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I wrote this a couple of years ago. I almost never write poetry, and usually i write in spanish. But that time inspiration came and it was in English.

Delusional

Neither pain nor glory,
just an empty box
full of bitter memories.
No tracks of greatness.
No lasting footprint.
In the twisted hallways
of my own madness.
Ineffable echoes crowding
the emptiness of the tunnel. The paintings on the walls
stare at me...
or they don't?

The sound of the chains
keeps me aware
all night long.
Those empty hollows
burn the flesh
as an ironic behaviour
bound by the blindness
of their sick ambitions.
-Caro Data Vermibus-

As a nightly shade,
as a spark in the daylight.
Caught in a parade
of walking masks
moving along my path,
In the colorful dance
of this musical masquerade.
But sooner or later
will the clock chime for last time.
Eins!
Zwei!
Drei!
Vier!
Fünf!
Sechs!
Sieben!
Acht!
Neun!
Zenh!
Elf!
Zwölf...!
DREIZEHN!

The sweet warmth
of a candle light.
The vindictive smiles
wander around me.
In the dark forest
where the tree branches
tangle everywere.
Forming a giant maze
where spirits are drawn
down into the abyss.

The pendulum swings
once and again,
as it always has,
as it always will.
The sound of a sick melody
grows louder everytime
as a suffocated scream
as an endless elegy
within the chambers of the mind.

The rusted anchor once again is broken
allowing the ship of my dreams
to drift into turbulent waters
engulfed by the mist.
Wolves are howling in the dock
while the thunderstorm
fades their cry away.

The fog reveals
the scary expectations
of those small crates.
Where hopes are deprived
and dreams turn into twisted protraits.
Which are hanged
along the great halls,
the great halls of human fears.

Doors and Tunnels

...the stretch from beginning to end is presumably long involving both time and distance.
The beginning is not even a vague memory.
The end is incomprehensible.
What fills the gap in between is constant, yet changing; often willfully directed from within, but many times influenced by inside and outside forces not in our control.
Like walking through a lengthy tunnel; sometimes well-lit, sometimes dark and foreboding.

Yet,
always within our view, brighter than the lights, brighter than the darkeness,
is the opening at the far end. We walk towards that end, one step after another.

Imagine, a dark tunnel filled to capacity with all manner of people
walking the same path towards the same end.
Bodies brushing against each other, stranger connecting with stranger; feeling the mass as it presses in from all sides, sometimes impeding your progress, sometimes lifting you up, taking the effort away as you are carried forward.

Along the way,
there are doors; old, dirty, and full of warnings but with no indication of what might lie beyond.
From time-to-time, strangers move towards these doors only to be turned back.
Other times you see them open as the person exits through.
There are times when the crushing and control of the crowd cause you to
look hard at the doors as you pass them.
You contemplate pushing your way towards them, ignoring those around you, even the ones with whom you have been traveling so closely for so long.

If the crowd is too strong or your resolve is weak, you only have a moment for a backwards glance and to feel the tug of regret for not pushing harder,
as you are carried along with the masses.
Soon the feeling passes as you re-direct your gaze forward again.
The urge to carry onward with this migration seems innate, uncontrollable, perhaps even stronger this time. But, in the periphery of your sight and mind, remain the doors.

There are no words here to satisfy the queries concerning how this journey will end.
Even if I possessed the answers to those questions, I would be hesitant to corrupt your mind with a single version to something that remains in flux; dependent on forces too innumerable and too chaotic for any human to predict.
This is your burden,
your journey,
your life...

enough

enough! i scream
in my head.
i'm done with this!
i can't take any more...

enough! i cry
in my heart.
why do i keep on with this?
i can't take any more...

enough! i say
to myself.
why don't i just let it go?
i don't need you any more...

enough...(i whisper
so you can't hear.)
i wish you would go away...
but i still need you, my friend.

do you think you could
spare a minute for me?
could you come and visit,
just sit with me?
i'm lonely, i'm sad, i'm hurt, i'm mad.
i just need someone here,
someone who understands;
someone to listen when no one else will.
so do you think you could
spare a minute for me?
i don't need you to stay
for an awful long time.
just long enough to say "hi,
how are you doing?"
i don't always want to talk.
just knowing you're there
is often enough.
knowing someone cares
means more than enough.
it means i'm not alone.
so do you think you could
spare a minute for me?

