Wych weapons 1: Shardnet and Impaler

Which weapon? (sorry)

Wych weapons have moved from being bulk to specialist equipment; so instead of upgrading all of the models in the squad to have some sharp hooks secreted about their person, a couple of select wyches may take their pick from three options.

On the bright side, all three are kinda neat. The downside for me is that I rather liked the look of all of the old wych weapons, and so my wyches had almost nothing but! Still, since we must adapt or die, the question now becomes: which should I take?

Shardnet and impaler

Two of the wych weapon options are purely offensive; the shardnet is the purely defensive upgrade. Every model adjacent to the wych fights with one less attack than normal. Incidentally, the wording suggests that models only ever lose one attack no matter how many shardnets they are in contact with; a pity, as it would otherwise be quite handy to gimp an enemy independent character completely.

There are two obvious drawbacks with the shardnet. Firstly, it is useless against models with only one attack. Secondly, since the wyches will almost always be striking first, casualties can be removed preferentially from those affected by the nets.

The second drawback can be ameliorated relatively simply, by engaging models that the enemy will not want to remove. This will often further our purposes directly, for example by impairing a veteran sergeant, we might reduce a power fist to one attack only, potentially losing fewer wyches without recourse to our new feel no pain capability.

A bonus of the shardnet, as compared to the old wych weapons, is that there is now no ceiling on whom it can affect. Carnifex? Tangle those claws. Wraithlord? Sorry, that sword won't be swinging through this. Every enemy model loses an attack, regardless of strength, whether they have additional close combat weapons, are a god given form, or just a grot with two pointy sticks.

So should I take one? Taking a shardnet will depend on the intended role of the wych squad in question. For tarpit wyches, it is the only choice. For slaughtering masses of basic troops, perhaps you want one of the others. If you want to limit the effectiveness of enemy upgrade characters, take one shardnet, and one of something else.

But which one? Stay tuned!

Dark Eldar are here, are dark

After thirteen-odd years, the Dark Eldar are back in town!

As my primary 40K army for the last ten years, I've got a lot of love for the little libertines.

Over the next few posts, I'll share some of my thoughts and mathematical analyses of the new codex.

But let me say before I move on - the flavour of this book, and the overall feel, were freaking awesome. I love it, and I hope that you do too!

The Self-made Rage

Rage! A bitter pill
When one's rage is cast oneself
Fruit of own free will
Yet set one's purpose 'gainst itself
Choices made, action taken
Backfired, brought undone
Though remembered, now forsaken
Rage still, done is done.
Act in folly, repent at leisure
Caught against uncaring fate
My own fault, by every measure
So it's myself that I must hate.

E-Rudd-icated

The brutal denouement to Kevin Rudd's term as Prime Minister puts an exclamation mark beside many points.

First, it marks Australia's first female Prime Minister, and there will be none who now question her killer instinct.

Second, it reinforces that power in the ALP is still governed by factionalism. Whilst Kevin Rudd lack of factional alignment initially helped him to become leader, it ultimately consigned him to his political grave.

Thirdly, shockingly, this sudden political execution marks the victory of the media over the policymakers they ostensibly report on. The news media have consistently agitated against Mr Rudd, waging a hate-filled vendetta against the man that dared defy them. Now they have their prize.

I hope that Australia is ready for the brave new world of government by media. Disturbingly, they are getting a taste for it.

Our Kevin

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. Sorry dude, I butchered your poem.

Once upon a midyear needy, Twiggy pondered, great and greedy,
Over many a profitable mine of gold and iron ore—
While he plotted, neatly mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the office door.
“’Tis some investor,” he muttered, “tapping at my office door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Soon Fortescue’s gold grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Twiggy said, “Dear sir, truly your investment I implore;
For the fact is I am racking, so much money up from ransacking,
Our own country’s natural trappings, trappings of such precious ore,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” - here he opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with much of spin and splutter,
In there stepped a stately Kevin of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; nor mining magnates obeyed he;
But, with demeanour slightly shady, haunched beside the office door -
Haunched upon a bust of Howard just beside the office door -
Haunched, and taxed, and nothing more.

