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.]

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[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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

No, we're not. Those are much more pleasant planets. As for the rest...the sword can wait.

[She does, however, gesture to her glass, watching it lift and spin a bit in the air. A party trick, but, amusing enough.]

[... What.

What... what

He scoots his chair back, eyes wide.]

"... You... you're a bloody witch!"

... That's not the usual reaction to my tricks. Blast.

[She sighs and plucks her glass out of the air, sipping.]

Not a witch, Lovely. Not even Magic.

"... Some sort of trick, then? An illusion?"

[He immediately began looking over the glass for wires. He'd brought it to her himself, but for all he knew she'd tipped off the bartender or something.]

It's something we call the Force, in my galaxy. With it I can move objects, feel the emotions of those around me, speak to their minds...though my primary talent lies in using it to heal injuries. It's not an Illusion, and it's not magic.

[And I didn't tip off the bartender. Just so you know.

She leans back and sips her whiskey.]

[Handwave. Suggestion.]

You want to sit up straight and close your mouth.

"I want to-"

[No. No. He wouldn't say it. He didn't know what she was trying to do to him, but his mind was his own and it would bloody well stay that way.]

"... What do you want with me?"

A drink? Conversation? A little company, that's all Lovely.

[She's glad the suggestion didn't work. Always felt terribly dishonest, to use that. And coming from her that meant something.]

[... Well, he... supposed she wasn't bad. For a witch. Nice, and all.

And she obviously hadn't enchanted him, seeing as how he'd resisted her attempt to do so.]

"... I guess that doesn't sound too ominous, does it?"

[He moves back to the table, his posture becoming more relaxed as he refills her glass.]

Not unless you consider the very likely possibility that I will continue to attempt to win your affections by being as flirtatious as possible and terribly interested in your love of poetry ominous.

[She salutes with her glass and sips.]

"Not ominous, miss, just terribly flattering."

Then until the bottle is gone, you are going to feel terribly flattered Lovely.

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