Like a bird with a broken wing
(that cannot fly
back to the nest
that it tried,
with such valiant intent to escape)
would sing
"I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then"

http://www.wrongplanet.net/postp1026539.html#1026539

Link to four poems that I wrote.

Goldie

Hush now, Goldie
Your lover’s dead
They found him on the riverbed
His blood mixed with the water
His brains burbling out
His eyes rolled back in his handsome head
Hush now, Goldie
Don’t you cry
You’ll get your revenge
In the sweet by-and-by
You’ll drive a spike
Through his head
And leave him by the riverbed

A Footprint on the Wall (April 1, 2007)

The office is untidy, papers all over this room
Four walls the definitive nature of this tomb
Her smile too tight, body thinness sharp and pointed
The atmosphere stunted, time jumbled and disjointed
My eyes travel to the right, the wall hanging over there
A picture of a humanoid footprint, and so I stare
At the black background. The foot is gray and lined
Too large, and the age of its owner is not defined.
All five of its toes are positioned just so
Where the rest of its body is, I really don't know.
I look at her questioningly, her eyes glance down low.
Then she recovers, and her smile begged me yet not to go.

A memory washes over this interview scene.
The force of a tsunami, and the wall's now a screen.
I am not allowed to look up at that which is not forgotten anymore
When the time is ended, she shows me the door.
On the way out I make my eyes take a quick glance
To memorize that portrait, just the slightest chance.
Then we walk to a new beginning, and if it be true
A footprint on the wall was the only path that I knew.

Footnote:Because I am a visual literalist, I was told I should not write. But I have learned figurative language and this is the result. I have written many poems. My kids like them and maybe, just maybe I will publish them, along with my philosophical ramblings. Thanks for reading.

(a little one, its lyrics but I really like the hidden complexity of the message)


Screams of passion,
though we're not yet to be.
Past the point of no return.

Now its soul.

Forever gone.
Somehow, never alone.
The only one.
Was always alone.
Rotten to the bone.
Its all gone. Left alone.

Now its soul.

Here is a chapter from my vastly incomplete Discordian novel called "Bun is the Hero" (note: language is flagrant and mouthy):

Accidents Anonymous

Accidents Anonymous was a secret society in which bastards from all walks of life congregated. Each bastard quaffed a whisky named "Old Friend" which was famous for the brutal hangovers it usually inflicted upon its consumer base. This strange coincidence was one of the few actual connections anyone in the group had to another, and as a result there was some opinion that the group should have been renamed to "The Old Friend Bastard Collective", but being a secret society, anything that remotely resembled marketing was pointless and so nobody ever bothered.

Accidents Anonymous was rather a prestigious social club to be a part of, because unlike many of the more famous secret societies, nobody knew anything about it, and therefore entry was difficult to gain. In reference to this subject, one might consider the old proverb, "If a secret society gathers in a covert forest when nobody else knows about it, does it make the least bit of difference?" And of course, the correct answer is: yes. It makes a difference directly to the members of the society, and indirectly to non-members if/when a member re-emerges into regular society. Having temporarily disappeared from the normal everyday world into another created by themselves in which they decide the social laws and taboos, their experiences during their time within the group have the potential to be more valuable in rarity than most anything they could easily have partaken in had they gone to the shops instead, or, perhaps, to a less-than-covert forest. Any kind of overt forest is simply not the place for such secretive social dealings.

