sʜᴀʀᴘᴇ's ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛ ⚔ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ

[ major richard sharpe enjoys a small triumph during his now-routine patrol of the shops. anyone may find him there, rooting through racks and stacks and things. however, eventually he will find success: a dark green jacket mixed in with some heaver coats. and he'll don this uniform and shoulder his baker rifle and god, but he missed home. so what if home was broken and troubled and brutal? home made more sense than this place.

to avoid the rain, he eventually settles down to a table at seventh heaven to get some food and to take refuge from the rain. he might not be entirely approachable but he is sitting by himself, if anyone cares to pester him.

sharpe pulls out his journal and wastes nearly an hour before scribbling anything on its pages. he doesn't really want to write because he doesn't really want to read -- the whole process will be very slow for him; however, his deep-seated discomfort with talking to a book wins out in the end. ]

Luceti,

Is there any reason why one building of rooms or oh bloody hell what are they calledapartments should be picked over another? I don't fancy bivouacking another night in this weather. [ he still doesn't have an apartment. maybe it's about time he chose one. ]

And Sparrow -- I've my rifle, now. [ he doesn't expand on that thought. the captain'll understand. ]