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The Hunt

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The Hunt

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Cast Ethan Suplee; country USA; ; Craig Zobel. That reminds me of a story. “Rock”, Esme yells to me exasperatedly, as I’m out in the garage trying to fix the winch on my truck, “Your satellite phone’s going nuts. Will you please answer the damned thing? ” I had left my Osmoridium phone in my study as I’m off-duty and elbows deep in a wayward world-weary worn Warn Winch. “Oh, sorry”, I reply. My, she’s cranky. I know Tash has lately been into everything, but that’s no reason… “ROCK! ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE! ” Esme orders at great volume. “Yes, dear”, I rapidly and meekly reply as I run to my office. I guess it’s time for a conciliatory Haagen-Dazs infusion. I run into the house, trip on the stupid cat, and get waylaid by Lady who insists that now would be a good time for walkies…. Out of breath, after promising Lady I’ll take her for her daily constitutional if she’ll let me answer the damned phone, I pick it up, cue the passcode, and yell into the infernal device: “WHAT‽” “Umm…Hello, Doctor. ” the phone replies. It’s Agent Rack. “Yes? Sorry. I’m a bit out of breath. ” I apologize. “Sorry. I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything, did I? ” he leers, which is difficult to convey over the phone, but he manages. “Yes. ” I snap back, “I was welding on a winch…” but I stop. I knew this was going nowhere. “Oh? ” he replies. “Yep. Now, Agent, what for can I do you? ” I ask. “How’s your schedule look for the next couple-three weeks? ” he asks. “So far, semi-clear, ” I reply. I’ve got some galley proofs to read over on an article I’ve submitted to Science magazine with some other geological types, but I’m holding off on contracts for a time. These last few trips really took it out of me. I need a little R&R. “Well, I’ve got a request”, he explains. “Great. More Agency skullduggery? ” I wonder aloud, “Or another training mission to some far-flung locale? ” “No. Not this time”, he explains, “It’s more of an interdepartmental courtesy…” “Oh, lord, ” I muse, “Now what? ” “Well, Doctor”, Agent Rack proceeds, “The US Department of the Inferior, in collaboration with the Bureau of Land Mismanagement and the Bureau of Indigenous Affairs was asking us if we knew anyone with mining geological experience. Naturally, your name came up. ” “Um, Agent”, I explained, “I’m Oil Field Trash. I’ve done some mining; coal, hard and soft rock, surface and underground, as well as quarrying, but you know well I’m mostly an oily, drilly sort of guy…” “We know that”, he continues, “But they are in explicit need of someone with a large amount of geological…” “Yes? ” I ask leerily. “…and blasting experience…” he adds. I can hear his grin growing over the phone. “OK, you got me”, I note, “You have piqued my interest. You will not be hung up on now for another 2 minutes. The clock’s ticking, Agent…” “Umm, yes”, he noted, “They need someone to make the rounds of a number of disused mines in the Southwest, some in New Mexico as a matter of fact, and de-activate them. ” Visions of Primacord and binaries begin dancing in my head. “OK, you’ve earned yourself a few more minutes”, I reply, “Please. Do continue. ” “If you accept”, he notes further, “You’ll be paired with an accredited Wildlife Biologist. Those mines with populations of bats are to be closed but retaining access for these animals. Those mines without an indigenous winged mammalian fauna will be closed permanently. ” “Whoa. ‘Indigenous winged mammalian fauna’? ” I ask. “Since when did you go to school? ” “I’m reading from the prospectus, Doctor”, he replies, icily. “Ah. ” I reply, “When, where and most importantly, how much? ” “When is as soon as possible. Where is New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona. Possibly Nevada. How much remains to be seen. ” He replies. “OK. What about materiels? ” I ask, “Will I have access to some governmental goodies? ” “If you are referring to explosives, ” he continues, “Of course. You will have full access to whatever you need. That includes building materials. You can mix and lay concrete, can you not? ” “Oh, sure. ” I reply, “Just ask Guido the Blade. Oh, never mind. He wouldn’t say much from the bottom of the Chicago River. ” “Humor. ”, the agent continues, “A most difficult concept. Particularly with you. ” “Yes”, I clarify, “I’m adept at handling concrete. It’s not exactly rocket science, y’know. ” “Good”, he replies, “Interested? ” “As usual, let me ask Esme. If I get the all-clear from her, yeah, I’d be interested. Is it FIFO or DIDO? [Fly in/Fly Out, Drive In/Drive Out]. ” “We’d prefer you drive”, he notes, “You already have most of the equipment, and that will save time in the long run. ” “Y’know”, I reply, “rental on my gear is going to cost you…wear and tear, transport, insurance… This is a very ominous assignment -- with overtones of extreme personal danger. I'm a bloody Doctor of Geology. This is important, goddamnit! ” “Yes, we know”, he says somewhat defeated, “Send us your quote by the COB (Conclusion of Business) today. We’ll be back in touch. ” “BuzzBuzzBuzz. ” The phone buzzes. “Hmm. He hung up”, I notice, “How rude. ” First things first. If I’m going to spring this on Es at the present moment, I need to make plans. “Es! ” I yell, “I’m taking Lady walkies. I took my phone. Back in a few! ” and I’m out the door, being dragged by our 130-kilo Mastiff. Luckily, there’s a Stop-n-Rob just on the other side of the sub-division. We head over there and pick up a container of Dark Chocolate Fudge Mocha Chip Trüffel Caramel Custard Marshmallow Triple Ripple, a pint of Peppermint Custard Sandwich Cookie White Chocolate Peppermint Schnapps, and some Butter Rum Custard Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Almond Bark Pecan Macadamia with Fudge-Covered Peanuts, Lite for home. I also picked up a pint of Blue Bell Bean Vanilla for me. It’s not bribery. It’s for maintaining sanity and a sense of normality back home. They have thermal insert bags, so I purchase one to keep the frozen bounty in its present condition until Lady decides she’s walked enough. Over a pint of choco-goo, I broach the idea of my traveling to New Mexico for a couple or three weeks. “Yeah, Es”, I explain, “I really don’t want to go, but hell. It’s the government, and they asked specifically for me. It makes me nervy, especially if I say no and they talk to their buddies at the Infernal Revenue Disservice. ” Not really. It’s a small fib, although I never did let them know about my accounts in Russia’s Sverbank… Not that that’s illegal or anything. I think. I hope. Esme looks at me askance. “Leaving again? ” she asks, “Home alone with the kids. Well, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it…” “What job? ” I foolishly ask. “Marrying you. ” She grins. Actually, she’s fine with my taking a road trip. It gives her the excuse to order plane tickets for her mother to fly in and sit with Esme and the kids whilst I’m gone. Of course, Esme will tend to this, she has all my pertinent numbers. I’m now on a schedule. And a mission. “All that ice cream for nothing”, I lament. “Everything in life has its price”, she smiles at me. “So, I can go? ” I ask her directly. “Well, ” she smirks, “As long as you’re going to New Mexico, you could drop by the Scavada and see what’s on dead pawn…” “Gotcha. ” I smile, “Good thing the Agency’s got deep pockets. This is going to cost me a bundle just to get there. ” “Turquoise”, Esme notes, “Not turtle shell. Oh, silver conchos if Fred has any. ” “Message received. ” I smile. “Well, I need to mail Rack and Ruin my prospectus for this job”, I note, “And now I really need that winch fixed. ” “Rock”, Es says, “Don’t take this wrong, but why not call in Digger? You worry about your Agency contract and let Digger sort out your truck. That thing is evil and hates me but you seem to like it. Let him get it ready for your road trip. ” My 1-ton GMC pickup is a big old truck, and Esme hates it because it’s huge, has a custom 10-speed manual transmission, three fuel tanks, four-wheel drive, and mind of its own. However, she’s never let me down and I refuse to trade her in. That’s the truck I’m referring to… I call Digger and he sends over his top mechanic, Cletus. I pile the bits and pieces of the winch into the back and he drives off to Digger’s garage. He’s going to give her the once over, change all the belts and hoses and charge me a fortune. But, he does excellent work and stands behind it. He even changes and tops off the blinker light fluid. More than I can say for most mechanics I’ve run across. I work up my contract for the Agency. It’s bog-standard: per diem, travel allowances, Door to Door, Force Majeure clause, Take or Pay; the usual. I send it off and within three hours, I have the signed contract in my hands along with my contact information, itinerary, and the job description. It’s actually rather simple work this time. Assay disused mines all over the southwest. If they are home to a bat population, then close the mines adits (portals) so that the bats, but nothing else, particularly humans, can gain entrance. No bats? Close the portals permanently. I love vague wording. Translation: get loads of explosives from the government and blast