Accidents Anonymous used a cleverly-construed forest that was entirely covert for their meetings. It consisted of a number of planks of plywood that had been passionately nailed into the floor of the AA High Priest's flat during a controversial night of drunken euphoria. The forest atmosphere was helped, the High Priest oft-opined, by the unpainted plaster walls, the complete lack of furniture in the room and the perpetual garish glare of the single lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling as if dead. The "trees" were chipped and cracked in various places, haphazardly affixed to the dull carpet at seemingly random angles. They clearly needed a good sanding down to remove sharp edges and splinters, but despite all this the High Priest was determined that they were "wizened oaks", and refused to recognise them by any other name. In fact, he was ranting about them at the few remaining members at that very moment, whenever that moment might be:

"Shut up! They are wizened oaks, filled with the spirits of yore! To insult them with your ignorant slander is to be cast out by the society that depends on them: our society, THIS very society!"

The rebel leader sighed and shook his head, exasperated. "Planks of f*****g wood."

"...look, you f*****g moron, these trees-"

A loud bang was heard from just outside the room, and the regulars instantly recognised it as the slamming of the front door of the flat. A quick and startled glance around by the High Priest confirmed that all remaining members were present; could it be that an old member had returned after having been cast out for infidelity, and if so, then for what purpose? Surely they knew that they could never rejoin the AA once cast out - the rules had been made quite clear several times - unless... they couldn't possibly have... oh no, oh God, no, please... surely they haven't revealed our location to the National Society for the Thwarting and Smite of Non-Central Denominations in the Name of the Corporate Post-Global Conspiracy of Earth, Middle-Earth, Big-Earth, Little-Earth, Non-Earth and Elsewhere! Oh dear God!

Just as the High Priest was tearing off his frontal bustle in a blind panic, soft footsteps approached the door, and the members watched in collective awe as the doorknob slowly turned and the door squeaked into motion.

In padded Bun.

"...I've had an accident," proclaimed Bun uncertainly, eyeing the High Priest who was paused in shock halfway through the interesting act of bustle removal.

The High Priest eyed back, his gaze narrowing into a slit of suspicion. "Are you anonymous?"

"Yes."

"God," gasped the High Priest in partial relief. "I thought you were the NSTSNCDNCPGCEMEBELENEE back to enact a spiteful revenge. This is a covert forest, you know. You can't just walk in here, the spirits'll have you."

Bun's gaze flitted around the room uncomfortably in a fruitless effort to understand. The High Priest reattached his frontal bustle onto its rightful place before his waist, and instantly felt a bit more balanced and in control. He didn't feel quite complete without his frontal bustle these days; he couldn't imagine how he'd lived without it for so many years.

"Give me your intestines," said Bun out of nowhere, with an implausibly sudden assertiveness. "I need them for a jump cable."

The High Priest looked up, certain that the words he was sure he'd heard couldn't possibly have been accurate. At least, they couldn't have come from the mouth of such a nice rabbit, surely, even if he was a stranger. Unless he was completely deranged? And come to think of it, who should "he" really refer to in that sentence? Perhaps intestinal jump cables had become the cultural norm in the few years since his enlightenment and subsequent ascension to High Priest status. Perhaps, nowadays, using "conventional" jump cables was an eccentric choice, as everyone who was anyone had moved on to the wondrous and far more efficient world of biotechnology. Fancy some toast? No need for a toaster, just pop some bread in between your cranial hemispheres and the electrical signals'll do the rest. Perhaps some steak? Cast away your obsolete forks and knives, for our world has left them behind! Simply use your fingers as makeshift chopsticks and your teeth as impromptu cutting devices! No longer shall we have to teach our children how to eat! The f*****s can f*****g work it out themselves for once!

"RIGHT!!" roared the High Priest, ferociously booting down a wizened oak in some kind of thought-fuelled fit of conceptual justice, "I'm going, you f*****s can all stay here and melt for all I give a f*****g damn about."

