Tattoo

Pictures of my tattoo, step one and step two. Step three will be lining the backround of the sleeve (Wind lines make up most of it, cherry blossom cluster is going on my bicep.) and Step four will be coloring in all the rest of that shit. So hopefully two more sittings to go. Also, the demon's bag (yeah, that's a bag on his back) needs to be shaded as well.

from Wikipedia: 

Fūjin is the Japanese god of the wind and one of the eldest Shinto gods. He was present at the creation of the world and when he first let the winds out of his bag, they cleared the morning mists and filled the Gate between heaven and earth so the sun shone.

A legend of Chinese Buddhism states that Fūjin and Raijin, the god of thunder, were both originally evil demons who opposed Buddha. They were captured in battle with Buddha's army of heaven, and have worked as gods since then

Sons of Russ!

This is a post entirely about Warhammer 40k. It's a stark contrast to my other posts, I know. It's insanely dorky that I wrote out a little story to go with my army, I know.

 Egil Ironwolf took in the scene that unfolded around him. He stood atop the predator tank Fang of Russ, his massive sword resting easily across his shoulders. His wolf cloaked flapped in the chill wind around him. He took in a deep breath, the scent of his proud Fenrisian warriors filling his scarred nose. He scented anticipation, excitement, rage, and ferocious joy. He scented battle-lust. The Wolves were ready.
 They started to assemble towards him once they saw their mighty leader, ancient and powerful, stomp up onto the tank to use it as a battlefield podium. He was clad in the dark blue-grey armor of a terminator, but it was adorned with wolf talismans and trinkets he had taken from a hundred different worlds across the stars.
 The first to move towards him were his most trusted battle-brothers, his Wolf Guard. They were truly a sight to behold as they moved toward him, clad in armor almost identical to their Wolf Lord. Each had given it personal touches, however, and Egil could tell them apart as easily as if their heads wern't incased in the ceramite terminator helms they wore.
 The next to come forth was his old friend and Wolf Priest, Gar Winterborn. Gar had gotten his name from his trials as an initiate. All Space Wolves are left naked in the freezing tundras of Fenris to try and make it back to their mighty fortress, the Fang. But when Gar had done so, almost 300 years ago, their had been a terrible blizzard. All of the initiates that went out that day had been killed by the brutal frost. Gar alone had barely made it back, and he had done so, the tales say, by slaying an alpha male Fenrisian wolf and taking control of the savage pack. Even now, as he strode towards his Lord, huge wolves followed in his wake, following the Priest's every move.
 Volgin Forgefire looked up from the Razorback APC he oversaw the repairs of, turning his attention to his Wolf Lord as the thralls he commanded continued to piece back together a chunk of the engine. The Razorback had it's name scrawled on the front, named "The Spinebreaker" after it had crushed fourteen Orks under it's treads on planet Rougar. Volgin was an Iron Priest, and Egil's personal Adeptus Mechanus. He checked the tanks, the armor, the bolters, the chainswords of this battle force, and oversaw all other Iron Priests that were in this company.
 "MOVE YOUNG BLOODS" came a booming voice, and Egil could see Thror the Brutal, the Venerable Drednaught, stomp into view. In front of him he hearded the most promising Blood Claws of the Iron Wolf Company. Berserkergang was ancient, even from old Egil's perspective. He had lived 5,000 years and seen war again and again. He was a horrifying sight to the enemies of the Space Wolves, stomping, crushing, and shooting like a one-man army. And he truly was that. His tank-like body was covered in trophies, most older than any Wolf standing around him.
