quicktoanger (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quicktoanger) wrote2012-04-04 06:00 am
quicktoanger) wrote2012-04-04 06:00 am
Entry tags:
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.]
[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 this friend of yours, who wishes to help you? Why could he not do so?"
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I...
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Seventeen years.
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He's...brilliant. And sarcastic. And smug. But decent, a good man, my Ben. A fair man. He always tries so hard to see the good in others; to help them see it in themselves.
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"Doesn't sound like any monk I know."
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[A somewhat serious look.]
"And if the answer is no, you move on. Find another. It's a waste, a lady like yourself pining away after a man who can't love you back."
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[And she is. Selfish. But she can't ask that of Ben. She can't.]
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[He was rapidly coming to suspect that moving on was the better option.]
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[... Right.]
"And again, I'll say it. Your monk is a blind fool."
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Duty before emotion.
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"My advice still holds, miss. Ask him directly, and let him say yes or no. And if it's no right now, when nothing but a ghost of a memory of his people are what prevents it, it'll be no forever."
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[Could she live knowing he'd never return her feelings? Yes. She wouldn't enjoy it, but she's lived the past seventeen years knowing this. Only did having hope, no matter how frail, dangled in front of her has she become such a mess. Better to know and be done with it entirely.]
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[... er.]
"... I-If you'll pardon my boldness, miss."
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