As he stomped out of the room with an incredible air of determination, he tore off his bustle and threw it aside before ripping open the front door, charging out and slamming it behind him with a kind of gusto never previously witnessed by anyone in the flat, so hard in fact that the catch broke and the door was allowed to shudder ajar.

After a few seconds of incredulous silence, the rebel leader looked up, and his gaze shifted slowly from Bun to the uncurtained single-pane window, the only window in the room. Outside, the sky was black and it was raining hard. He absentmindedly picked up a half-empty bottle of Old Friend from the floor beside him, and was dazzled once again by the unobstructed glare of that single bulb that illuminated the room mercilessly, day or night. The light looked cold - far colder than the Moon would look over a real forest, perhaps, if real covert forests even existed.

"...what now?"

None of the three remaining members answered... they never did.

Useless f*****s, he thought, raising the bottle to his lips.

He took some whisky into his mouth, and the strong warmth of Old Friend hit the back of his tongue. He loved it, at that moment, more than anything else in the world; it made even that cold room in its cold light a warm and comfortable place to be, and turned this good-as-dead group of miserable idiots into a clique of quiet drinking partners, just for a moment. It was as if he and the other members who congregated in this ludicrous room were together not out of desperation for social stimulus at the will of some pathetic freak, but storytellers, each knowing something that none of the others knew, and on these nights they would all gather together and silently share their stories under the cold covert lightbulb in this freezing stinking piece-of-shit flat in the bad part of Hoobland.

A few seconds silently passed... perhaps ten, maybe more.

The "rebel leader" got up from his place on the floor wearily, and reached for his coat which lay in a heap beside him. He brushed past Bun as he stepped through the door, perhaps in some belligerent gesture of gratitude, Bun thought, and turned back to face the room.

"I hate you all. You can all hoobing die."

He took one last swig of Old Friend, tossed it roughly into the covert forest and stamped out through the front door, slamming it behind him as usual. Once again, the door shuddered ajar.

While descending the stairs of the block of flats, he met a sodden and miserable-looking High Priest on his way back up to the flat. He kicked him in the bustle and went on his way like it was nobody's business.

To Bun, the whole experience bordered on the mystical. He wasn't sure what to make of any of it; the room of planks, assorted drunks lying around on the floor, the apparent social tensions among them, the strange man who was once so filled with an almost tangible aplomb and whose sobs could now be heard rising and echoing pathetically around in the stairwell; none of it made any sense. He surmised, however, that perhaps he had come to the wrong place.

He opened his eyes about halfway and took in the sunshine. It was more glorious than anything he had ever known, and more than enough to satisfy him.

"Fnord..." he spoke, and he recalled his quest. Sure enough, the blue existed before him, as he had suspected it would, although he could see greater detail in it now, and there was more of it. It was beautiful; the shining pieces that came from the Sun laid themselves out upon the melting, cascading surface of whatever wonderful machine he was heading towards, as if entertaining no fear of the power so obviously inherent in its massive and mysterious form. Together, the blue and the shining bright seemed to beckon Bun onward, onward into an experience of all brilliance where warmth, comfort and unconditional acceptance lay in wait for him if only he desired it. Could it be that Bun had found love in this great, unseeable thing? Perhaps; although it was very unlike him to be interested in such philosophical matters.

His train of thought was interrupted by a thief rummaging around in his mangoes, searching for an apricot.