Then this spectacled man beguiling Twiggy’s fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the tax measures he bore,
”Though thy tax be law to leaven, it,” Twiggy said, “will be no Heaven.
Ghastly grim and ancient Kevin now claiming my rightful ore—
Tell me when thee shall return this share of super-profitable ore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Twiggy marvelled this unpopular man to here his answer stop,
Though his discourse little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For no living human being could have ever helped agreeing
That Kevin would be seeing none of his precious ore—
By a tax or gift or mutual trust none of his precious ore,
Neither now nor nevermore.

But our Kevin, sitting lonely by the broken bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his plans in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing on super had he uttered - not on infrastructure started -
Twiggy scarcely more than muttered “Ministers have gone before -
I will have him voted out, and super profits will be restored.”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Then, the whole debate grew denser, driven by an unseen censor,
Swung by editor’s whose ethics tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' cried Twiggy, “my money lent thee – for these projects I have sent thee
Over five percent – plenty of my profits from this ore!
Enough, oh enough taxation, as it always was before!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

”Profit!” cried Twiggy, “isn’t evil! – my profit, you Labor devil! -
Whether treasury, or whether treasured votes brought thee to my door,
Unpopular but all puffed up, to this desert I’ve dug up-
Lift this tax, a total stuff up – or I will go offshore -
I will – I will go to China! – and take our profits offshore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

And our Kevin, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
By the hollow bust of Howard just beside the office door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a public servant’s scheming,
And the review through him streaming throws his tax upon the ore;
Twiggy’s profits from this tax that now lies upon the ore
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Politics

The word ‘politics’ is derived from the Greek polis, meaning both outraged and ignorant. Simultaneously. True to its roots, modern politics polarises opinions generally between two extremes of ignorance.

Hardcore lefties believe that everyone should enjoy bleeding through the wallet for the sake of those who work less hard. Thus, everyone can be equally lazy, and those that continue to work for the sake of their fellow man can be safely categorised as mentally ill.

Similarly, the leading edge of the right wing supposes that any given business should be quite free to suck the financial blood from as many people as practicable. In that way, wealth is channelled into the organizations that will best look after it, before trickling down to benefit the initially less well off. Much like the blood of a Romanian peasant village is nicely channelled into a vampire, and trickles down his chin for the town dog.

Sensibly, most modern politicians balance these competing ideologies by sucking taxpayers mostly dry for their own ends, and then giving business free reign over sloppy seconds. Interestingly, this process generates debate, which is formed from another Greek word, meaning hot air.

There are, among us, people who actually believe that they know what they’re talking about when it comes to politics. These people will carefully weigh the arguments emanating from both sides, note the faint whiffs of gas in their allegedly clean emissions, and present a measured conclusion about the irrelevant issue at hand.

Then, there are the people that vote.

In Australia, voting is not just a right, but an obligation, which is both excellent and horrific. On the one hand, governments are forced to govern for all Australians. On the other hand, governments are obliged to appeal to all Australians in order to get into office in the first place. There are few things more horrifying when encountering an utter moron of the Australian persuasion than realising first, that they can vote, second, that they must vote, and finally that the politicians who run our country must appeal to said moron for their precious vote! Here, one begins to understand the origins of the TV ads saying ‘Me good. Him bad. Vote me, or Asian hordes invade in leaky boats.’ – and is left to hope only that the moron in question doesn’t breed.

Sadly, the Liberal party of late has proven significantly better at appealing to the leaky boats are bad brigade, and thus we are left with the seemingly realistic chance that Tony Abbott, the Arch-Moron, will be elected to the land’s highest useful office.

Which is Greek for ‘get in your leaky boat and come to Greece, while there’s still time’.

Prison

I live my life trapped in a metal tube.

Occasionally, if I've been good, I'm released for a short time. It always feels good to stretch out my aching legs, and uncrimp my back.

But the funny thing is, that after I've had my all too brief respite, squishing into the tube once more is so much worse. I try to console myself, reminding myself that other people are trapped inside tubes too, and other things even worse than tubes, like boxes. Even when it seems that other people get more time out of their confinements than I do, I tell myself that its all in my head.

After all, if we're all miserable together, then its not so bad, right?

Right?