Take an amazing journey into the Zodiac as we stare into the stars and explain what the motion of heavenly bodies means for the heavy metal planet that is World of Tanks
Your star sign is the EBR 105. Possessing an energetic and driven nature, you are both an utter coward and a total bully, which makes for an interesting combination. You do have generosity as a redeeming feature. As in, you will generously refuse to take the damage from a 183mm gun that fires a shell at 830 metres a second if it just so much as grazes one of your wheels. If another player somehow manages to defy the Wargaming laws of physics, and kill you, the rest of your team says in a monotone voice: "Oh no what a shame." You think you "float like a butterfly and sting like a bee", but you must see, you're a bloody wasp and no-one likes you.
Face it - you're dull, and your star sign is the Maus. You like to think you're chilled out of course, but you aren't, you're a brick brained buffoon. You like to think you're patient, with your 11 second reload time and 20km/h top speed. Taureans love luxury and under the symbol of the Maus, that means the luxury of time. Enough time in fact, for the rest of your team to get obliterated while you trundle your 190 metric ton ass to your favoured spot, where, as you're happy to tell everyone, you once "bounced over 12,000 damage". You couldn't even hear your team screaming over the sound of the ricochets on your rolled steel as they exploded one by one.
Ah yes, Gemini. You are ruled by curiosity. You are a T-100 light tank, and you just have to find out what's over there. Oh look, it's a Jagdpanzer E-100. Oh look, he's got HE loaded. Oh s**t, the Hell Cannon is pointing at you! No problem comrade, the rest of the game will be played with a experimentally low 300 hit points. You are also versatile and philosophical. Are you camping the bush or is the bush camping you? These are the questions you ponder as you furiously click the map to try and get the rest of your tungsten-dense team to shoot at the enemy health pool ocean you've just spotted for them. No joy with that? Well, you're also a two-faced b*****d and you can probably draw some blind fire on to the rest of your team as you run away. Hmmm, is that Jagdpanzer still there? Better check. Yes he is. Back to the garage.
You are enigmatic, loyal, nostalgic and charming. And you are the King of the Sky Cancer Scum, the Conqueror Gun Carriage. Every single meme about you is true, every single "nerf arty" post brings joy to the shriveled organ you call a heart. Because you know they never will. The only use you have for your non-mouse arm is fapping and putting a crystal cup of tears to your thin, cruel lips. You can be as enigmatic, loyal, nostalgic and charming as you like, but there is no redemption for you, and you don't care. See that guy? Yes, the one with six kills who has carried his entire team this game with both damage and spotting. He's only got 193 HP left. Why don't you drop one of your high explosive 9.2 inch poops about 20 metres away from him - because aiming is for suckers and you're driving an Orbital Defense Platform. And he's dead. Did you feel a twinge of guilt? No. Back to watching MILFs on Pornhub while you reload.
You seek approval. You like to do well, and be seen doing well, but only when it suits you. You also love the good life. And your star sign is the Leopard 1. Your sleek Teutonic lines are there for everyone to notice. Those horrible brutal Russian medium tanks with their filthy vodka-fume exhausts, thick turret armour and vulgar brawling tendencies, they disgust you. Enemy shells aren't for you, oh no. They might dent your beautifully proportioned turret. Let the Communists eat them for you. You are a voyeur my friend. Watching the action from 500m way, and commenting on it only occasionally with a 105mm dagger of spite. But that dagger almost always hits its target. And you like people to notice that. The other bush wanker tanks have a picture of you flexing on their wall. And you love it.
As a Virgo, you partake in the most discriminating violence of the highest quality. And you are under the sign of dankest, darkest god of all the autoloading tribe - the Bat.-Châtillon 25t. It's a strange ritual of perfect timing you must perform to help your team, and you do want to help your team, it's in your nature. However, the powerful temptation to unload a full clip of penetrating baguettes at a single target sits on your shoulder at all times, like a mischievous little garlic pixie. To complete this ritual properly, you must mysteriously fire your first baguette into the ground as a sacrifice to the Wargaming Physics Department. Then, boof, boof, boof, boof, boof and off you run to reload. Maybe a cigarette and a black coffee while you wait? SACRÉ BLEU! You have been discovered! Flee! Run for your life! Too late. You make a very attractive smoking wreck at least.
