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.]
[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.]
[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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[... er.]
"... I-If you'll pardon my boldness, miss."
[Action]
Though I must ask. Had we known each other longer, would you? feel lucky to have me.
[Action]
[He meets her eyes, the awkwardness gone for a moment of quiet sincerity.]
"Far luckier than I've ever been, miss."
[Action]
[A reversal of the usual gesture, but she couldn't help it. She lifts his hand and brushes her lips against the back of it.]
And one day I hope you are lucky enough to find someone to love you sincerely. Until then you will have to make due with my company.
[Action]
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[Teasing, teasing. Really. He's made his stance clear enough.]
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[He's trying to joke back. Really.
She just makes it sound so trivial, is all.]
[Action]
[Still, she smiles and shrugs. One way or another she'll find rest. Or she won't. Napping during the day wouldn't be so bad.]
[Action]
"... Perhaps if I were there with you in the room, but not in the bed?"
[... Compromise, thy name is Blackstone.]
[Action]
[Now she really is poking fun, at herself and at Harry. She can't help it.]
[Action]
"... Er. Well, I suppose it wouldn't be too improper if I was there with you, long as we weren't sharing a bed. If... if you like."
[... it just feels bloody scandalous.]
[Action]
[She finishes the last of her whiskey and offers her hand to Harry.]
Could I hold your hand, at least? While I try to rest. I promise not to do anything improper.
[Action]
... it wouldn't be so bad, would it? And she did promise she wouldn't try to seduce him. Nothing wrong there, right?
I mean, it looks damn questionable, but who's out here to care, right?
He drains his glass and stops up the bottle, then grabs it. The Major would probably enjoy it later.]
"... That... would be alright, I think."
[Action]
[She stands and looks to him over her shoulder, half a smile on her face but sincerely grateful.]
[Action]
[An advantage of being Harry's size, you could fit much larger books in your pockets. Assuming the pockets were sized for the pants, that is. He pulls out a smaller leatherbound volume and shows her, then returns it and takes her arm.]
[Action]
[It's a bit awkward with the height difference, but she leans against him as they walk all the same, weaving out of the bar and into the cool air of the evening.]
[Action]
[His pronunciation is pretty good for a cockney brit that's probably never heard it spoken out loud.]
[Action]
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[... Rambling again, Blackstone.]
[Action]
[She turns them down the side path, happy to listen to him ramble. His voice was soothing, in a way, and his focus on literature endearing. After a moment's thought she reaches out, searching for a blank space in the echos of rambling emotion in the village. She locks in on house 35. Empty. With a light nod in it's direction she changes their path to head there.]
[Action]
[He follows her lead, not questioning how she knew where to go.
She is, after all, a bloody witch.]
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