those fuckers shut good and tight. Since we’re back in Texas now; yes, we do a lot of bouncing around for the next couple of decades, I’m actually looking forward to the drive to New Mexico. I decide to take the scenic route. I’ll go down I-10 through San Antonio, to El Paso. Spend the night in El Paso, then drive north to Las Cruces. After that, it’s just due north to Albuquerque and the offices of the BLM. Easy drive, nice and scenic. I’ll leave at midnight, be in San Antonio by 0300 or so, and then spend the morning and early afternoon driving to El Paso. Overnight in ‘The Pass’, with maybe a bit of a side trip to Old Mexico’s Ciudad Juarez to pick up a few boxes of cheap cigars, and bunk it in for the night. The next morning, I can ease up to Las Cruces, maybe with a stopover in Socorro and visit the New Mexico Bureau of Mines and Mineral Resources, then scoot up to Albuquerque. Well, as long as I’m going to stop over in Juarez, I may as well drop in at Los Ojos Rojos, a restaurant/tavern I used to frequent on our annual deer hunts down near Cornudas. We’d go every year, and most years we would actually take guns. Anyways. First, I have to get my truck back from Digger. Until then, time to pack. Later that evening I hear my truck pull up outside the house. It’s Digger personally delivering my GMC back to me. “Yeah, welp, Rock; we got’er all saddled and bridled for ya’” Digger says, “Had to upgrade your winch, seems some ham-fisted rod jockey welded some of the contact points clean off…” I was standing in the driveway with a cross look. “Which can happen to anyone”, he quickly continues. “Tuned ‘er up, oil change, new belts, checked all the fluids, made sure everything was A-OK. I finally got those tires you ordered, and lookee here. Shit, with these new skins, she looks like a new truck. Got you two spares like you asked; one’s slung underneath and the other’s locked down in the bed. ” The truck looked great. New all-terrain off-road and overland tires, polished Crager high-strength off-road mag wheels, winch with all new mounting hardware and new tow cable. Hell, even got me a new titanium hook-clip for the winch. Impressive. I felt better now heading on down and off the road. I gasped a bit when he presented me with the bill. He never dings me much for labor, pick up or delivery. But new chrome locking lug nuts, six new tires, a couple of new rims, and all the assorted tune-up and fluids work topped out north of $1, 750. I paid Digger. I also consoled myself that one way or another, the Agency’s going to be footing this bill. I shake Digger’s greasy hand and thank him. He tells me to take it easy as the Texas Highway Patrol’s on the warpath again. He’s a fountain of good Intel. Back in the house, I tell Esme it’s all hands on deck. I need help packing as Esme tells me “You’re hopeless”. “OK”, I readily agree, “I need two-three weeks’ worth of field clothes, a couple of pairs of field boots, my blasting vest, and my Stetson. ” “Only the bare minimums, right? ” Esme chuckles. “Oh, all that under-armor and socks and such…” I add. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t bolted on”, Esme chuckles as she grabs one of my luggage cases and sets to packing me for my journey. In my office, I start to collect my traveling necessities. Hmmm…wallet, necessary licenses, and certificates. Check. Passport? Not this time. Emergency and road flasks? Check, double-check. Oh, bother. Only one box of cigars. And it’s too late to head to the mall. Ah, well, now I have a real excuse to sashay over the border in El Paso. I hope a single box of Fuentes will get me as far as ‘The Pass’. Now, back to packing. Bullwhip? Nahhh. I never could get the hang of that thing. OK, let’s see: Captain America blasting machine. Leatherman. Buck jackknife. Blaster’s pliers. Estwing hammers. Chisels. Gad pry bars. Marsh pick. All those leftover rolls of “Do Not Cross. Crime Scene” tape. Zippo lighters. Fresh field notebooks. Tyvek sample bags. 10 gauge pump Mossberg shotgun. A couple of boxes of double-ought buckshot. 64 ounce ‘keeps’em hot’ travel mug. Cassettes, 8-track tapes, and CDs (my truck goes all ways, musically). I’ll need to stop in Mancos, TX. to pick up some dry sausage and jerky. Good thing it’s right on the way. Oh, yeah; my. 454 Casull sidearm. And a couple of boxes of hot loads. I’ll need to procure a quart of bourbon, a quart of rum, a quart of vodka, a case of Bitter Lemon, a bag of limes, a couple of cases of beer… not that I needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious booze collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. We put the children to bed after stories and hugs, and I pack my truck. I forgot I had a ‘safety blitz’, that is, a case of beer stashed behind the seat in my truck. Good. I can stay hydrated much more easily now. Odd, I don’t remember opening it and grabbing a six-pack. Wasn’t like that when it went to Digger’s, was it? Bah! Never mind. I need to get packed. I place the shotgun in the Texas-standard Easy Rider Rifle Rack. I have my holster on, but driving while wearing a hand cannon is most uncomfortable. It goes into the metal lock-box between the two seats. Esme helps me load the truck and seeing how I forgot any foul weather gear, she brings out my duster for me. “What would I do without you”, I ask through a sloppy, wet kiss. “Die of exposure? ” she snickers. “Nice. ” I reply. I go through my quick mental checklist. Luckily Es remembers that I didn’t mention film. I troop back in the house and grab a half-dozen rolls out of my office fridge. “Now do you have everything? ” Es asks. ” I reply, “Don’t think I forgot anything else…” “Do you have your Brunton? ” she asks. Back in the truck after retrieving my Brunton compass, she asks me “Galvanometer? ” In the garage, I grab my galvanometer. I look around furtively to see if there’s anything else I should grab. Back in the truck, again. Esme is still chuckling. “If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll buy it, ” I said, hunkering down behind the wheel. “Contracts? Field books? Pencils? Satellite phone? ” Esme asks. “No, I’ve got all that. ” I reply, “Looks like I’m finally good to go. ” Es scans the front seat of my truck which looks like a flea market in Addicks. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort out all this debris while on the road. ” I assure her. “Just be damned careful. Remember, my mother’s coming in a day or two. Don’t be afraid to call. ” She smiles. “Not a problem. ” I reply, “You take it easy with the girls. Maybe go over to Bear Creek and feed the ducks? ” “Don’t let them hear you say that”, Es looks alarmed, “You know what an ordeal that is. ” It’s not feeding the ducks, it’s loading the car and all the preliminaries. Then the inevitable “I don’t wanna” when it’s time to go home. “OK”, I say, “Just stand down until Oma arrives. Use my corporate card and get her a cab so you don’t have to troop out to the airport with the kids. ” “I was going to ask Sylvia to watch them”, Es nods, “But that’s a better idea. ” “That’s me all over. ‘Dr. Problem Solver. ’” I smile. We embrace, kiss, and I fire up my truck. It catches on the first turn and I note all three tanks are full. “Only need to stop is to pee before reaching El Paso, ” I say to Es, “We’re all tanked up and ready to go. ” “Just be damned careful”, Es reminds me, “You’ve got a family waiting on your return in once piece. ” “Hey, if I can survive Aeroflot, I’m bulletproof”, I say. Es chuckles deferentially. “Just drive safely and come home safe and sound. ” She tells me. “Will do, hon! ” I reply. We kiss, I drop the truck into reverse, and chug out on the highway. I plug a tape into the musical volcano that is my truck’s sound system. 1000 watts RMS, 8 speakers, graphic equalizer. Nothing succeeds like excess. I’m not certain that the subwoofer was such a good idea for a truck without a crew cab… “On the road again - Just can't wait to get on the road again. The life I love is blowin’ shit up with my friends. And I can't wait to get on the road again. On the road again. Goin' places that I've never been. Seein' things no one will ever see again. And I can't wait to get on the road again On the road again. ” “Gad”, I think, “What a set of pipes. ” Well, the road trip calms down considerably after all this. The initial euphoria of being out on the road again is replaced by the reality of the fact of the size of Texas and the time it takes going from point A to point B. No roadmap needed. The trip is utter simplicity. I-10 West until El Paso, then dogleg right up I-25 through New Mexico. Yawn. It’s only been 2. 5 hours and already I’m bored out of my skull. Coming up to Mancos, I see the Mancos Billy Bob Truck Stop, Tire Salon, Hair Dressers, and International Airport is still open. This is my first stop. Provisions. 