Right well a couple of things before I start. This is just a short test to see if i should bother continuing with the story. Right now it isnt very warhammerfortythousand-y at least not obviously recognisable as such but please bare with me. Basicly I would like to know if what I have written so far :
1: is not so poorly written that I would just be embarasing myslef if i continued.
2: whether I have managed to get the kind of atmosphere i was trying to create.
Well thats about it, this is the first time I have written in a looooong time (years i think) so go easy on me please, heh,
anyway on with the show:
My back is to the wall, pressed as far into the tiny alcove as I can manage. Crouched on one knee the heel of my boot grinds gradually into the grit between the cobbles. My left knee aches, the skin rubbed raw by the rough ground. The Habitation block opposite looms above me and the narrow street, boarded windows and scuffed firmly shut doors stare blankly down. The walls are cracked, dirty and grey with anti-government slogans scrawled here and there. The wind brings with it the occasional sound of shouting children, the odd slammed door but here it is silent.
I lean out from my corner, my knee creaks with my shifting weight, to look across the intersection ahead of me. The three narrow cobbled streets and an alley briefly widen as they meet. My finger has never left the trigger of my rifle. I square my eye with the bare iron sight and look left to right. My sweeping gaze takes in the few un-shuttered or boarded windows and the flat roofs of the buildings. The rest of the squad are spread out behind me, backs to the wall with another, like me, watching the way we have come. They wait for my signal. I see nothing but the dark alleyway worries me. It is heavily shadowed and clogged with rubbish, the steely grey light does little to assist visibility. The view from the alley will cut right across the route our patrol is to make. The alleyway worries me. A hand is placed gently on my shoulder, disturbing my aim little. It will be Corporal Dorral, reminding me we need to move. I fix my attention back to the alley and sweep my hand out and forward. The silence is suddenly broken by the sound of heavy cloth and metal as eight men start to move past me. With rifles wedged firmly into their armpits and angled at the ground they move fast. The muffled sound of boots and kit are loud as gunfire in this silent place. I hold my breath as the first four men pass the halfway point. Staring at the alley I force myself to take in the other openings, the windows the rooftops. My main focus remains the alley. Finally a man taps my helmet as he passes to let me know he is the last. He crosses to the corner opposite and mirrors my pose left knee to the ground, rifle barrel sweeping the buildings. The other man’s gaze lifts briefly from his weapon’s sights. I see his dusty face smeared with grease. It is Private Drummond and he is telling me to move. He cannot see the alleyway from there though. This is the moment I would wait for. I would strike and disappear deeper into the shadows. Or wait for someone to come to my aid and strike them down too. Drummond is motioning at me again, impatient to leave this place. I breath in deeply tear my back from the wall and start forward toward him.
