The Warehouse: part three

A gunshot. Lady Felicity promptly drew her 'daughters' from concealed holsters secured within her plain lilac skirt. The custom-made Italian pearl handled pistols glinted dully in the diffuse light. She picked up her pace, turning into a grim lane behind the old warehouse. At the other end there was uproar. The Peer's wolfhound was ensnared in a frenzied confrontation with strangely attired assailants. The sounds of the animal's growls and sonorous barks reverberated down the soot-slick brick walls. Lady Felicity started forward but a strange shimmering in the air ahead caused her to check her stride. Then, a stocky, vaguely human form began to coalesce out of the very air.

I'm Batman!

Gotham city in the Battleshed. I’m Batman! I may have overcooked impersonating the iconic line a wee bit too much during a weekend encounter with the Batman Miniature Game. I even started to get the raspy voice. I’m Batman!

The Warehouse: part two

Captain William Smyth, late of the Grenadier Guards, had got the morbs. Shouldering his Martini–Henry rifle, he absently trudged towards the plank and batten doors barring the entrance to the dilapidated industrial warehouse.

Captured!

The Scots Warlord, Fearghas MacCoinnich, has found himself in the outrageously humiliating predicament of being ambushed, captured and held to ransom by a bunch of raiding Anglo-Dane barbarians! Wild speculation and baseless rumours abound regarding the circumstance which led to MacCoinnich’s abduction, from illicit liaisons with a notoriously wanton temptress to a particularly drunken and debauched shindig after a successful hunt. Regardless the truth, the Chief’s Hearthguard and loyal household retainers are brutally attempting to quash any dissent whilst the warband is hastily assembled to attempt a rescue.

The Warehouse: part one

November, 1886. Leaden grey clouds draped listlessly over the abandoned soot stained industrial buildings somewhere in the north of England. Lord Curr thrust his cold-numbed hand deep into his jacket whilst his other tightly gripped his hunting rifle, slick with wet after the recent downpour. Dakota, his American Wolfhound, sat disconsolate and trembling at his side, the dog's fawny-white fur hanging lax and dripping wet. Muffled scrapes and wet booted slaps from the approaching Company detachment sounded nearby as they shuffled into position. Ahead, the warehouse loomed above the grime-slick cobbled streets.

Is there anybody out there?

The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. So the popular Mark Twain paraphrase goes. In a similar vein, the recent silence from Battleshed Diaries may have had my reader wondering what on earth has happened? The last report was back in March when the headline was ‘The Indians are coming!’ And then nothing. Nada. Zilch.