64-ounces of day-old, if I’m that lucky, road coffee. Beef, elk, bison, and turkey jerky. Links of dry sausage. A couple of cases of Lone Star. A bottle of Old Thought Provoker or two. OK, three. A bag of ice for the cooler, a bulletproof ham and cheese Truck Stop sandwich, and a bag of chicken crispies. These are the bits of chicken that fall off other people’s orders. They’re greasily magically delicious. A couple of boxes of Jack Black cheapo-o road cigars, some scratch-off lottery tickets for Es, and five “Pick 5” lotto picks. Yeah, I occasionally pay the Stupid Tax. But, I rationalize, you can’t win if you don’t play. I trundle all this out to my truck and put the coffee, chicken, sandwich, and jerky in the cab. The rest goes in the cooler in the back, on ice. For later. Back headed due west, I fiddle with the radio in my truck. I was a real HAM geek for years (WZ9AXI – KFZ 9605) and this radio proves it. It’s a mobile long- and shortwave receiver, as well as AM/FM broadcast radio. I’m currently fiddling with it trying to find Radio Moscow as I hum down the deserted highway. It also can pick up certain law enforcement agencies radio transmissions. I’m no lead foot, never a ticket in over 45 years of driving, but I do listen occasionally for weather and road reports. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. I roll into the outskirts of San Antonio earlier than expected. Given the lack of crosswinds, traffic, and the time of night; even with my pit stop in Mancos, I’m way ahead of schedule. Which is great, as I realize that I’ve been slurping coffee for the last three hours and damn. I need to pee. I whip into a What? A Burger? joint. I beeline to the head and make a fatter bladder flatter. I feel it necessary to purchase something since I’ve availed myself of their facilities so I go up to the front and order some more coffee. “Java, java, java” I say, mimicking largeness exponentiated with each recitation. The tired-looking guy behind the counter grouses, now he has to make a fresh pot. “No one else is going to want coffee for three maybe four more hours. ” Damn, grouse, bitch, kvetch. “OK, mate”, I say, “Forget the coffee, just a medium Dr. Pepper then, light ice. ” He brightens slightly and pours me a huge fountain Dr. Pepper, the largest they have. “OK”, I say, bewildered, “How much? ” “Zip. It’s a freebie. Now I don’t have to make coffee. Enjoy. ” he tells me. “OK, you’re the boss”, I say, tip my hat, and head out to my truck. I set this huge drink in my cup holder between the seats. It scarcely fits, so I slurp some of it down. No dice, it’s still metastable. This spills, it’s a soda tsunami. Struck with an idea, I drain the last few dregs of my thermal coffee cup, grab some ice out of the cooler in the back, and transfer the drink to the iced capped cup. “There. Not a problem. ” I say as I fire up the truck, back out, and head on down the road. Tooling down the road, its way early, 0-dark 30. Bars are all closed, and it’s before the graveyard shift gets off work. The road’s empty. I whizz past downtown San Antonio and off to the wilds of West Texas. I’m smoking on one of my Fuentes Canoñe cigars, slurping from my Dr. Pepper, rocking out to Pink Floyd, and making great time. I’m not speeding, no need. I get there when I get there. Then why the blinkered fucks are there red and blue flashing lights in my rearview mirror? This thought is counterpointed by the shrill blast of a Texas State Trooper’s siren. “Oh. Fucking delightfully peachy. ” I grumble. I signal to pull over, stop, put on the parking brake, set the blinkers, shift into neutral, kill the engine, and put my hands on the steering wheel at 10 and 2, in plain sight. “Tok, tok, tok” goes the trooper’s nightstick against my widow. “Use your left hand and roll down the window. ” He instructs me. “Yes, sir”, I say as I comply, “Officer, I need to tell you that I am carrying weapons. I’m licensed for CCL, but by law, I must inform you. ” “OK, sir. Thank you for that”, he says. “Let me see them”. I point with my thumb over my shoulder to my Easy Rider Rifle Rack and he shines his torch up there. “10 gauge pump? Holy shit” he says. “You like that, you’ll love this”, as say as I open the action, spill the shells, and hand him my empty, custom. 454 Casull. “Son of a bitch! ” he exclaims, “What the hell is this? ” “It’s a. 454 Casull Magnum. Used for hunting buffalo. Up close. ” I say. He laughs and hands me back my pistol. “OK, sir. Can I see your licenses, registration, and proof of insurance? ” “Certainly”, as I hand him the required documents. “OK, all seems to be in order. ” He says, handing me back my paperwork, “You know why I’m stopping you? ” “No sir. No idea. ”, I reply, “I wasn’t speeding, that I know. ” “No, but you were drinking. What’s in the cup? ” he asks. “My coffee cup? Why Dr. Pepper. Just got it the other side of Santone. ” I note. “And what’s that smell? You got any Mary Jane in there? ” he asks. “Nope. ” As I retrieve my cigar. “Just this Fuentes cigar. Keeps me awake. ” “Ohh, I see. Let me see your coffee cup”, he asks. “OK”, and I hand him my 64-ounce thermal mug. He gives it a sniff and says “Yep. That’s Dr. Pepper all right. ” “Told you so”, I replied. “My apologies, sir”, he continues, “It’s just that it's 0400 in the morning, I heard your music as you cruised past me back there. Then I see a glowing red cherry and you drinking out of a huge mug. Sorry, but that’s looks suspicious to me. ” “Not a problem, officer”, I say, “Best to be certain and make sure I’m not going off to New Mexico with a load of dynamite. ” He chuckles a bit, looks at me, and asks, “You’re not, are you? ” “Actually, yes. ” I reply, “I’m not carrying any explosives at present, but I’m off on a job for the BLM, BIA, and Department of the Inferior. I’m a licensed blaster and I’m off to close some dangerous subsurface mines down. ” “Can I see your permit? ” he asked. “Which one? My domestic Master Blaster’s permit? My International Certificates? Or my certified ISEE permits? ” I ask. He just shakes his head. “No one who doesn’t hold all that can’t just make that up on the spot. Sorry to detain you, sir. Have a nice trip. ” “Not a problem, officer. “, I repeat, “Thanks for checking. I feel better out driving on these lonely roads knowing they’re being well looked after. ” “With your arsenal? ” he laughs. “Thanks, sir. You have a good one now. ” “I will, good morning to you, sir! ” I say brightly, spark up my cigar, take a pull on my Dr. Pepper, and fire up my truck. He pulls out and it gone in a trice. I just chalk it up to the way things have been going of late and head back down the road, into the wilds of the American Southwest. Dawn is breaking behind me as the sun slowly slouches up over the prairie behind me. I reach for my sunglasses and find out that, yep, I forgot the damned things. Looks like we just had our glitch for this mission. No way I can drive with that bright fusing ball of thermonuclear hydrogen chasing me all day. A few miles down the road is another truck stop. I wheel in, park, and look around hoping to find a pair of decent cheap sunglasses. They are either decent. Or they’re cheap. And I seriously doubt ‘Ray-Ban’ is spelled with two ‘n’s. I find a decent pair and cough up the $75. Oh, well, the Agency’s going to get this as field expenses. Perhaps they might have real Ray-Bans here… Back on the road, I’m working on the remaining Dr. Pepper and see my bag of chicken crispies is almost empty. Been snacking in overdrive, I think. Oh, well. I drift past Ozona headed toward Fort Stockton. I’m making such good time, I decide to take a break around Fort Stockton and grab some real breakfast. I need to stretch as well, damn stupid back’s barking from all the road miles. It’s only about three or so hours from Fort Stockton to El Paso, so I’ve got loads of time. I find a local Ma and Pa roadside cantina. Normally I detest Tex-Mex chow, but there’s just something about breakfast burritos with chorizo and beef jerky. It’s a Texas thing. I stop in and it’s still fairly quiet. A few locals fueling up for the day, and me. I find a table and ask for a menu. The matronly waitress asks if I’d like coffee. “I’ve had enough coffee for a while” I smile back, “Sure could do with a cold beer, though. ” I was joking about that, but after I place my order for 3 breakfast burritos with salsa verde, she returns with a frosty mug of beer. I’m not about to argue. It’s cold, it’s here, and it’s what’s for breakfast. My breakfast arrives and I request another cold one. This is complied with almost immediately. The burritos transport me back to the New Mexico Cuba Café and their magistra with breakfast fusion chow. The food is good, hot and above all, filling. I was rapidly becoming blissed. I elect that a single further beer won’t hurt, but decided against it. I still have several hours of driving ahead of me. The bill comes and I pay the extortionate price of $7. I leave a fiver as a tip. The food and service were that good. Back on the road, it’s going to be a warm day. Window part-way down, I fire up another stogie, and head generally westward. I have a reservation at the Super 9 Motel in El Paso. I wheel into town around 1300 hours and realize I’m a bit early to check-in. However, I decided to give it a go. I have nowhere else to be until later that evening. The hotel was quiet, but my room was ready. Normally, check-in wasn’t until 1500, but since I was already here and the room had been serviced, they allowed me to. I stashed the shotgun in the lockable toolbox in the bed of the truck, under the step-cap. I brought the Casull into my room and locked it in the room safe. I also dragged in my cooler, cigars, and other assorted necessary paraphernalia. Being able to park right in front of your hotel door made things easy. I locked my truck, set the alarm, for whatever good that would do, and locked the room door behind me. It’s wasn’t a suite at