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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[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.]

"... Scholar, miss? No. I don't know science or philosophy. More math than most, and I can read. That's all. Back home, Harris was always the scholar."

When you've the time what do you choose to read?

"Poetry, miss."

[... Well. It's true.]

So I was not entirely wrong. [A soft smile, a sip of her whiskey.]

What kind of poetry?

[... You'll have to give him a moment to process that. He's not used to anybody giving a damn. The culture was lost on his peers, and his opinion was meaningless to his betters. Even Harris thought much of his taste was fanciful.]

"Several kinds. Milton, Spenser... I don't care for Shakespeare's poetry as much as I do his plays, but they're mostly written in meter and verse anyway."

You'll have to elaborate for me Lovely, none of those names are familiar to me in the slightest. But that last one, Shakespeare, he sounds interesting. What of his work do you enjoy most?

"... That depends on the manner of enjoyment. The work I enjoy the most in itself is the Midsummer Night's Dream, but that is not the work which contains his best poetry, most of which I find to be contained within his Tragedies. It is, I suppose, up to personal taste.

Milton and Spenser, however, wrote epic poems, the former writing a retelling of Biblical narrative called 'Paradise Lost,' the latter, a somewhat extended narrative of fairy stories known as, appropriately, 'The Faerie Queene.' Both are favorites of mine."

[He pauses.]

"... And you don't find any of this dreadfully dull?"

Dull? Not at all. If I did not want to know, I would not have asked. I am a terribly curious woman by nature Lovely, having someone indulge me? Is more than wonderful. Especially when it comes to theater and poetry.

[She's swirling her glass in a hand, watching the amber liquid shift and twist in the light.]

...Tell me more of 'Paradise Lost'. That sounds terribly poignant.

"Indeed, it is. The title refers, simultaneously, to the fall of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden and to the fall of Lucifer from God's grace, as those are the two storylines upon which the work is based."

...you'll have to elaborate yet more. None of this sounds even remotely familiar, though the themes are similar to some Jedi lore.

[... Ah.]

"... You are not a Christian."

No. I'm from a different world entirely Onyx. A different galaxy. Far, far away. We don't have Christians where I'm from.

"Heard about such things, while I've been here. Sounds a bit farfetched to the Major, but I guess I'm capable of believing it. Talking books, torches and candles replaced by glass tubes, wings... I'd believe anything, about now."

Would you believe that I can read your mind, levitate objects with a wave of my hand, or that I've a sword made of light?

[A half smirk.] Or that by sharing whiskey with me you have, in fact, proposed marriage according to the customs of several planets?

"The former three, I'd need to see for myself to believe, but I'll not rule them out."

[He sips his whiskey and chuckles.]

"The latter is, I believe, not relevant. We're not in any of those planets, are we?"

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