quicktoanger | Third Report: Blackstone's Rifle [Action/Voice, backdated to the night of the third.]

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Third Report: Blackstone's Rifle [Action/Voice, backdated to the night of the third.]

[Action]
[He's been searching for hours. He's probably a bit drunk at this point, and more than a little put out, but he has to find them.

He knows they're here. He knows they are.

He's been going back and forth between the clothing shop and the weapons shop all day, searching. He's reasoned it out, see. Every time he leaves and comes back, he finds that whatever bloody fairy magic makes this place work has changed the contents of the shops. So if he leaves faster, comes back faster, they'll change faster. He's not seen people bringing things to and from the shops, so it must be more of whatever madness this village is full of, right?

Well. It didn't work, it turns out- if there are 'Shifts' on the shops, he can't induce them. Which is when he went out and got a drink, and now, drunk, has decided to just look for them anyway.

They have to be here.

He walks into the smithy again, silently shifting through the various weapons in their various racks. He's seen all manner of primitive weapons, even one or two that resemble guns, but he wouldn't have the least idea how to operate them. More of that advanced technology from other worlds, he supposes. It all sounds terribly farfetched to him, but what's a soul to believe when he wakes up with wings and a magic book that lets you talk to people?]

"I know you're here, damn you, stop hiding!"

[Wait. Wait, what was that? There. Far wall, near the corner... he heads over. It is. It is. A Baker rifle, battered but still in perfect working order.

He should know, he's the one who kept it that way. He reaches out and grasps the rifle, and with a series of practiced, ritualistic movements, he inspects it.

Not just any rifle. His own rifle. He knows every single scuff and scrape on the weapon's surface, remembers the battle that put each mark in its place. Never anything that would affect the weapon's performance. He was always very particular about avoiding that.

He has his rifle. He'd already had his rifleman's jacket, found a week after his arrival. Why was there nothing of the Major's property here?

Well. He couldn't very well give his jacket to Sharpe- he was far too tall and skinny for that, of course- but this? This was something he could set right.]

[Voice, locked to Richard Sharpe- the filter isn't even at 1%, he's rubbish at them.]

"Begging your pardon, Major, but I believe I've found something you may want to have a look at."

[He seems to have acquired a bit of a Cockney accent somewhere along the line.

Feel free to find him around the village, searching through the weapons earlier in the day, or, as is so terribly common, getting thoroughly drunk in Good Spirits.]

[Notes: Unlike Sharpe, Harry has his Rifleman's jacket and typically wears it into town. He's been camping with Sharpe, rather than taking an apartment in town. He's also clean-cut and clean-shaven in the military, in sharp contrast to his usual... scruff.

He's still about three miles tall, though.]

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...Is there a particular reason you're running from one shop to the next tall, lean, and lovely?

[Adele's been watching him run back and forth for awhile now, and while amusing? it's also a little confounding. He was looking for something, but all she could pick up on was frustration. Which, really, wasn't that much different than what the rest of the village felt.]

I understand forgetfulness lovely, but you're starting to look a bit mad.

[He pauses. Frowns a bit. He's not here to talk- he's never in town to talk, except in the bar- but one speaks when one is spoken to.

He's just... not typically spoken to. His reply, a moment later, is quiet.]

"I'm not mad, miss. They have the Major's rifle, and I mean to get it from them."

The Major's rifle...? Ah, you mean the sweet military man with the drawl and fine cut figure, yes? Gentle but rough. Mmmm. [Give her a moment, she's lost in her own little world. After a beat she remembers. Madman. Stores.]

I told him before, it will show when it shows. It's always a bit random, then when and where of what will appear.

[Harry averts his gaze during her little... adventure. You're not the first to want a roll in the hay with the Major, miss, and you're likely not the last, but dammit if it ain't awkward.]

"... As you say, miss."

[He doesn't sound like that's an admission of defeat, really.]

...if it helps at all, the changes to the overall stock are somewhat regular. The bulk of the new items appear in the morning and the evening. In the afternoon? Bits and baubles, mostly. Weapons tend to filter in from wherever they are from at dusk. So for the moment? You're just out of luck Lovely.

[Lovely? Ahaha. Excuse the poor Rifleman as he averts his gaze again.]

"Too kind, miss."

Just kind enough Lovely.

[Oh he's shy. That's just precious. She uncrosses her legs and stands from her perch, sauntering over to stand at his side. And peer up so it's more difficult for him to look away. She was too pretty to ignore, after all. Blue filtered by blond lashes turned up to his not at all unattractive countenance, lips curled in a soft smile.]

As it is? Running back and forth will not help. Waiting would be best, and since you will need a way to pass the time...Join me for a drink?

[Oh god. She's just moved back into his field of vision and asked him to join her for a drink. How do you say no to a lady who's asked you to join her for a drink?

Clearly, of course, you do not.

Doesn't mean his voice isn't a wee bit mumbly when he responds.]

"Be honored, miss."

Oh you are just the sweetest thing, aren't you? [A bright bubbly laugh and she takes his hand in hers, turning to walk him to Good Spirits.]

Edited 2012-04-04 11:17 (UTC)

[When she moves to his side, he crooks one arm and offers it to her. She, it seems, has other ideas, taking his hand and leading him, a bit flummoxed, toward the tavern.

He considers protesting, comes to the conclusion that it would likely just compound the problem, and instead follows her without a word.]

Now, Lovely, what do I call you? Well. I'll keep calling you what I've been calling you, but a name might be nice to know as well.

[She pats his hand with one of her own, smiling up at him as they walk.]

"Harry Blackstone. Rifleman, South Essex."

[Clipped and professional. It appears to be his last line of defense against the awkwardness at hand.]

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