"You're a very selective thief," said Bun to the thief, but the thief went away again, leaving Bun alone once more. Bun found that he missed him, and suddenly felt a bit tired. The Sun still shone steadily down, however, warming his fur pleasantly, and he found that he didn't really mind. The birds sang, and the chirrups chortled. "The calthrops whined, but saddles high! The Moon glows puce tonight, so drink the f**k up while we suck this sack race up," said Mr. Grasshopper. He clearly had no idea what he was saying, and Parliament was quite shocked, not to mention barefaced and footloose, perhaps even eggbound. They hung Mr. Grasshopper at high noon after a successful hotfoot in the name of good taste. Brer Snooker Player was distastefully amused, but could only swelter as his knees swelled to the size of small ape heads, and took on a similar consistency. Undoing his bloated underbelly skin, he reached past his bowel and felt around for a great pus-gushing mass of fleshy gelatinous membranes. When, to his horror, he actually found the thing growing from the inner-right of his abdomen, he grasped it as tightly as possible, grimly braced himself, and with a mind-flaying blast of pain wrenched his wrist and arm and ripped it out from his abdomen in one sudden sharp motion. The cry that emanated from his gullet as he performed this deed was one that plagued his nightmares for months to come, as did the unshakable vision of his own exposed bowel and stomach oozing black and brown pus from a half-torn and bleeding sack of the-gods-know-fucking-what. In the puce moonlight, a Sombrero-endowed guitarist sang a wonderful love song in long, melismatic sweeps, and did not appear to notice Brer Snooker Player's squawked gurgles of excruciation from the unlit terraced balcony above. On that night, Brer Snooker Player stopped breathing for a few moments, and within that short time he finally came to the decision that he had, once and for all, become an utter lunatic.

Hoppity-hip, hippity-hop.

Ah, the sweet cruelty of fate,
that I, thus bound by space and time,
by past and path
should find myself so hopelessly enraptured
in the echoes of your embrace

A tear,
frozen upon his face,
fell to shatter,
his heart breaking apace.

I'm a big fan of Star Trek, and I sometimes write poetry centering on Spock or Leonard Nimoy. Here is one of my poems.


Ode to Leonard Nimoy
By Sarah


I saw you first as Mr. Spock,
With your emotions tightly locked.
I read your second book,
Into your life I got a look.

You directed movies three and four,
And I was left wanting more.
In The Undiscovered Country, you said farewell,
With your voice sounding clear as a bell.

Out of all photographers,
You are the one I prefer.
You love poetry as I do,
Let me give this poem to you.

I did not always like you this much,
It was on Spock that I had the crush.
Now I like both of you,
And wish you to tell Spock, too.

I saw you in a TV ad,
Seeing you in it made me glad.
That commercial was your best work yet,
And a nice end to the entire set.

You said you would never hurt a fan,
Never place a restraining ban.
I ask you this from interest,
Why can’t crazier fans take a rest?

Live long and prosper, Mr. Spock,
With your emotions under a thick lock.
Good luck to you, Mr. Nimoy,
In whatever your talent shall employ.

Here is the complete script for a three-page comic which I wrote for the guy at my local comic shop. He's convinced I have a talent for the medium, and so has been drawing the script for me for some time (he's just three panels away from finishing it, but since he put his back out, he can't really do so ).

PAGE 1, SPLASH PAGE: The interior of a temple. We are viewing it from the ceiling, and there is a circle carved into the stone floor and decorated with Aztec symbols (example: http://members.aol.com/cabrakan/tizoc2b.htm). At the bottom right of the panel there is a priestess wearing traditional Aztec clothing (references: http://library.thinkquest.org/27981/dress.html and http://www.native-languages.org/composi ... thing.html), feathers in her hair and an ornate gold necklace. She has her arms raised above her head, with a vividly-decorated wooden staff in her right hand, which is topped by a golden, double-headed eagle shape. Her eyes are closed as she chants, a smile of anticipation on her face.
SPEECH BALLOON: Come to me, great beast! Come to me, mighty Tezcatlipoca!

PAGE 2, PANEL 1:
We see a shot of the priestess from the waist up. She is pointing her staff upwards and screaming, a determined look on her face. Lightning is beginning to crackle from the eagle, gouging cracks in the stonework above her.

PANEL 2:
She grips her staff with both hands as the energy coming from it gets stronger, steam beginning to rise from her fingers as the staff glows. We are looking at her full figure from the front now, and we can see her legs struggling to keep her upright as the energy gets stronger and stronger. Perhaps show her legs are bent a little to show how hard it is for her?
SOUND EFFECT: SSSSSSSSSS...

