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Ode to the Cultist


Carrack

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Ode to the Cultist

 

O cultist how I loath thee so,

Your slotted bases limit me so,

It takes ten of you to play,

Yet in fives you come anyway,

Just two auto pistols really,

Autoguns are waste of points clearly,

What about options for your poses?

What were your sculptors putting in their noses?

When you camp and go to ground,

I hope you are shot round after round,

As I paint you, base, wash, and layer,

I contemplate giving you a new boss

His last name is Betrayer

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Cultist so loyal, its a shame you are a fool

sweet lies have left most of your blood in a pool,

Your bones will be candy for Khornes Juggernauts

Lucky for you you're the cheapest of troop slots

Heavy stubber for you? Heavy stubber for he?

I might let you take one if that shotgun were free

So you've come with Typhus and you're filled with rot

meanwhile I lament how many of you I bought

I spend lots of time removing you from the board

Thats what I get for a toughness 3 hoarde

 

 

-Brett

Urging me to sniff victory with his chaotic chants

Funny... but all I smell is him loading his pants

 

A painted cultist yells, 'Put me back in the show!'

'Fine,' I reply,  'but you just died a turn ago.'

 

For he can only truly claim title to one race

And that would be to be put back in his case

 

My cultist always seems to scream and run

Now I see why, there's a chainsword in his bum

Ah dear cultist you have so little use

All your good for is holding objectives and dieing like a dead man on a noose.

You are too weak to earn the favor of the grandfather

So go cower in my hellbrutes shadow maybe up live a little longer

 

(Sorry if this offends anyone)

Hail the beloved cultist

Heralds of unending Hordes

 

You, the cultist, so useful from

tar pit, zombies, and Khârn bff

You shine better when your R&H

or becoming a spawn or prince

 

You make your Word Bearers Apstole

proud and graceful at the sight

of his opponent facepalming

at the unending tide of faithful. 

 

Anyone who smack talk my cultist, will have my wrath to deal with. 

I really shouldn't but...

 

O cultist O cultist how I loath thee,

A five point guardsmen gets orders for free,

And better weapons and armor to boot,

And he does not talk like some crazy coot,

Is it really that hard to find grenades,

Your scrounging won't win you any accolades,

Your job is to stand in front of the tank,

If you keep them from scratching it, for this I will thank,

If I put you in reserve and you show up late,

It's your only real chance to cheat your fate,

That and fleeing, which you do at the drop of a hat,

They got bolters and chainswords so what's up with that bat?

True, with Typhus you can hold it down,

Maybe I should kill you and wait for him to come around,

 

This is the first poem I have written since I was 13. The quality is similar, and I don't think it will win me a kiss either. :)

What can you do, my chanting friends?

Seeing you in battle amuses no end:

You die in droves, as if lasguns could rend.

 

Of those that survive, their wounds we mend,

then show them which end,

Of the autogun to hold,

At which they become bold.

 

They forget their old lives:

As farmers growing mould,

Salesmen calling cold,

A student being told,

They will amount to nothing.

 

Well prove them wrong,

My dishevelled throng,

As you advance on foot,

Let courage take root,

And become a save for my HellBrute.

  • 3 weeks later...

Well I got three cultist on my painting board that I will be spending more time getting ready for battle than they will spend fighting one, so here is my next verse.

 

O cultist o cultist I loath thee so,

But not as much as when we first met,

I opened up a taproom for you to go,

It's brand new the red painted floor is even still wet,

Why the tinker slaves saw off your gun,

My chirurgeons will replace your hand with something more fun.

A tentacle, a hook, or even a knife,

No autoguns silly cultist, ccw and pistol 4 life.

 

I still loath you though.

Cultist, O cultist,

How I love thee.

You worship my Helbrute,

While he kills you with glee.

You writhe on the ground,

After granting him cover saves.

It’s a shame when he passes them,

You lie in your graves.

 

Cultist, my cultist,

We intercepted their vox.

“First rank fire, second rank fire!”,

Now get back in your box.

 

Cultist, dear cultist,

Some say your poses are boring.

But I really don’t mind,

I only need you for scoring.

My love for thy cultist comes not from their skill,

Nor from the blood that they fail to spill

Their reason for trudging across the field so cheekily

Is to die for the blood god, their penance paid equally

 

Thoughts for their safety will never exist,

Be it bolter or flashlight they are equally mist

 Drop them in cover and see how they live!

Not bad for a psyco carrying only a shiv

 

So hate not the cultists and his short worthless life

He may have had a child, a job, and a wife.

He gave it all up to march among gods

So at least throw some paint on those miserable sods

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