Libra. The agony of choice. Or, to characterize you more accurately, you're an indecisive liability. And you are under the sign of the Progetto M35 mod. 46. To squirt or not squirt? That is the eternal dilemma of the Spaghetto. You are an Italian enigma with tracks. Yes, the pleasure of firing off all three rounds is intense, but there's a penalty. The symphony of the squeaking mechanism of the reloader is the music you live by, but the tempo is never quite fast enough. To flank or not to flank? You have the speed. And damn, you look sexy. But oh no! You've extended too far chasing that one guy. And now you're alone. And he's not one guy anymore, he's three. Three Germans. And they're not happy. But listen if you will, my Germanic friends, to the sweet symphony of the reloading mechanism! But their hearts are cold and they don't like it, and they do like Rammstein. And now you're Italian tinfoil scrap.
Secretive Scorpio. Strategic Scorpio. Stat Padding Scorpio. You are the E 25. It remains a mystery what amount of narcotics Wargaming's vehicle designers ingested during the development of this vehicle. It's safe to say that mammoth binge is still celebrated by Third World warlords involved in "export" activities, as it boosted their finances considerably. This is of no concern to you. You roam the battlefield in your invisible cockroach, a cloaking device engaged at all times. It's believed the loader in every E 25 has seven arms, such is the rate of fire. And you use it well, tearing into those powerful, dangerous Tier V tanks like a demon. Teaching those new players some respect. The unseen punisher. You are a deity, and even your toilet seat at home is made from APCR. The rest of us hope you get Tier IX corridor city maps, forever.
An independently minded intellectual. There is no argument or concept too big for you to tackle with careful analytical reasoning. That's why your sign is under the KV-2. It can't be solved with 152mm of High Explosive in the face, then it's not worth solving. Your independent streak is also manifested in your disdain for the bottom right hand corner of the screen. This is where the thing called the "map" is located. Or so you've heard. But if you can't see it, you can't fire a large garbage can full of derpy goodness at it can you? And let's face it, you're not getting to the other side of the map in a hurry. No. You don't aim. You don't need to. You are in thrall to the Dark Hand of Stalin, a hand that enables your shells to travel around corners, up drainpipes and sometimes into low Earth orbit, returning like a meteor from the sky to pulverize some witless victim. Some trust in fate, and say "so be it." You trust in Stalin and say "Soviet".
Skilled and at ease in both the material and emotional realms, your sign is the FV4005 Stage II. The material realm takes the form of the 183mm HESH round, and the emotional realm works two ways: When you one shot an enemy tank, the player you've just beheaded feels some interesting emotions. They'd probably like to share them with you. Equally, when you have a stone cold fully-aimed-in 300m shot decide its going to obey some new laws of gravity and miss entirely, you also experience some interesting emotions. Typifying the British ability to never have the right chassis on which to put a murderous gun, you must approach each match while playing the Shitbarn in WoT philosophically. We suggest the following lullaby:
"HESH, little baby don't say a word
Shitbarn's gonna turn you into a smoldering turd."
You're a bit of a hippy, with humanitarian tendencies. It's also sometimes hard to tell if you're awake or not. You are under the sign of the Object 279 (e). Some PC players use a wrist rest attached to their keyboard. You have a drip tray. This is to catch the saliva from your open mouth as you press the W key with your nose. You are a humanitarian though. You save other players the trouble of working out the weakspots in your armour by not having any weakspots in your armour. The Hidden Russian Tank Statistics department of Wargaming assists you by making your 122mm boomstick hit with the accuracy of a railgun, even if, on paper, you shouldn't be able to hit a cow's ass with a cheap banjo. You are a reward tank, even if that reward is in fact a kind of bizarre punishment for every player on the enemy team.
Pisces, a water sign. Pleasure seeking. And while the Conqueror GC is the King of the Scumbags, you, my friend, are The Scumbags' Scumbag. The M44. Just a lickle ickle Tier VI self-propelled gun? Wrong. You are Satan's used underwear. And not even his nice underwear. Your pleasure sits on an altar of pain, an altar constructed from the wreck of every lower tier tank you've consigned to the trash with your fast reload, accuracy, damage and ability to relocate and even shotgun at close range. But that's not all - even facing higher tiers, the M44 is like the Honey Badger. It doesn't give a ****. Permatrack an unlucky slow moving Tier VIII heavy so your team of vultures can tear lumps of glistening HP from his hapless hull? No problem for the M44. You have mystical tendencies. And most of us get to see that when you commune with your water gods at the end of a game you've lost, and you drown yourself.