the Ritz, but it was clean, serviceable and cheap. I don’t always have to have the Executive Suite on the top floor. I’m used to this kind of lodging, remembering back to my Grad school days where I longed for a hotel room as I sat in my tent, being pummeled by a high desert thunderstorm. I called a local cab company to take me down to the border around 1900 hours. No way I was driving across to Mexico and leaving my truck there. It’s bad enough that I have to leave it here in The Pass unguarded. Plus, I might just possibly have a sip or two while I’m south of the border. No need to drive after something like that. I take a long, hot shower and flake out for a couple of hour’s kip. It might be a late-night tonight, and I need to give my back some rest. Luckily, the hotel mattress is made of granodiorite, or so it seemed. I prefer a hard mattress to a soft one, like the ones that usually accompany a suite wherever I go. But this was even a bit unyielding, even for me. Didn’t matter. I was out like a light in 5 minutes. I wake after a couple of hours and see that I’ve got just enough time to get everything in apple-pie order before I head to Ciudad Juarez. There is so much to see and do in Ciudad Juarez. ¡Es maravilloso! One could visit the Benito Juarez Monument, or go to the Revolucion en la Frontera Museum, or visit the Archeology Museum, or see the Paquime UNESCO World Heritage Site. One could head south to the stunning white sand dunes of the Salamayuca Desert or tour La Parque Central. Yeah, that’s not going to happen. I’m going to visit my old friend Martín who owns “ Grandes putos cigarros ” down on Camino del Tabaco in Ciudad Juarez. I’ll probably hang around his shop while his employees whip up a custom box of smokes for me. Then, if the evening proceeds as usual, I’ll take Martín out to dinner. He’ll take me around town and we’ll go to several cantinas trying out different locally indigenous beverages. After this, Martín will try to get me to go to some of the quaint anatomical and animal shows down along Tourist Street (Juarez Avenue). Then we’ll end up at the “World Famous Kentucky Club”, trying to avoid scams, fights, naughty ladies of the evening, and other forms of semi-dangerous adult entertainment. After which, I’ll pour Martín into a cab and I’ll head back north across the border. It’s become a tradition every time I’m in this neck of the woods. It’s exhausting. Well, best get going… I cab it down to the border and walk across. No passport necessary at this time, my Texas Driver’s License suffices. Once across the border, I spark up a cigar; down here, I think that’s the law, and hail a cab. Once the flying metal settles down, and the car fires are doused, I choose the least wrecked looking taxi and hope the driver speaks English a bit or I can follow his Juarez Español. I negotiate a fare, part with a cigar, and head off to Martín’s. The evening has begun. Martín’s shop is a hole in the wall, which belies its grandness. Unobtrusive outside, once in there’s a large series of walk-in humidors, some heavily overstuffed chairs to sit and savor a cigar, and several walls full of lockers where like-minded folks keep their cigars. The whole shop is one huge humidor. In back is where the magic happens. He has a dozen or so folks who are tobacco masters, hand-rolling cigars. Several are Cuban, who have immigrated to Mexico for this very job. They’ve trained several others in the intricacies of creating unique cigars. They have a radio blaring Mexican Top-40 tunes, which seems to set some form of cadence. It’s low-tech, low-overhead, and highest quality. Martín shows me around and introduces me to some of the older tobacco masters. He is proud to show me all the different styles and sorts of cigars his folks can create. Candela, Connecticut, Cameroon, English Market Selection, Colorado, Maduro, or Oscuro wrappers. Short or long filler. Tobacco from around the world, and styles of stogies and sizes to match. After a bit of looking around, I decide I want a couple-three of boxes of Maduro Double Churchills. 60 ring-gauge (60 divisions per inch of ring), 8. 5” in length and dark and oily as can be. Today, a box like this would be easily $300, if not more. Here I am paying US$100 for three boxes of 25. I pay Martín and give him my hotel information. He assures me they’ll be delivered to my hotel before I leave for New Mexico. In fact, it was this sort of affair where Martín and I became friends. I was down on a deer hunting trip some years before. It was much wilder and woolier then as Juarez was just another border town. Lots of drugs, lots of gangs, lots of violence. Martín was struggling to make his cigar shop something different. Something legal, something high-quality and high-class. Being new, he didn’t keep much in the line of stock, instead, he had it created, de novo, by workers in the back. To be continued….

The hunt showdown theme. The huntley santa monica. The hunt club. The hunter. The hunters on amazon prime.

 

The hunter call of the wild cape buffalo. The hunt news. The hunters trailer. The hunted saint asonia. The huntsman. The hunted. The haunted corn maze in shreveport. The hunting ground reaction. The hunter primal. The hub network. The hunters amazon prime. The huntress rune of the dead trailer.

The hunters. The huntington hotel san francisco. The hunt is over. The hunt for the wilderpeople. The movie vodlocker WatcH& fUll&Movie&caMRiP I recommend it Free The Hunt Without Paying. Full MoViE 'The Hunt. PUtlOcker STrEaming. The hunt showdown trailer. Hello! Here is Pt. 2 following if_a_human_were_here_right_now I'm still very new at this. I am using this prompt to build my own strengths as a writer and highlight any weaknesses. Please comment! Please give me your feedback! I know I upset a few people with the abrupt ending on the first piece. I am striving to overcome it, and anticipate the Reader’s point of view here on out. Pt. 3 is in the works, I wanted to get this out in the mean time. Hope you enjoy it! Human Aavi lay in her bunk back on the ship. She stared up at the smoothed white ceiling as thoughts went around her head like the little choir birds of her home world; coming and going with elaborately repetitive flights in a battle to gain the most attention. She had not slept, which wasn’t unusual for kin of her ancestral line. Descended from a family known as the Star Cloaked, Aavi’s early ancestors had helped their kin in times past by hunting nocturnally. In modern times her race carried over this specialization to fields with third shift or overnight employment. Combined with a natural drive to explore, and many of her kind gravitated towards trade vessels like hers. But tonight however, it all just meant that she felt little stamina loss after restlessness. She was still tired mentally though. Her mind continued to replay the night before. So many questions she had put off in the moment only to have them pester her again back in her bunk. He is human… and he doesn’t care if his name is correctly used? How could he not know the importance of a name? Behind a name is self-pride, honor for your kin, and ownership of the tasks you uphold. A name is everything! Does he not know pride? Honor? She thought gravely. He may be ashamed of his duty as engineer…but he doesn’t act guilt driven. He could be shunned! Showing such disgrace for his kin would certainly end in shunning. Maybe he was disgraced? He is alone, far away from any of his kin. Unless… do human’s even know these traditions? Maybe they’ve forgotten such ways. Could he personally be choosing to live so alone? The thought of intentional isolation sent a scurry down her spine and she shook herself free of it. “I should get up. ” She decided unhappily. The rough blankets beneath her were certainly no fine Poth sewn coverings, but the jumbled pile still tempted her to linger. She rebelled by throwing herself away from her bunk in one bound. She stood in the dark with only a thin glow of light from her charging Comm Brace set beside the corner hookup. Is he alone? He has lied to me. Could there be more humans on board? Aavi pushed the thoughts away again with a growl and began to hunt down her clothing strewn across the floor. Aavi felt lucky to have received an individual room with her most recent promotion. Though technically supposed to be her office, she enjoyed using the space fully. Some species would have considered it small, but she didn’t mind. The room was also directly beside the hall her Kin were assigned and she wanted to stay close. A brief rise of voices heard through the wall emphasized the fact. It appeared clear to Aavi how eager her charges were to start the day and she didn’t want to keep them waiting. She tugged the last of her uniform into place and swiped the wall sensor to raise the lights. She inspected herself in the reflected surface of her closet door. She was just slim enough to fit within the mirror’s narrow boarders. The full length of her Security uniform always felt restraining with its long sleeves and pants past her knees. The orange cross sections in the fabric were attractive in their flashiness but wearing it every day convinced her to hate the color. Besides my feet and my fur, I’m not too different from looking…human. She mused. And the tail. Your eyes are larger too. Does that matter to him? She hissed softly to her reflection and