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.]

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[And the foot just... draws back a bit, the flush returning to his face, his eyes going down to his drink again.]

"Ah. Th-the, ah. The Divine Comedy is a telling of the poet's journey through the afterlife, encountering those in Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory- the three acts that make up the piece. It was largely political, which I didn't care for."

[Aw, that was adorable. Maybe she'll do it again later.]

Paradise, damnation, and the interim. And most works that are political in nature tend to get rather dry rather quickly, I'll have to agree.

"Perhaps less dry than insincere. Voltaire is dry as a bone, though, dunno how Harris can stand him."

[Ahem. Composure. Regain.]

"But Paradise Lost, now, that's a tale with some poetry. You see, the first sin, told in Genesis, was that Adam and Eve were told, by God, that they might eat anything in the Garden of Eden, the paradise they lived in, save the tree that bore the fruit of the knowledge of Good and Evil. However, Satan, disguised as a serpent, tempted Eve, who in turn tempted Adam, and both ate the fruit anyway, and were cast out from Eden, having given themselves the burden of sin."

[A shrug]

"Milton's work tells the same story, but it provides more emphasis on the lot of the first people and of Satan. Lucifer, he was once known. The first, brightest, and most beautiful of the Angels- servants of God- who became jealous of God's love for man and led a rebellion of several angels. The rebellion was put down, and Lucifer was cast down from God's sight- his lost paradise. Then, when he in turn takes the guise of a serpent, Adam and Eve are both tricked and open themselves to sin, and lose the perfection of Eden, and so lose their paradise. Hence the double-meaning of the title."

That is...

[Familiar to many religious allegory and theater she's heard before; similar to some dramatized accounts of Jedi lore.But something about this is poignant, beautiful. And awful. She rests her cheek against her hand, eyes on the grain of the table. Something in that twists and strikes as familiar. Beyond something she's seen or heard. Something she might have lived.]

That's terribly sad, lovely. To want affection so much to cause a war. To tear down that which they built because of it. To poison their work. To let something so great turn rotten and devour them whole...

And to be cast down and lost for it.

[Not her. She hasn't lived this but. A dear friend, one Ben didn't know of. Someone that had introduced her to Jeddack. Someone who had loved him as well- to the point of destruction. And watching them destroy themselves had very nearly broken them both Having to be the one to exile them from her house had been...heartbreaking.

Adele wipes at her eyes discreetly, taking a silent drink.] I will have to find a copy in the library.

[Masters of social discourse the Chosen Men may not be, but they are perceptive as hell.

A slightly dingy handkerchief is offered.]

"... Something the matter, miss?"

Nothing that can be changed, Harry.

[She lifts her head when his hand extends, blinking at the handkerchief...and manages a tiny smile. A soft huff of laughter.]

You are a terribly sweet man. [The kerchief is taken and she uses it to dab her eyes.]

"If there's anything I can do, ma'am..."

This is...this is good. Really. A good drink, pleasant company. Though I do not look forward to returning home alone.

[She gives a half laugh and shakes her head at herself. It should sound quite a bit more pleading and seductive, not. Resigned and tired. Oh well.]

"Does nobody live with you?"

[... Well. Perhaps he could spare part of an evening, as long as he was back tonight to check on the shops, right?

She just seems so... lonely.]

You can live with people and yet remain alone.

I've housemates, three. But. I do not think I will go back to the house tonight. Helios still aches for his lost love, Ginia is in pain, Sabriel is still putting her father to rest in her heart.

Part of my...[She waves a hand.] I feel what others feel. Emotions, sensations. Were you to be cut, I would feel you bleed. And bleed with you. Were you to feel grief so keen it rent the very core of you? I would weep as well. So to return to a house full of that...

[She shakes her head.] I would rather not.

"Then... where shall you stay this evening?"

A tree. A roof. There's room enough in the barracks I suppose. Or I could just. Not sleep. I've done it before.

[... what?]

"Surely there's some place you could go that has both peace and a proper bed. You can't just consign yourself to live like..."

[... Like one of us.]

"... like a leper."

I've slept in worse places.

[She shrugs.]

I can go a long while without sleep if I'm too...raw. To find rest. I suppose if I drink enough it will not bother me. But then. It usually makes me feel things all the more keenly.

"Could you not at least find an empty room somewhere?"

I could. It would not help. I'd lie awake, aching for every hurt in the village instead of managing to sleep.

It's easier to manage when I am not on my own.

"... Could you not find somebody at peace, then? Content-like, that you could stay with and focus on?"

If you are able to find such a person in this place, tell me. I have yet to meet them.

"Surely one soul in this village is happy or... or not emotional. Something."

[He refuses to believe he's the happiest soul in the place, and really, he has little by way of complaint. Save frustration that his things aren't about, and even that's sort of trivial.]

Let me check.

[She downs the rest of her whiskey, pours herself another glass, then does the same. She waits a moment for i to warm her, ease her well trained filters, as Red called them, and lets herself feel. Harry's mild frustrations prick up first, and the rest comes streaming in. Depression. mild aches. Deep pains. Grief, joy, love, irritation, hate, nausea, anger, anger, anger-

She flinches in her seat and veers her mind away from that roiling pit, whoever it was. Back to easier things. Depression. Isolation. Exhaustion. Every last person in her ability to feel was edged with something that would keep her from rest. There was no glowing warmth of comfort, no serene pool of contentment. Not even amongst the Jedi.]

...not that I can feel Harry.

"Has it always been this difficult to deal with?"

Normally? No. I've a friend that can work as a point of serenity for me most of the time. But right now he is...not. Of a mind to assist me. Not in that he does not wish to help- there are extenuating circumstances I don't want to think about right now.

[And she's still swimming a little, focus drifting out, making her flinch. Too much. And she can't quite reel it all in again. She doesn't think about reaching over and taking Harry's hand, turning to press the back of it against her cheek. Just. A small comfort, against everything she couldn't ignore. A heartbeat, two, and she sighs. It hurts her a little less, when she has this.]

[Ordinarily, he would protest, but he can't. Not know. The peace it brings her is obvious, and so he instead turns his hand to gently cup her cheek, thumb caressing the cheekbone. He doesn't speak, simply allows her to take what comfort she can in the gesture.]

Thank you.

[Soft. Sincere. She can't help but tilt her head against his palm, letting him take the weight in more ways than one. Her own small, slim hand rests against the back of his, her other one slipping up to cradle his wrist. It wasn't much. It wasn't being held by Red, or leaning against Ben's back when he meditated- but it was enough.]

"Your servant, ma'am."

[He gives her a somewhat impish smile. And doesn't remove his hand.]

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