 The Blood Claws that came before Brother Thror were grinning, snarling, and taunting one another. With their helmets off you could see the wild mohawks shaved into their heads, representing their position of Blood Claw. They had youthful faces decked with scars and tattoos, and their leader was Krieg Throatripper. And that was indeed what they called themselves, the Throatrippers, after their wild leader and the deed he had preformed three campaigns earlier. He had been crushed under a falling building, and pinned from the waist down. But when the filthy xenos Tau had moved in to finish the job up close, he had gotten to close to Krieg. Krieg bit his throat, and ripped a chunk out of it you could have fit a closed fist into. He had returned to his battle-brothers missing his right hand and covered in blood. Now Egil could see the young Space Wolf striding proudly and grinning, swinging his replacement hand with a supreme confidence. It was a massive gauntlet, a powerfist.
 Next to form up around him was the second squad of Grey Hunters, led by Lorr the Scarred. His face was a patchwork of old cutting wounds, given to him by horrifying Dark Eldar after he was taken alive for questioning at the Battle of Subirin III. He had endured the most painful tortures in existance for three days, and then had escaped their foul clutches, slew a prominent commander, and escaped through a weak point in their encampment. This information led to a quick and decisive victory for the Wolves that very morning, and for that deed he was granted the honor of carrying an Iron Wolf banner.
 The first squad of Grey Hunters followed close behind, led by Feng Frostheart. He carried with him a gleaming sword, and his squad walked beside him with supreme dicipline. They had earned a reputation for cunning and tactical prowess amongst the Great Company when they had shot, sliced, and blasted their way into a Communications tower held by the filthy Thousand Sons. Those heretical chaos marines were purged when Feng slew their leader, set a demolition charge, and leapt from the top of the tower to a hovering Thunderhawk.
 Lastly, the old Long Fangs approached with the other Dreadnought under the old Iron Wolf's command. The Dreadnought was Brother Fenrir, and although he wasn't nearly as old as Thror the Brutal, he was just as savage. He stomped forward next to his old packmates. He often spoke with the Longfangs of days gone by, and when he was not encased in this tank of a tomb. He was glad he could still serve Egil, however. Not many warriors get to die two heroic deaths, and Fenrir planned to make his next death as spectacular as his first.
 The Long Fangs, grey-haired and fanged, walked beside their massive battle brother, carrying the huge assault weapons that marked them as old veterans. Even if they had not carried their weapons, however, you could tell their status by their long, jutting fangs that stuck out over their bottom lips, twisting their mouths into perminant snarls. Their leader was Beulf Thunderheart, a grizzled warrior of a thousand campaigns, and a genius of field combat tactics. He knew where to place his squad like a wolf knew how to bite for the throat, purely on instinct and cunning. Egil never had to tell him where to be or when, Beulf just knew what he had to do.
 The Iron Wolf, Lord of the men he surveyed, spoke with a voice like stones grating on one another.
 "My battle-brothers, young and old, we are here to strike a decisive victory in the heart of our enemies. As we speak xenos, mutant, and heretic alike converge on our position. But does that make us tremble? No! It makes the blood in our veins run like fire. It puts the predator gleam in our eyes. I was chosen by the Great Wolf to strike at the very heart of this world, to purge the alien presence with blood, thunder, and wolf-song. And, as I was chosen by Logan, you all were chosen by me. The Iron Wolves represent the steadfast fury of the Space Wolves, and you represent the best that my Great Company can offer. Now, we will shatter the bones of our enemies, rend them with bolter and sword, and push them off the edge of this world. As the Great Wolf demands, as Leman Russ demands. As the Emperor of Mankind himself demands. We shall be victorious!"
 And with that a great battle-cry arose from his warriors.

He's the list for my entire army as it stands now. I could probably push it over 2k points wise with little stuff, but I'm not sure if it's entirely necessary.