moved away to retrieve her Comm Brace. Strapping it on, she exited her room grimacing into the harshly lit hallway. Quick steps took her over to the double doors containing the rest of her team. “Feeling lively this morning? ” She called loudly as she entered and swiped the lights on. She was greeted by more than a few hisses which she ignored. Many of the unruly bunks along the walls were adorned with prized pelts and odd Trophies of the Hunt. It would make any of the ships other species uncomfortable if they saw, but none came down here. One particularly lumpy bunk had two tails flicking from under the pile of pelts and soft mewling coming from within. “Vena, I swear by the 3 Goddesses if you get pregnant I will throw you out the airlock myself! ” the blankets responded with a defiant growl. Strolling up the bunk rows she tried to settle her fur while she read off job requests. Her Comm Brace provided a detailed list intended for her position. She liked to give a simplified version to her team instead. “Our sectors are as followed: Scar’s squad will have the Cliff Top today. Marr’s is orbiting Mid Deck; Non is relieving you at second shift. Sen, your squad is taking over at Top Dock. The Spirited is to be away and departed from the ship in less than an hour so you should already be up there. Tol…” the big male stopped mid-grooming and looked up at Aavi as she came to his bunk. “Finish up and let’s get breakfast. Your squad isn’t on till third shift. ” Two bunks further down, Vath lay draped across his bed sideways with a puddle of drool under his head. Aavi folded her arms as she looked down on him a minute before saying, “Vath, it’s morning. ” “So? Is ma day off. ” He slurred. “Days off should not be wasted idly. ” He didn’t reply so she added, “If you don’t have anything to do then I’ll have you clean the barracks. Floor to ceiling. By midday. ” Vath’s tail shot up a moment before his head did. “Midday? I can’t-“ his head wobbled and he vomited onto the floor beside the drool. “Perfect. You now have a fresh starting point. Get to it. ” She left the barracks and made her way to the Crew cafeteria. Tol caught up to her along the way. They walked briefly in silence before Tol cleared his throat. “So… What do you think? ” “I wish that my calm from last night had stayed with me. ” Aavi said back. He nodded. “I understand. We’ve known Peter for nearly two years now. While last night was without warning, it was still too easy for us to fall back into habit. To ignore the greater shock if only for the night. But now…” he paused and kept silent for so long she thought he was done. Then he said, “I didn’t sleep well. ” She grunted. “Me neither. ” The pair remained silent all the way through the early cafeteria crowd to their seat. They sat beside each other on the metallic bench seat with their dishes piled high before them with plenty of fresh, high caloric, herbivore approved, Cultured-Meats. Aavi gave a distasteful sigh before clawing into hers. Tol stared away, unconsciously tenderizing one of his “Flanks”. Aavi finished her meal in short order and watched Tol as she cleaned her hand claws free of juices. “You’re not hungry? ” Tol stirred and looked down. “Not very. ” He lifted the flank and chewed it anyway. Aavi sighed again. “It shouldn’t make a difference. Just as you said, Peter’s our friend. We know him. Why should it mean anything to learn something new about him? ” Tol swallowed and asked, “Are you telling me this, or yourself? ” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “It’s for both our benefits. You and I tend to share similar worries. ” He breathed an amused huff and picked another bite. “We just need time to think it over. Peter shouldn’t take offense if we need to stay apart a day or two, and in that time I know we’ll come to terms with him being…” she trailed off suddenly scanning the cafeteria. A larger crowd was forming as more workers began their days. Aavi leaned closer and lowered her voice, “Let’s keep this quiet. I don’t think Peter means for all the crew to learn as well. Even if he didn’t mind, I still wouldn’t want to deal with others panicking or treating him like a spectacle. ” Tol looked around their table too and agreed. “You’re right. We do share similar worries. ” Aavi laughed and relaxed. She stood up from the table saying, “I better go make sure Vath understands It too. And that he understands how serious I was about getting him to clean. ” She collected her empty plate and left the table alone to Tol. Tol soon fell back into his own thoughts and lost a moment. After a time, he was tugged back to himself by the approach of a familiar scent. Peter dropped into the seat across from Tol and set his own plate down with a groggy “G’Mornin. ” Tol’s body locked up. He felt his heart rate double as instinct screamed within him. Human! War Breaker! Blood demon sitting before me! His thoughts slammed in time with his quickening pulse and he fought against his own body. Last night… was fun. You walked paths beside a Human! Where he walks the Far Night devours all! But I was with friends. Each night with friends is a good night, and this human did not steal the sun from us. Yet! “How’s Vath feeling this morning? ” Tol flinched at Peter’s voice. “I know I feel pretty rough myself. ” Peter continued while massaging the sleep from his face. Peter dropped his hands away and quickly noticed how tense Tol was. “Hey, are you alright? ” Peter asked. Then he looked into Tol’s eyes. He saw the fear there. And he knew. Despite not having ears to droop, Tol could still see the physical reaction of hurt overcome Peter. “Oh. Sorry. ” Peter spoke softly and did not hesitate to leave the table. It was a while before Tol calmed. As the feelings of fear left, guilt rose up to strangle him anew. “P-Peter. ” Tol rasped staring at the abandoned plate next to his. One soft breakfast cake lay without even a single bite from it. “Peter! ” Tol said more urgently and he lept from the table. He spun around searching the room with stinging eyes. “Oh Goddess of the Hearth, what have I done to my friend? ” Three hours later “Vath! Did you even sweep? These corners all have hair piling up! ” Aavi glared as the hungover fool left large puddles of water in his attempts to mop. A growl rose in her chest but before she could form her next rebuke the barracks doors slid open behind her, then Tol came into the room slipping in one of the puddles and fell. Aavi snorted a laugh. “Tol why are you running- What happened? Are you alright? ” She saw the stricken look he wore and moved to crouch at his side. “I have made a mistake. ” Tol admitted rapidly. “I have shamed myself deeply, and you all by relation. I do not belong. I…” She grabbed hold of him firmly. “In the time since I left you? How? Tell me what happened from the start, Tol. ” Tol fumbled for the right words. “I met Peter in the Cafeteria. He approached me as a friend, and I responded in fear. I could only focus on the human in front of me and was blind to our friendship. It was like I forgot everything. I was a coward, and he saw it in me. ” Aavi’s gut turned cold, and she too was ashamed. Her first feeling at Tol’s words was of dread that the Human had been angered and might retaliate. He is Peter! He is our friend! Tol continued to piece his narration together, “When my mind came around, I searched for him but it was in vain. I kept losing his scent in the crowds. I do not even know where to find his room, but you can find it? Aavi? ” She snapped out of her own inner crisis and eased her grip on Tol’s shoulders. “I should be able to. ” Yes. She thought. I shouldn’t have tried to wait. We must go speak with our friend. “Vath, forget the cleaning for now. ” She stood helping Tol from the floor. Vath promptly dropped the broom he had just retrieved. “Where are we going? ” he asked. She saw how quickly he brightened and ignored the signs that his morning long sickness had been exaggerated. She told him, “We’re going to see Peter. ” Vath’s ears went back with fear and Aavi’s resolve strengthened. “Peter is our Friend. We should have been open with him from the start and explained our bristled backs. But we chose to hide and now we may have hurt him because of it. ” She looked between her two comrades and saw her words steady them both. “Let’s go beg forgiveness, lest the Goddess of the Fang will take us all. ” One hour later “This can’t be it. ” Vath said again. Aavi showed him a fang asking, “Why did we bring you? ” “Comic relief? ” Vath ventured halfheartedly. His tail fidgeted with worry. Tol looked just as uncertain. The walk up through the ship had done its work against the determination he’d built up. Aavi rolled her shoulders, trying desperately to dissuade her own doubt. She said, “We were together when I scanned the ship’s address listing. This is it. ” They stood in a glaringly bright hallway high up in the ship’s top deck. Her initial look at the address listed this quarter under Misc. Storage. And the narrow, outdated door they stood before was under Maint. Closet. Not letting herself question it further, Aavi reached for the door’s latch and was surprised to find no resistance. The door squealed sharply as she slid it open, and Peter’s scent rolled over them mildly. The room was unlit but they could hear water running somewhere within. Aavi glanced back at the other two LaFelinx and entered the dark.