PANEL 3:
Explosion! The roof of the chamber suddenly collapses inwards, showering the floor with variously-sized chunks of stone.

PANEL 4:
One of the pieces of stone hits the priestess in the head, causing a spray of blood and knocking her backwards, her staff clattering on the floor. We have caught her in mid-fall, her arms flailing and her legs buckling as her staff falls to the ground.

PANEL 5:
From behind the priestess’ left shoulder as she lies sprawled on the ground, we see the floor of the temple, scattered with rubble and debris. A dark shape has materialised in the middle of it, crouched in the centre of the ground with steam rising off its furry body. It has a jaguar’s face and its cat’s eyes are open and glaring right at the priestess.

PANEL 6:
From a 45-degree angle behind the beast’s crouched form, we see the priestess has pushed herself to her feet and is approaching the beast cautiously.
SPEECH BUBBLE: Master?

PAGE 3, PANEL 1:
The beast has risen to its feet and is now facing the priestess. We are seeing both of them side-on, and there is about half a metre’s distance between them. The beast is at least a head or so higher than the priestess, so it has to look down on her as she looks at it in awe.
SPEECH BUBBLE (BEAST): You have summoned me. Why?
SPEECH BUBBLE (PRIESTESS): I need you, Master. You must help us slay the heathen invaders!

PANEL 2:
We see a close up of the beast’s face. It has raised one eyebrow and looks entirely bemused by the suggestion.
SPEECH BUBBLE (BEAST): I see. And why would I want to do that, when I can simply take your body and leave?
SPEECH BUBBLE (PRIESTESS, from off-panel): Master?

PANEL 3:
The beast has grabbed the priestess by the throat and dragged her close to its face. We can already see vapour rising off its body as it begins to dissolve. The priestess is struggling, her face a mask of terror, but she cannot get away.
SPEECH BUBBLE (BEAST): You humans are less than nothing to me. I will not help you. Instead, I think I will help you destroy yourselves. The notion... amuses me.
SPEECH BUBBLE (PRIESTESS): No -!

PANEL 4:
The beast fully dissolves into vapour, entering the priestess’ body through her nostrils, ears and throat. As this happens, the priestess is falling to her knees, her eyes rolling up into the back of her head and her hands flailing to either side of her body, which is convulsing violently.

PANEL 5:
We see the Beast-priestess knelt on the floor, looking at his/her hands in appreciation. Wisps of vapour are rising off him/her as the beast settles into his new body.
SPEECH BUBBLE: Foolish humans. They truly have no idea...

PANEL 6:
We see a close-up of the Beast-priestess’ face as he/she leaves the sacrificial chamber, which we can see over his/her shoulder. He/she is smiling broadly with long fangs peeking over the top of his/her bottom lip, and we can see that his/her pupils have become vertical and catlike.
SPEECH BUBBLE: Never mind. They’ll appreciate what a mistake they’ve made soon enough...

I've also given him an eight-page script for a small-press comic that one of his friends is hoping to put together, but that's also on hold because of his back. Still, if it does go ahead, I might get paid something for it. Hooray!

(by the by, Tezcatlipoca is the Aztec jaguar-god, just in case you were wondering )

Red Cadre: Introduction

Author's note: If you'd like any help with knowing more about the Tau equipment and words, put Lexicanum Category:Tau into Google. On that website you should be able to find the awnsers to all your Tau questions.

“While the races of the galaxy tear one another apart, the Tau grow stronger and stronger. On the Eastern Fringe, far from the power of Terra, world after world has fallen to their dynamic advance. At the forefront of this rapid expansion are the warriors of the Fire Caste. Unfettered by Mankind's superstition and fear of technology, the Fire Warriors go into battle carrying weapons of immense power, encased in battlesuits that can withstand the fiercest of attacks.”