Space Wolf Army List
The Iron Wolf's Personal Task Force

HQs
Egil Iron Wolf
 (75 pts) w/ Terminator Armor (5 pts), Master-Crafted Power Weapon (30 pts), Wolf Tail Talisman (1 pt)
 Total Point Cost: 111 pts
Wolf Guard Bodyguard (x5)
 (125 pts) all w/ Terminator Armor (25 pts), Assault Cannon (20 pts), Heavy Flamer (10 pts), x2 Chainfists (10 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 190 pts

Wolf Priest Gar Winterborn
 (95 pts) w/ Plasma Pistol (15 pts), Healing Potions and Balms (25 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 135 pts
Fenresian Wolves (x4)
 (48 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 48 pts

Elites
Venerable Dreadnought Thror the Brutal
 (125 pts) w/ Assault Cannon (30 pts), Heavy Flamer (10 pts), Extra Armor (5 pts) and Smoke Launcher (3 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 173 pts

Dreadnought Brother Fenrir
 (105 pts) w/ Twin linked Lascannon (20 pts), Missile Launcher (10 pts) Extra Armor (5 pts) and Smoke Launcher (3 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 143 pts

Wolf Guard Leaders (x3)
 (90 pts) w/ Wolf Totem (20 Pts), 2x Power Weapons (20 pts), Power Fist (15 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 145 pts

Iron Priest Volgin Forgefire
 (80 pts) w/ Servo-Arm (30 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 110 pts

Troops
Grey Hunters led by Feng Frostheart (x5)
 (85 pts) w/ Power Fist, Bolt Pistol (16 pts), Frag Grenades (5 pts)
 mounted in Razorback "The Spinebreaker"
 Total Point Cost: 106 pts

Grey Hunters led by Lorr the Scarred (x5)
 (85 pts) w/ Plasma Gun (12 pts),Frag Grenades (5 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 102 pts

Blood Claws led by Krieg Throatripper (x9)
 (126 pts) w/ Plasma Pistol (8 pts) and Krak Grenades (18 pts)
 mounted in Rhino "The Bloody Path"
 Total Point Cost: 152 pts

Heavy Support
Long Fang Pack led by Beulf Thunderheart
 (72 pts) and leader (36 pts) w/ Heavy Bolter (15 pts), Lascannon (35 pts), Multi-Melta (35 pts), Plasma Cannon (35 pts), Bolter (1 pt) and Power Weapon (10 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 239 pts

Predator Destructor "The Fang of Russ"
 (100 pts) w/ Heavy Bolters (10 pts), Extra Armor (5 pts), Power of the Machine Spirit (30 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 145 pts

Transports
Razorback "The Spinebreaker"
 (70 pts) w/ Extra Armor (5 pts), Smoke Launcher (3 pts), Power of the Machine Spirit (30 pts), Dozer Blades (5 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 113 pts

Rhino "The Bloody Path"
 (50 pts) w/ Extra Armor (5 pts), Smoke Launcher (3 pts), Power of the Machine Spirit (30 pts)
 Total Point Cost: 88 pts


TOTAL ARMY POINTS: 2000 pts

I see it, I see it all now...

The day was generally very good.

Fell asleep early last night, and I mean early. The kind of early that's only talked about in hushed tones around a campfire early. Eerily early.

I'm going to say about 8pm. Woke up at 7am this morning, feeling refreshed and awake in a way I forget is possible. I had a nice breakfast and decided to watch The Office on Hulu. It was four episodes, including the season 4 finale, and I watched them all. I'd only seen the finale before, at Katelyn's behest. I forgot how much I enjoyed that show. I wish there was more I could enthrall myself with, but my resources are limited, and my patience wears thin for absolutely no reason.

The Office evokes a melancholy in me only possible elsewhere in Kings of Leon. I didn't feel bad or sad per se, but I felt something. Melancholy is often my zero line of emotion, my starting and end point, so I can't say the feeling was unique or rare. But I felt a tickle. Of what, I don't even know anymore. I still felt good, but it was there, a subtle undertone. I walked outside into the most autumn-feeling morning I have experienced, gave a little streach, and washed that feeling away for a while. It was great. Fall reminds me of childhood. The great race to Halloween.