The hate you give. The hunt trailer. The hunt consignment store laguna hills. The hunt 2012. The hunt movie 2019. I've argued in the past that Eldar as a whole are a lot less xenophobic and murderous than the Imperium, even if having way more reasons to be so than the human empire. It has happened in another thread that the question about Eldar feelings about killing other sentient beings has resurfaced in another topic. As promised to u/Sehtriom here I present some excerpt that I find may shed some light on the subject. Please feel free to add something I missed and enjoy the reading. TL, DR: non-Dark Eldar make quite a big deal of human killing and even suffering. Path of the Eldar, volume 2: Path of the Seer Thirianna is a Dire Avenger in a force tasked with killing everyone inside a complex, in a pretty standard Eldar engagement. Thirianna took it all in at a glance, her focus drawn towards another door on the opposite side of the room. The squad moved quickly, securing the door and a window that led to the balcony. Thirianna was first into the next room. It was some kind of eating area. A long table flanked by high-backed seats stretched the length of the room, set with plates and candlesticks as if ready for a meal. Thirianna heard a whimpering noise and leapt onto the table. She ran along its length, picking her way between the dishes and candlesticks without effort. At the far end of the room was another seating area, with overstuffed chairs and a round table. In the corner cowered a female human. With her were three children: one male, two female. Their faces were red and wet, their eyes glistening. The taint of Chaos permeates this place, said Kelamith. All must be purged. The humans made whimpering, animal noises as Thirianna brought up her shuriken catapult. The ambient light in Thirianna’s bedchamber was dimmed. She lay on the soft floor and looked at the shadows on the ceiling, watching the slowly-changing patches of dim light and dark shifting. Her slight body, narrow waisted and slender shouldered, was immobile. Her thin face was half hidden by the long sweep of white hair that lay across it, obscuring the tattoo of Alaitoc’s rune on her right cheek. Thirianna’s deep blue eyes roved from side to side as her gaze hunted the darker shadows, which constantly slipped to the edges of vision, refusing to give up their secrets. She smelled something strange: blood. A moment later she felt a pain in her hands. Lifting them up, she saw that she had dug her nails into her palms. She watched a droplet of her life fluid slide down to her wrist and drip onto her bare stomach. Something was wrong. A presence squirmed in the recess of her mind. The smell and the sight of the blood stirred it. The touch of Khaine, the anger of the Bloody-Handed God awakened. Thirianna closed her eyes, seeking peace in the darkness. Her vision was filled with the blood red of her war-mask. With a gasp she opened her eyes again. She whispered the mantras she had been taught, seeking to put aside that part of her that was Thirianna the Dire Avenger. Her brow itched, feeling upon it the rune of her shrine that had been painted there in blood. She lifted her finger to her forehead but felt nothing. There was no blood there. She had removed the rune and chanted the verses and still a remnant, a dagger shard, remained in her mind. Trying to relax, Thirianna took a deep breath and laid her hands on her chest. She felt the beat of her heart through her fingertips, swift and strong. The nagging sliver of Khaine would not go. She wondered if perhaps she should go to the shrine, to seek the guidance of Nimreith. She dismissed the idea. Thirianna felt that if something was amiss, she would be able to deal with it. Closing her eyes again, she probed at the wound in her psyche, feeling around the raw edges, hesitant to look deeper. Veiled with mental curtains, the memories within were part of her war-mask, detached from the rest of her thoughts. She felt them throbbing behind the locked synapses of her brain, insistent for attention. What could be so important that it demanded to be seen? Slowly, Thirianna folded back the curtains of her thought for a glimpse, the tiniest flicker of acceptance. She screamed, mind awash with a vision of crying children and the dying shrieks of their mother. During a vision quest, while training as a Warlock, she goes 'astral traveling' through the Webway and stumbles upon a Drukhari raiders staging point The webway encompassed the world of the tower but did not penetrate it. The threads of the infinity circuit surrounded the bubble but made no inroads towards the tower itself. Thirianna could see small figures of eldar walking along gantries and the docks, but she had no means of approaching closer. When she realised what the eldar on the dockside were doing, she decided that it was for the best that she could not come any closer. The eldar, garbed in highly stylised, barbaric clothing, bearing whips and scourges, were leading a seething mass of aliens from their ship to a yawning gate in the side of the tower. As the portal opened, the sound of shrieks and moans filled the air. Thirianna felt wave after wave of torment roiling around the reality bubble; agony unending poured like a flood from the gate of the tower. Turning her attention to the newest arrivals, Thirianna recognised humans, several dozen of them, amongst the miserable throng. The other creatures, some hairy, some scaled, some squat and misshapen, others upright with two arms and legs like eldar, were not known to her. They were all bound in energy cuffs, glowing bands of red around their ankles and necks. She could not see any more detail, and for that she was grateful. Later on, when arming and preparing in her former Temple and donning the Warmask as a Warlock, she again experiences her traumatic experience, dealing with the painful awareness of being a killer: Thirianna waited in the dark antechamber in the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears, sensing the exarch in the room behind her calling the Dire Avengers to battle. She knew that she would have to reach into her memory and bring out the experience she had shut away. It was concealed firmly behind her war-mask, and Kelamith had hinted that the coming battle might bring it forth without Thirianna’s volition. Better now, she had decided, to confront this potential nightmare in the sanctuary of the shrine, than risk it taking her unawares at a critical moment. She began the mantra that brought forth her war-mask. She paused as it was settling into place, keeping a hold of her normal self to avoid being consumed with bloodlust. The witchblade in her hands thrummed with life, woken by her dark thoughts. Placing the blade to one side, disassociating herself from its war-hunger, Thirianna sat cross-legged in the middle of the chamber and closed her eyes. She pushed through the red film of the war-mask and opened herself to the memories that lay beyond. Dozens of recollections flooded through her, each a vista of death, a vignette of bloodshed. She shuddered, caught between the horror of the atrocities she committed and the ecstatic feeling that had flowed through her when she had perpetrated them. Yet there was nothing there that caused her greater concern than before. She had seen these things when she had prepared for the battle with the orks. There was another memory, so vile to her she had cast it down into the abyss of her thoughts, where even her warrior-self would not have to contemplate it. She baulked for a moment, afraid to venture further. Her skin felt slick with the blood of those she had slain, her ears rang with their wounded cries and death rattles, her heart pounded with the sensation of their fleeing life. Thirianna withdrew a little way, allowing the warrior-memories to recede, leaving her in peace again. She slowed her heart and breathing, instilling calm. If she were to unleash this dark memory she would have to do it swiftly, diving past the other recollections into its lair. Hardening her heart as much as she could, filled with trepidation, Thirianna thrust herself into the past, sweeping past the battles into the dark maelstrom of her innermost secret thoughts. She ran along its length, picking her way between the dishes and candlesticks without thought. With her were three children, one male, two female. The eldest female, the mother, shrieked something, covering the children with herself. Thirianna ignored her wails and opened fire, shredding the woman’s body. The children screamed, their tear-streaked faces spattered with the blood of their mother. The largest of them, the boy, leapt to his feet and charged Thirianna. She reacted without thought, stepping aside from his clumsily swinging fists. She swung the shuriken catapult, bringing it down on the back of the boy’s neck, easily snapping the young human’s spine. He flopped to the lacquered floor without a further sound. The two girls squirmed, trying to free themselves from the dead weight of their mother, eyes wide with horror as their brother’s corpse twitched in front of them. Thirianna looked at the youngest. She was barely old enough to walk, yet the look in her eyes seemed weighed with a lifetime of sorrow. The Aspect Warrior fired again, ripping out the child’s throat with a short salvo. The last struggled to her feet and turned to run. It was futile and she went down in a mess of blood and ragged dress, her blonde locks covering her face as she tumbled onto a rug. Thirianna looked at the sprawling bodies, the swirl of their blood and the splay of their dead limbs. They had been so fragile, so easy to slay. She laughed. Falling to one side, Thirianna let out a wild howl of despair. Her own laughter echoed around the chamber, haunting and deliberate, full of contempt for life. The seer clasped her head in her hands, filled with guilt and shame, her body convulsing as she remembered every fleck of blood on the faces of the dead children. She saw the edges of the mother’s ribs, bloody and scratched from the shurikens, poking out from beneath her laced bodice. She could smell the blood, hear the crying. Every