~ Warhammer 40,000, Games Workshop


The Shikha’Sei Hunter Cadre was founded in the Third Sphere Expansion of the Tau Empire. Compared to most other Cadres, the Shikha’Sei Tau are eccentric and malicious but still fighting for the Greater Good, regardless of any criticism the Water Caste members may give them. The legions of Fire Warriors and the armoured columns of skimmer tanks that soar over the battlefields are painted in a dusty red with highlights of brighter reds and purples that contrast with the white and gold of the higher ranking officers. A Soldier of the Cadre may add more white and/or gold to their uniform with each promotion.

Representing their relative embracing of individuality compared to the other Cadres, the units have un-uniform colour patterns, yet still with the same basic colours of red-white-gold. Each Fire Warrior may pick their own colour of shin armour, which sometimes makes their lower legs contrast with the rest of their uniform; with some enemies and fellow Tau giving the Shikha’Sei the derogatory name of “The sock troopers”.

The Shikha’Sei has been deployed on the planet of Usha, also known by the Imperium of Man as ‘Charon IV’. Despite being a relatively small planet, it is the subject of interest for the fascist Imperium of Man, the barbaric Ork hoards and now the Tau Empire, seeking to “liberate” the human population of Usha into the Empire and enlighten them with the “Greater Good”.

---

Advancing across the grassy planes of Usha, Shas’la Daichi’aval, a young and proficient Fire Warrior of the Shikha’Sei Hunter Cadre (O_o……omg, the Tau do like their apostrophes don’t they…) patiently waits with his unit inside their Devilfish armoured transport as it flies them towards their destination, confident that the area has been cleared of any Ork threat….

“This area has been cleared, right?” says an anxious Fire Warrior named Ishan, trying to speak above the smooth but ever-present hum of the Devilfish engines keeping the craft flying just a few feet above the ground.
“Of course it is! I’m sure the Shas’o would have given us some more supporting units if this place was nasty. In a way, I almost want this place to be higher on the Fire Cast’s agenda, as I really want to see those Stealth Suits…” said Daichi’aval, seemingly slipping into a daydream about being a Stealth Suit pilot.
“Believe me, you really don’t want to see those Stealth pilots, they are so full of themselves…” says an obviously irritated Ishan. “They think they’re so smart, jumping around, making themselves invisible to the enemy but all-too visible to the girls…”
“Looks like someone’s jealous…” said Daichi with a flashy grin.

The Fire Warrior’s chatting stopped as a voice shouted down from the commander’s cupola in the roof. “Slow down, I see someone… they’re one of ours…” The Fire Warriors inside felt the Devilfish slowing down as the humming of the engines lowered to a lazy pulse.

Red Cadre part II: The WAAAGH

"The Orks are the pinnacle of creation. For them, the great struggle is won. They have evolved a society which knows no stress or angst. Who are we to judge them? We Eldar who have failed, or the Humans, on the road to ruin in their turn. And why? Because we sought answers to questions that an Ork wouldn't even bother to ask. We see a culture that is strong and despise it as crude."
- From Culture vs. Kultur: Thoughts on Orkish Society by Uthan the Perverse, a controversial Eldar philosopher. -Games Workshop

Shas’ui Tai’jan, the determined leader of the eight-strong squad of Fire Warriors always tried to ensure that every Shas’la under his command acted with the best discipline. Not because he’s particularly strict at heart, rather because he’s so self-conscious; always worrying what the other Tau in their Battlesuits think about him still commanding a regular infantry unit. He has dragged many fresh Shas’las across the stars through countless battles; the Markerlight on his Pulse rifle has illuminated an array of different alien races to the full force of the Greater Good; still, the Fire Caste has yet to issue him a Battlesuit. During a battle against the Imperial Guard, Tai disobeyed an order from his commanding Shas’el Engo to stay in a static firing line despite having no direct line-of-sight to the enemy. Instead, Tai and his Fire Warrior squad advanced into the Imperial position, viciously neutralising the mortar team and a squad of Guardsmen that weren’t prepared for Tai’s shock tactics. The rest of the Imperial Guardsmen were forced to counter-attack by their ignorant Commissars that had quotas to meet, unwittingly walking straight into the main Tau firing line where they meet their end in the form of 120 Pulse rifles. The day was won, the Fire Warriors looked up to Tai for his bravery, but never-the-less, Shas’el Engo still gave Tai a bad report to the Shas’o at headquaters.

