on the various snakey guys of the Monstrous Creatures of the Tyranid army. We will be examining the Trygon vs Trygon Prime vs Mawloc, the fun things you can do with all of them, and how strong they are comparatively. I will focus on the Trygon and the Prime first as they are very similar but for a few things, then we will move on to the silliness that is the Mawloc. So let us get into this poop already, cause we are up poop’s creek without a paddle, so time to get messy, lol. (more…)
++May 22nd, 3050
++FWL Colony #3454 “Fallen Bow”
++Planet Genvieve, Free Worlds League
Lt. Karen “Power” Simms thumbed the button for her comms, “Viper Three, checking in. No contacts in mountain village, grid square Charlie Four. Whatever happened here, I think we missed it.”
“Roger that, Viper Three,” Commander Llorn answered over the comms. “Behemoth lance reports no contact river either. Proceed to Delta Seven and clear.”
“Delta Seven, aye.” Power leaned back into her Raven‘s command couch and looked around her at the deserted prefab buildings of the small outpost. The distress call had gone out four days ago, and the Renegade Suns were the first boots on the ground, half a week late to be of any use. Now the entire colony was a ghost town, with no sign of what had happened to the people here except a few open doors, swinging in the wind. She felt naked without any infantry support clearing these buildings, but the Suns had been hired to be first responders, not garrison troops, so their only infantry platoon was securing the area around the dropship to make sure the ‘Mechs had available transport in case they needed to be somewhere fast.
The low thrum of the fusion reactor inside the light ‘Mech purred through her spine as Power throttled up to a slow walk, wary of ambush. Her Raven, designed for recon work, was small and lithe, and with its Guardian ECM Suite blocking enemy sensors she felt like a ghost haunting the graveyard of the colony. Her own sensors still registered blank except for the distant blips of the rest of Viper lance, spread out throughout the forest and mountains surrounding the colony. As she watched Viper One, Captain Donaldson, move towards another small outpost of prefabs half a klick away, her map flickered and her sensors went dead. “Hold up. This is Viper Three, I’m experiencing some sensor trouble. Is anyone else getting this?” All that answered was the hiss of static through her comms, and a chill rushed through her. She’d just entered into an enemy’s ‘Mech’s ECM bubble.
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name,
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
There is great power held within a name.
Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
I disagree, Juliette. A name is a part of a man, or of a woman. Perhaps intangible, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
You sit there in your heartache…
My roommate is playing Guitar Hero.
To save you from your old ways…
He’s stuck on this song.
You sit there in your heartache…
The same guitar riff, with various missing notes as his fingers fumble the plastic instrument, has filled our apartment for the past half hour. Having been repeatedly booed offstage by the exceedingly critical pixilated audience, he’s moved into practice mode, playing the same bit of song over and over again. I can feel the frustration radiating from him; his breathing has become slow and measured in an effort to calm himself. I know the symptoms well.