part of her wanted to flee. Thirianna resisted the urge to hurl the memory back into the blackness, a tiny part of her strong enough to face the full fury of her own violence. Over and over she watched the family dying, yet it never dimmed, and the memory of her exultation at the act wrenched at her spirit each time. Panting, Thirianna forced herself to her feet. She had to accept this; she had to acknowledge that part of her capable of committing such an act. They were only humans, she told herself, but her justification felt hollow. They were not innocent, she reasoned, they were tainted by Chaos, but she knew that it was a delusion. I am a murderer, she thought. Another part of her mind railed against the accusation. Her war-mask flowed, bringing out her warrior spirit. She had been a Dire Avenger, incarnation of a purifying flame. She had slain hundreds, guilt or innocence were irrelevant. It was not the act itself that so appalled Thirianna, it was the joy it had brought. It sickened her, that laugh, the utter disregard for life that she had shown. It rang again in her ears, chilling, devoid of compassion. The slaughter may have been justified or not, it may have been a necessary precaution or cold-blooded murder. What Thirianna could not deny was the satisfaction it had brought. It had not been an act of instinct in the heat of battle, a life-or-death decision to slay or be slain. It had been cold-hearted, reasoned, and was all the more enjoyable for it. The heinous act had thrilled her so much because she had known full well what it was she was doing. It was the simple matter of doing the unthinkable, without blame or shame, which had been exhilarating. It was a true moment of Khaine’s bloody work, unhampered by logic or morality. Another thought burst through Thirianna’s internal recriminations. Even in her moment of high-handed triumph, she had known she was bewitched with the bloodshed. After the battle she had quit the Shrine of One Hundred Bloody Tears, turning her back on the Bloody-Handed God, forever expunged of her desire for war. The act, callous as it was, had freed her from Khaine’s grip. Focussing on this, Thirianna recovered some of her equilibrium. As the visceral nature of the memory subsided, she was able to hold on to that simple fact**: at her darkest moment she had triumphed. She had stood upon the brink of accepting Khaine’s embrace, of becoming enamoured of death and blood-letting, but it had not trapped her. ** It was the nature of the Path that a life be composed of many such moments, where one trod the line between safety and utter obsession. Thirianna had passed the test, and she had moved on. It was only from shirking her duty to those she had slain, by trying to forget them, that she had poisoned herself. The memory was quickly losing its power to unbalance her. The more she examined it, the more Thirianna consoled herself to the grievous act. Confronting what she had done, she could feel the guilt and shame she had not felt at the time. In accepting the punishment, the raw feeling that sang along her nerves, she could atone for her bloody ways. Reaching out a hand, Thirianna called to her witchblade. It leapt to her grasp, singing its own deadly song. She Who Thirsts threatened again, through the humans once more. Thirianna would have to kill again, not only to save her own life, but to save the lives of future Alaitocii. Human lives would be saved too, though they would never comprehend the benefit for themselves. The thought did not make what she had to do easy, but it made it a fraction more palatable. Thirianna heard the dull chanting of the Dire Avengers in the adjoining chamber. Their ritual was coming to its climax, as each would be daubing the rune of the shrine on their foreheads and taking up their war-masks. She crossed the room and lifted her helm from its hook. She too was ready. As she leaves the Path of the Warlock and turns to Farseer, while sitting in Council these are the thoughts about the human race: In that time, Thirianna learned a lot about humans and their way of war. Through the visions granted by the skein, s he saw the paradox in their nature. In one regard they were blunt and predictable. They lacked any kind of subtlety, preferring their brute strength over sophistication. They could be trusted to tackle any obstacle the eldar placed before them head-on, and in this was found their greatest weakness. They could be lured and directed, forced into battles that favoured the eldar. Their xenophobia, their creed of self-punishment and sacrifice could prove their undoing, bringing them into battles that they could not hope to win yet ones they would fight out of blind devotion and hope. Yet for all their barbaric ways, the humans were also fickle. In each of them nestled the seed for great heroism and great cowardice. Compared to the lives of the eldar, the humans lived for a brief moment, and their threads were little more than remnants scattered across the skein, the vast majority passing their lives without meaning or impact on the wider universe. A few of them were different, but were not necessarily marked out by status or rank. A lone sergeant might rally a line rather than flee; a medic might brave a storm of fire to rescue an officer who goes on to lead a new attack; a gunner mans his weapon when others have retreated to hold back an Alaitocii counter-attack. Not only did moments of positive qualities make the picture unclear. Unexpected cowardice, ill discipline, poor communications on the part of the humans could unsettle the plans laid by the eldar. Just as the Alaitoc war host had to be precise and focussed in its movements and attacks, the responses of the enemy had to concur with the desires of the eldar. These excerpts offer the POV of a quite 'standard' Craftworlder: controlled, focussed, emotionally aware and disciplined. The other two books of the serie, instead, can offer other approaches, that ultimately lead to very different fates: in one, Path of the Warrior, the protagonist goes on to become an Exarch, and thus a fully ordained and obsessed killer. In the other, Path of the Outcast, the main character leaves the Craftworld way to become a ranger, a corsair, a pirate... only to rejoin the Path in the end. Sidenote: he'll leave again to join the Ynnari, and you can read about him in the Rise of the Ynnari serie. Asurmen, Hand of Asuryan During a battle against Chaos tainted humans, straight out a Phoenix Lord's mind. Stormlance is his personal aircraft. Asurmen fought against the surge of elation that greeted the destruction of each fighter craft. He reminded himself that each blossom of flame and shrapnel was the death of five living beings, even if they were only humans. The fact that they were Chaos-tainted, already the Lost, was something to be lamented, not celebrated. It was hard to maintain discipline in the face of Stormlance’s exuberant satisfaction. Human cultists inspire sheer terror in a mother, during a boarding action (also, do not mess with scared eldar children): She sat down on the bare floor, Manyia in her lap. The baby was no longer screaming, but her thoughts were a whirl of agitation. Neridiath stroked her hair and whispered comfort, accompanying the physical reassurance with mental projections of safety and calm. A sudden clatter from the corridor snapped Neridiath from her bonding trance. Footfalls approached, many of them, too heavy to be eldar. Human voices, unintelligible, barking out every few heartbeats. The matrix was awash with their thoughts, of loot and destruction, just as the faint internal breeze brought the stench of their unwashed bodies through the door of the storage chamber. Neridiath was frozen with dread, her sanctuary violated against all expectation. There was nothing she could do, her shelter had become a trap. She desperately looked around the room but there was nothing to hide her or Manyia. The floor and shelves were bare. She eased herself to her feet, sliding her back up the smooth wall, moving sideways so that she could not easily be seen through the open door. A moment later the first of the humans stepped into view. It had bare legs and arms, neck to thigh covered with a thick tunic tied at the waist with a broad belt. Its flat face was sallow, eyes a sad brown as they turned towards the storage bay. Its head was topped with an unkempt thatch of black hair, greasy. It stank of oil and exhaust smoke combined with a rank bodily odour. Manyia whimpered, loud enough for the intruder to hear. The male turned, eyes widening with surprise as it met Neridiath’s panicked gaze. The human opened its mouth, issuing a series of grunts and growls to its companion as it stepped across the threshold. Another followed, a step behind, of darker complexion, head hairless but with a growth of black curls on its chin. Neridiath realised what she should have done the moment she had heard the humans. Door shut! Lock! The ship responded instantly to Neridiath’s instinctive reflex, the door plates of the storage bay sliding together like an iris, cutting the second human in half. Head, torso and one arm flopped to the floor of the room in a spray of blood and bisected organs, the human’s piercing shriek cut short. The other human turned, mouth gaping in horror. As it moved Neridiath saw that the front of its tunic was open, revealing a chest crudely shorn of hair, a branded mark laid upon the left pectoral. A symbol she did not know in detail but recognised all the same – a rune of the Dark Gods. The human looked down in horror at the remains of its companion. It wavered slightly, unsteady on its feet, and then vomited, ejecting a stream of bile and half-digested matter onto the floor. Neridiath backed away, though there was nowhere to run, Manyia squirming in her grip. Retching twice more, the human straightened, slit-like animal eyes turning on the pilot, a lip curling in anger. It barked something, jabbing a finger towards the remnants of the other human, spittle flying from vomit-flecked lips. Neridiath started to cry, tears flowing down her cheeks, chest wracked by deep sobs. ‘Save me, ’ she whispered. She did not know