Speaking of Halloween, my costume this year (sticking to my style of "trying the least while doing something I think is cool") is going to be a zombie. All I'm doing is creepy contacts and buckets of blood. Buckets. Soak-my-hands-up-to-my-elbows buckets. I'm excited, frankly.

I keep feeling like I'm seeing things, ghosts and echos. Residual emotion. The pink goo of my suburban life. Sometimes it's just burbling there. Sometimes it's spraying on some rich old lady's fur coat and having her be attacked by a bunch of rabid minks or something. I dunno, fucking ferrets or weasles. I just like writing like this honestly. I might just be suspicious. I probably need to get laid. Pass me a brew.

Brew, brew, brew, brew.

You have to start somewhere...

And that somewhere is here. At 1:38 am, on a school day none the less. I'm my own worst enemy.

People seem to be getting back into the flow of writing in a blog. That seems appealing to me, although I believe my last blog (read: my old livejournal) ended on a very sour note. Doesn't matter, really.

I'll get into it already, no need for an introduction. If you know me well enough to want to read this, you have a general idea of what I'm about. If you don't know me, you're lurking blogger, and that's kind of fucked up.

I consider myself a pretty aware individual. I tend to read people and take that in, and figure out whats going on around me. What I'm saying is, I'm not an idiot. I feel like I say that in arguements with Katelyn a lot. Y'know, I'm not an idiot. At least, I don't think I'm an idiot. There are people out there that are much less aware than myself, at the very least. People who are oblivious to the signals they eminate. Social ignorance. That's fine, I admire that to a degree. I envy that to an even greater degree. And I thank god I'm not those people to another degree entirely. It's a weird balance I strive to maintain, a sense of being, social awareness, a sense of my own signals, and not giving a fuck what people think. The former is a psycological chess game, and I'm fucking bad at chess. Do I even know what I'm saying, doing, thinking, presenting? The latter is impossible to achieve 100% without throwing all slef respect to the wind, I feel. If it is possible to do without destroying social credibility, I've never seen it done.

That being said, I know what's going on around me. No, I shouldn't try and sing for a pop punk band. That's evident. That's arrogant. That's embarrasing. That's not going to happen. I would have liked to think I could have tried it, but I'm not even going to attempt now. I don't want to be the socially blind retard, dropping hints where the hints turn out to be jokes. I don't intend for that to happen more than it has already. That's fine, that's understandable. It's too late for me to learn how to skateboard, y'know?

I pick up on other shit too, shit that breaks my heart. Shit that makes me double-take. Shit that makes me shrug and sigh. It's heavy weight. I'm trying not to get crushed again. These things are no ones fault I guess. And I hope I read things wrong. But I'm a good listener. A great listener, actually. I hear people say a lot of things. I have for years. I'm not sure why. But I tend to get a good bead on whats playing around in peoples minds. Especially if I'm involved somehow.

"I have known many gods. He who denies them is as blind as he who trusts them too deeply. I seek not beyond death. It may be the blackness averred by the Nemedian skeptics, or Crom's realm of ice and cloud, or the snowy plains and vaulted halls of the Nordheimer's Valhalla. I know not, nor do I care. Let me live deep while I live; let me know the rich juices of red meat and stinging wine on my palate, the hot embrace of white arms, the mad exultation of battle when the blue blades flame and crimson, and I am content. Let teachers and priests and philosophers brood over questions of reality and illusion. I know this: if life is illusion, then I am no less an illusion, and being thus, the illusion is real to me. I live, I burn with life, I love, I slay, and am content." is a quote from Conan, or rather, from Robert E. Howard. I wish I could live by it truly, but I obviously fall short in a number of categories for one, and for two it borders on a strange hedonism I don't feel like works. I want to soak in the words of my favorite author, a person who I feel like asked a lot of the same questions I do now. But obviously there are reasons I shouldn't. Chiefly, because Robert E. Howard killed himself at the ripe old age of 30.

I feel like I should sum up my essay in one paragraph here at the end. Treacherous dogs of public schooling.