Run the forget out of there I don't want my men getting killed
A grim-faced man stands a few meters behind you. His face is blackened with soot or cinder. His face appears leathery and worn. It is creased is many areas. He is squinting. His eyes are dark and seemingly reflect no light, they are beady as well. The man's face is locked in a look that expresses nothing but disdain. He wears a heavy-looking, olive drab great coat. It is buttoned down, both rows. There is a dulled silver chain that runs around his right shoulder. It is very thick. He has on a blood-red sash, smeared with oil, and soot. It is tied around his midsection. He has a belt underneath the sash, as it carries a satchel on his back and a holster. His gloves are black with blood red trim. His epaulets are adorned with a dulled, dented, and worn metal. His peaked cap demands authority.
The man hold in his left hand, perhaps the biggest C96 you've ever seen. It's an ancient weapon. The he cycles the weapon. A massive chunk of brass falls from it's breach. It glistens in the sun. All the while, he stares at you, drilling into your existence. Chills drive down your spine.
You get the feeling that turning and running is more dangerous than charging this position.
You look ahead, and then back. The man is not there. He is not dead. He has vanished. The chunk of glistening brass is gone too.
Poll