to whom she pleaded for aid, perhaps the universe itself. She felt very small and alone and foolish all of a sudden. Fate could be as cruel as it was kind; there were no guarantees in life. ‘Save us. Don’t let this happen. ’ Through the mist of grief, she watched the human take a step closer, one hand closing around the grip of a pistol hung on its belt. It lifted the weapon and beckoned her to approach, snapping and snarling in its savage tongue. There was no power in the universe that was going to let this beast take her child. The pistol was pointed right at her, the demand repeated with greater volume. But even now she could not do what had to be done. She knew she was faster than the human. She could seize the pistol and fire it before the clumsy alien could stop her. But for all that the knowledge was there, the action was not. A terror deeper even than her fear for her child rooted her to the spot. She saw only one solution. Neridiath’s fingers closed around Manyia’s throat, while she told herself over and over that it would be a mercy for her daughter. There was no telling what the humans would do with an eldar child. Scare mummy! Die! Neridiath only caught the edge of the burst from Manyia. The full force of the psychic imperative was directed into the human’s thoughts, shaped not by language but by primal need. The human reeled back, wincing in pain. Its gaze moved to the child in Neridiath’s arms, half horrified, half confused. A trembling hand raised the pistol to its left eye. Manyia’s tiny face was set with a deep scowl, toothless gums bared, unfettered psychic energy gleaming in her dark eyes. Die! The human pulled the trigger, sending a bolt of energy searing into its skull. It fell backwards, arms flailing wide, head crashing against the floor. Neridiath watched the human, wary of any movement, but only spasmodic muscle twitches disturbed the body. Safe? Manyia started to cry and wriggled around to bury her face in Neridiath’s chest. The pilot’s thoughts veered between shock and horror and relief, the three emotions whirling together in an overwhelming mass. Through the haze she heard the sound of banging on the door. She realised it had started the moment the door had closed, but she had been focused entirely on the human inside the room. It was just a simple storage locker, not barred by a security door or blast portal. It would not take long for the humans to batter their way in. Safe? ‘Yes, safe, ’ Neridiath lied, eying the pistol that was still in the dead human’s grasp. Afterwards, Asurmen helps the mother deal with her issues, and her terror at becoming a murderer and a warrior. ‘I will not let her see that! I will not become what my mother became! ’ And there it was, the moment that had sown such dread in Neridiath. Asurmen latched onto it, burrowing his mind into hers, dragging free the suppressed memory. She was young, but old enough to know her own mind. Her mother stood at the door, looking back at her. Neridiath emanated waves of love, mingled with desperate hope and pleading. From her mother came nothing. Cold eyes regarded her as nothing more than bones and meat. A sneer lingered on her mother’s lips. Disdain, not love. The child’s eyes were drawn to the rune marked upon her mother’s brow. The symbol of the Fire Dragons writ in dried blood. She had never seen it before, always removed before her mother had left the shrine. It seemed a grotesque thing, an icon of anger and death. Her mother stayed at the threshold for some time and Neridiath sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. She felt the hot wetness of her tears and a thought occurred to her. She raced towards her mother, hands outstretched, hoping to use her tears to wipe away that dreadful rune. Neridiath’s mother caught her wrist in one hand and twisted, throwing the child to the ground. It had been a moment of instinct, no intent to harm or hurt behind it. Rubbing her arm, Neridiath looked up and saw that there was no response from her mother. She seemed neither glad nor ashamed. ‘Come away. ’ Neridiath turned at the sound of her older cousin’s voice from the doorway behind her. She glanced back and saw Fasainarath standing with his hand held out to her. ‘Come here, Neth, away from that thing. ’ Thing. Her mother was a thing now. That thing had a name. She was dimly aware of it, spoken in whispers by her family and friends, acknowledged but never welcome. Exarch. Her mother was an exarch, driven to bloodshed and the worship of Khaine until she died. What she had been was lost. Now all that remained was the warrior. Reeling, Asurmen broke his mind free of Neridiath’s. He had encountered many exarchs in his long existence. Indeed he had been the first. But never before had he understood the transition, the effect it had on others. Seeing a spirit becoming trapped on the Path of the Warrior through Neridiath’s eyes made him understand from whence her fear stemmed. This was the place she had returned to, cornered in the storage bay. Her thought had not been for herself but for Manyia, not her daughter’s death but the loss of her innocence. ‘You are not your mother, ’ he said firmly, stepping past the candle to lay a hand on her shoulder. He had assumed his warrior countenance again, clad in blue armour. The psyche-shrine became light around them, a bare white chamber in the centre of his mind. ‘Very few that tread the Warrior’s Road become trapped. You are stronger than she was. ’ ‘What if I like it? The killing? ’ ‘You will, ’ Asurmen told her. The truth could not be avoided. ‘You cannot fight that. You will feel triumph and dismay in equal weight. You will desire thrill of battle, the rush of blood. These are things that we cannot deny about ourselves. I will teach you how to control them, how to harness the incredible powers that our bodies have been gifted by our ancestors. You will become the weapon and you will learn to draw the war mask so that the shame and the hunger can be kept at bay, unleashed like a beast when necessary, caged when not needed. That beast lurks within you, unfettered, ready to burst free. You are a danger to your daughter if you do not learn how to handle it. ’ ‘But I have to fight now. You want me to attack those ships. I can’t… I can’t lose Manyia. What if she senses my bloodlust. I won’t defile her! ’ ‘You have to fight. ’ Asurmen’s voice became an insistent growl. ‘You have only irrational fear to conquer. The threat is real, your dread is not. You can break the fear, but only if you try. Now you have the opportunity to prove to yourself that you are not a monster. Use it! ’ She had a weapon, as much as if she had a knife or pistol in hand. She was the Patient Lightning and the ship’s warlike creed seeped into her thoughts, provoking her, telling her that there was nothing to fear. She did not fight the desire. She embraced it. She had chosen to be powerless, but that had simply been the choice to be a victim. Neridiath recognised that what she wanted more than anything else was revenge. She felt tainted, broken by the realisation, but it did not make the desire go away. It was a part of who she was, a seed sown by recent events. She could allow it to become a cancerous growth, poisoning her thoughts, driving a rift between her and her daughter, or she could accept that she was not perfect, in thought or philosophy. ‘I don’t know how to fight, ’ Neridiath murmured, but even as the thought occurred she realised it was not true. She was part of the Patient Lightning and the battleship had been fighting for longer than its pilot had been alive. She opened herself up to the starship, letting herself become its consciousness, the mortal link needed for its immortal spirits. (... ) She felt disgusted, at herself and what she had done. The memory of the happiness the deaths of her enemies brought her flooded back, but she could recognise the bitterness behind it. She sensed Hylandris standing close at hand, but dared not look up, afraid of what she would feel when she saw Manyia. Her daughter had lashed out in infantile ignorance, but Neridiath had just murdered thousands of humans in cold blood. What message was that for her daughter? ‘We fight or we die, ’ Hylandris said, laying a hand on her shoulder. Neridiath shrugged it off but he placed it again, squeezing reassuringly. ‘It is the legacy the past has left for our people. We do not have the luxury of inactivity, or we would become casual observers of our own doom, as we were before. ’ Neridiath stood up, grimacing, and took Manyia from him. The child was asleep still, oblivious to everything that had happened, unknowing of her mother’s strife. Untainted, thought the pilot, and the realisation brought tears of relief. ‘What happens now? ’ she asked. ‘What do I have to do? ’ ‘I do not know, but you are not the first to feel this way, and will not be the last. The Path exists for us to manage these emotions so that they can no longer destroy us. ’ ‘I have to become an Aspect Warrior? ’ she asked, the horror of the thought almost choking the words in her throat. ‘Yes, ’ said Hylandris, moving his hand from her shoulder to Manyia. ‘For her sake, you must move onto the next stage of the Path. In time it will bring solace and you will become closer to your daughter without the burden of fear hanging on your spirit. You have to banish your anguish in the temples of Khaine. I know that if there is any being that can tell you the truth of this, it is Asurmen. ’ All these excerpts clearly point to the fact that non-Drukhari Eldar see murder and war as an extremely serious fact. Something to be lamented, even if it bring excitement and a guilty pleasure to be in some way controlled. The Path is the way devised to defuse, control and bring away the taint that revelling in unrestrained killing is. Craftworlders (and arguably Exodites and Harlequins) are clearly more in touch with their emotions and moral compass than almost anyone else in the galaxy, except the Tau. And perhaps that's one of the main reason for Eldrad and many other Craftworld to like them. I hope these excerpts bring some food for thought.

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