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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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.]

Blackstone? [A beat.] Adele Levarre, Duelist, Theed. Pleasure to meet you Onyx.

"Honored, miss."

[Onyx? Lovely? This woman was generous with nicknames. Flattering ones, even.

...Dammit, there it went. He's blushing now. Not much, but.]

[Is he blushing? He's blushing. That is just.]

You are a remarkable man Lovely. I'm going to have to keep you.

[... Okay, now he's blushing much.]

"Too kind, miss."

[He can't seem to escape monosyllables. And just yesterday he'd been babbling about the works of Malory to the Major.

How the mighty had fallen.]

Adele, Lovely. My name is Adele, and you are welcome to use it.

[And here they were, She tugs him through the door of Good Spirits and weaves her way through the tables to a quiet booth in the corner. Harry seems the sort to enjoy the quiet more.]

[Yes, yes he was. And he makes a rather determined point of holding the door for her, because that is What One Does.]

"Much obliged, Miss Adele."

By the time the night is over, Harry, I hope to get more than 'obliged' or 'Miss' out of you.

[Um.

...Um.

He scarcely dared imagine what color his face was, at that moment. He waited for her to be seated before he himself sat, trying hard not to notice that her outer tunic bordered on translucent.]

[Alright, now she's laughing. Hand over mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the corners and giggling as she slides into her side of the booth. This man was just. Adorable.]

I am most certainly going to have to keep you.

[... Right. Subject change.]

"Shall I go order us some wine, miss?"

Have wine if you like, Lovely, but I'd rather have ale. The blue sort if they have it in. Failing that? Whiskey.

"Whiskey. Right."

[Whiskey?

Well, regardless, it's a reason to leave the table and search for his wits, wherever he's dropped the bloody things. He bows and makes his way to the bar.]

[While she waits? Adele lounges in the booth, stretching and settling on the bench, eyes flitting across the crowd. Some confusion, some resignation, a little depression. The usual fare; more or less. It didn't help settle her mind any. If it stays like this and her company doesn't improve she'll have to meditate for an hour or two just to get through the rest of the day without doing anything remarkably foolish.]

[A few minutes later, Harry returns, bearing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

It's been a long time since he didn't just swig from the bottle, you'll have to excuse him.

He's also much better composed than before. He fills both glasses before he sits.]

"I've been assured that this qualifies as a 'sipping whiskey.' Don't understand the difference, myself."

[To his mind, all whiskey is gulping whiskey.]

[Adele sits back up at his approach, quirking a brow at the bottle but smiling none the less. She hadn't expected for him to bring the whole thing over but now it was something of a challenge.

And she never backed down from a challenge. Even when she really ought to.]

The difference is in the burn. Sipping whiskey burns slow and smooth, lighting you from the inside out, letting warmth spread from your core to your fingertips. Rough whiskey burns fast right on the tongue, and does little to warm the rest of you. [A smirk.]

Though consuming enough can find you a warm bed.

Edited 2012-04-04 14:15 (UTC)

[... He freezes a bit for a moment, blinking.]

"... Cheap whiskey's always kept me warm enough, miss. I expect I'm not sophisticated enough to notice."

I'm a recent study to the nuances in whiskey, to be honest. But I've found no matter the quality it's always more enjoyable while in handsome company.

"I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me instead, miss."

And who is to say that you are not handsome?

[His expression becomes a bit more serious.]

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I'm not. Too tall, gangly. Face is drawn and pinched and angular, I look underfed, and I've a burn on the left side of my face."

[He turns his head to the right to show her the blemish.]

"I'm used to it. The height's the thing most people notice."

[She tilts her head a bit, feeling him out. There was no angst, no self loathing or self depreciation. Only acceptance, perhaps well worn resignation. She shakes her head a bit and stretches out a hand to catch his own, turning it over.

She's drawing faint lines on his palm with her fingertips as she speaks.]

Handsome is up to interpretation. You are soft, despite being of the military, and gentlemanly, where most your size would be brutish. You are only gaunt for not being well fed, and that can be fixed with enough solid meals, and I think you may yet fill out well.

"Easier to be brutish, I think. Discourages the staring and pointing, turns it into an advantage of intimidation. I've done more than my own share of it, when I had to, but I don't care for it."

[And nobody ever for a moment thought a man looking like him could read poetry in Latin. An advantage all its own.]

Are you a scholar then, Lovely? A large man that fights the good fight with a poet's heart?

[It is a genuine question, despite the phrasing. She's not looking to tease here. She gives his hand a squeeze before releasing it in favor of sipping her whiskey.]

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