Tai has seen too many enterprising young officers getting the leg-up to being a Battlesuit “worthy” Tau, watching their eyes light up as they eagerly tell the engineers how they want their new XV-8 mecha to be customised. It has now came to the point where Tai almost doesn’t care about piloting an XV-8, instead developing a pride in his position as a Fire Warrior, constantly trying to prove to the Battlesuit pilots that regular infantry can do great things- especially his squad. Discipline is efficiency, efficiency is competence, and competence will earn him victory and the respect of the Battlesuit pilots.

When the Devilfish came to a halt, Tai’jan promptly climbed out via the commander’s cupola on the roof, making use of the graceful curves of the Tau vehicle; with the rest of the squad assembling outside via the circular doors. Eager to find out exactly what had made Tai want to stop their journey, Daichi’aval stepped forward and followed Tai’s eyes, noticing a single Tau running towards them.
“He’s a Pathfinder…” Tai said in a serious and somewhat concerned tone, noticing Daichi’s inquisitive presence.
“oh, the lone-wolfs that go out and survey the front line for enemy positions and prime targets..” said Daichi.
“No Daichi, they travel in teams, and they should be in a Devilfish like us” said Tai, not surprised at Daichi’s ignorance.

His armour beaten, his muscles aching, the Pathfinder tried to run as fast as his tired legs could carry him, desperate to get to the distant red figures that he recognised as a friendly Fire Warrior squad.

Eventually he stopped at the Fire Warriors, doubling over and clutching his knees as he tried to get oxygen into his franticly contracting lungs. After a couple of minutes, he heard one of the Warriors speak; “Are you ok Shas,la? We have some medical provisions in the Devilfish….”
“It’s ok, I just need to catch my breath…” replied the Pathfinder before passing out and collapsing on the grass in front of the bemused Warriors.
“Y’know, that mark on his armour looks a lot like the kind you get from being hit by an Ork Choppa…” said Daichi in a matter-of-fact tone. “Don’t remind me…” said an annoyed Tai.

“Welcome to our Devilfish.” came the voice of Tai as the Pathfinder awoke inside the ventilated hull of the Devilfish. “I am Tai, Shas’ui of this fine squad of Fire Warriors; and who might you be?”
“I am Shas’la Ri’uji.” Said the Pathfinder as the memories came flooding back, “The squad…my friends…..we were ambushed…”


Flashback

“Hey Tejas, I know we are here to oversee the Kroot’s progress, but did the Shas’el need us to oversee them eating too? Said Ri’uji, disgusted at the way the Kroot savagely devoured the dead Orks in the jungle clearing.
“Well I think we are lucky to travel with the Kroot.” Said Tejas while looking up at the night sky, “They are the ultimate soldiers of endurance; you don’t need to give them many rations, you just let them kill to eat and eat to kill. Plus the Kroot’s ferocity makes the Orks think twice before assaulting our forces.”
“Do Orks think at all? I think the Kroot will be severely disappointed if they are expecting brains to be on the menu today…” Said Ri’uji.

The kroot are normally quite good at detecting their pray as it approaches, but this time they were too busy feasting on their orky meals. So as one Kroot happily started on his desert, he was blissfully unaware that his desert had some friends, friends that could run, gun, charge and shout.
“WAAAGH!! !” roared the voice of Warboss Magbog Shakgrod, immediately causing the Kroot to quickly turn their heads in the direction of the war cry. As the ground shook from the brute force of 60 charging Orks, the 21 Kroot were visibly distressed and made frantic grabs for their rifles.