Now back to the next graphic illustration oddity..."Mastan of the Claw and the Advent of The Shiny One"
My life tale began in these very foothills I yet call home even if the New Mekka Order has taken hold of our world like a mad rider his snorting mount, imposing a darker will at every turn, twisting our true path awry.
It is as though a lifetime had passed in the span of six moons since this Mekka allegiance was forced upon my people, these war ties with an order that came to be known to us as The Mangodai. Before that fated day, all we knew were hushed rumors that these Mekka were the puppet masters of the vanquished Nexus. That they had lain dormant like a mighty serpent in its lair, lo these many winters, biding their moment of ascendance. Hidden in the Far East, across the great Pacific ocean, land of the Great Wall of anchient days.
But it was the leader of these Mangodai, a Mekka unlike any we had ever seen, that lodged his being in our in our minds beyond etched recollection. This Mekka we called "The Shiny One", for he glowed the red of molten iron in a crucible. He first came to my tribe, the Wing Clan of the Western Scavs, before the onset of our fiercest winter since the end of days, in the year 2105.
Amidst a flock of Mekka birds he swooped in. Black Mekka birds that sucked all the suns light into their skin, reflecting nothing back, as they made two sweeps above our valley, raining fire upon our main enclave. When all that was left was smoldering ash of our great lodge the Mekkas alighted at the outskirts and he strode among us, making his will known. There was no denying that it would be so. The Wing Clan was not to join forces with the Seven Nations, then coming together in vision camp on the south western shores of the Sea of Cortez. What he willed us to do in its stead was harry tireless several forces of Mekkas from the far north whom, in words strange to our ears, he deemed - "Project abominations..." We heard, we followed. We did not question; not in whispers, not in our solitary thoughts.
Wrapped like a winter blanket within his will, much was promised by The Shiny One, but it was the unpromised I saw before leaving to journey with my warrior brethren on my scorpian trike to fight on the Northern Mountain Front, at the foothills of Graybeard. The unpromised taking of youth and elders which had not been foretold by our wizened Seer. Would that I had done otherwise, knowing as I do now that the cause was lost before it ever began. But in that thought I am a fool, for nothing could have changed the course we where all bound to follow. The will of The Shiny One was a force of nature.
I am known in my homeland as Mastan of the Claw, born as I was with a withered left arm, my hand in the shape of a falcon's claw. My woman calls me by my secret name. That is between us and no other. I think of her now as I nurse my wounds before sunrise.
We have fought long and hard, my clan brothers shoulder to shoulder, drenched in each others blood. There were moments of glory, a time all true warriors yearn to feel in their bone and sinew. Of that I have no regrets. The battles fought, even those lost, we acquitted ourselves with honor. That is the way of all the Scav peoples, those of the confederacy of the Seven Nations and those who have been fated a different path.
But there was treachery in the words of The Shiny One, the Mekka who strode alone with eyes of blue fire. In doing his bidding I fear we lost much more than can ever be regained. A warrior's true heart can never be bought or sold like smoked meats in the market bazaar. Honor is the heart of it and without honor all is lost.
In warrior deeds of that I am certain, as much I am sure that the flow of blood from my wounds has only been stayed for a short while, enough to wield my weapon again this day on my feet, in the thick of it, in the worst of death's pitiless march.
There are only a few of us left here at Graybeard's Pass on the red road to the High Plateau. We must guard this pass with our lives against the Project Mekkas, whose forces have grown as ours have shrunk. So it has been commanded. For if we do not prevail it has also been promised we will never see our home hearth fires again or the youth and elders taken from us by The Shiny One. In this I know there is no other course.
I, Mastan of the Claw, will fight till I am vanquished as will my warrior brethren, those few of us left. But I too fear I will never again know the touch of my woman or the fate of the little one. That will be my deepest wound as we go to battle at break of day.
The sun rises now as I make final preparations on my scorp trike for this days blood letting. So few of us left. So many we must face. We say our prayers in silence. All know what this days outcome will be.
Before I mount my scorpian trike I turn and face my fellow Wing Clan Warriors, those few who will with me join in battle, perhaps our last. I remember the words of some long ago warrior who once roamed this very landscape we would engage the enemy on this day.
The words seem fitting. This I say:
"Warriors of the Wing Clan, my brothers... the sun, Grandfather of our Nation, smiles upon us as we prepare to meet the enemy. I say to you, my fellow warriors...
It is a good day to join the elders of our elders... and preserve hope for the unborn seventh generation."
With those words hanging in the air like a sacred hoop of crows circling the mortally wounded, I turned, I Mastan of the Claw, and strode with shoulders squared to my trike and fired-up the engine.
I signaled our battered, but uncowed, forces forward. And for one last time I thought of my first born, a son with both arms whole, still in the cradle and spared the Shiny One's will, whom I would likely never see again let alone teach the ways of a true Wing Clan warrior.
.
I wondered how it would look like.
Did you know that there was camo used on WW 1 battleships that was inspired by Picasso and Braque's Cubism art work ? Seriously. I kid you not. 
It inspires me to think about stuff I wouldn't have thought about had you not brought up certain subjects. Subjects which I find of value to reflect on. Like those early, formative, upbringing experiences related to make-believe violence and very real violence which I only briefly touched upon.
zebra ships 
)
but what I ment was that, strangely it is one of the things mentioned in a book, years and years ago, i am not 13 years old