SHARPE'S TEA ⚔ WRITTEN | VOICE | ACTION

[greenjacketed]

[ he's snug in a corner of the tea shop, with both a brew and a book in hand. the tea is strong; it's uncreamed and unsweetened, and yet it still somehow lacks the bite he's grown accustomed to through flanders, portugal, and spain. instead, this mug is as lightly spiced as the mugs he'd nursed on lonely nights in india. he'd been so much younger, then. and so much more foolish.

another sip and then it's time to get to it. in practice, his message has an intended audince of very few. but fear of his own sentimentality demands that he not approach anyone directly. and so he writes publicly, his script slanty and rough. unpracticed. it takes him a long time to carve out even a brief sentence: ]

Won't be around for a few days --- heading out, took the bloody shilling, got orders to march, &ct.
-- MJR R. SHARPE

[ he loops his pencil 'round the ampersand a few more times, chagrined by its childish slopes. he's no writer. not by any man's account. he's a soldier, he thinks. he knows when to kill and when not to kill, although that line was painfully blurred on the just-passed draft. he should know how to follow orders and protect the colours. but what on earth is a soldiering man to do with orders he didn't understand and no colours to speak of? it gives him a notion. a question, at least.

switching to voice: ] I suppose the village does not have a flag of its own, eh? Don't seeem proper. Perhaps it would've done no good in that last [ shit-hole/dungheap/disaster ] battle. But in future...?

[ he hesitates. he waits. and he lives his day as anxiously as any other day spent waiting to be deployed. a mission, this time? aye. perhaps it'll sooth his nerves and erase from his mind the bloody great cock-up of vaskoth. finally -- if the journal or the tea-shop won't do, feel free to encounter him elsewhere. he's bound to be in good spirits come the evening -- but he bloody well won't drink a drop. not the night before. ]

Comments

voice:

[captainhornblower]

Mr Kennedy and I ran into the same trouble with flying colours from Britannia. We have a flag from it -- nothing official, but it might be a place to start.

[It's stored in the captain's cabin for now, neatly folded. A burst of energy and patriotism saw it come down and a Union Jack go up...

But if this village can manage something like a proper flag? He'll fly it, too.]

voice:

[greenjacketed]

Seems a shame, 's all. Having naught to march under. [ a sigh. ] I'm not a superstitious man nor a sensitive one, but the colours make a difference. Can't say how or why -- but they make a difference.

[ even the bloody french have something to march under. so why not them? ]

voice:

[captainhornblower]

It won't do any good this time, but after you return --

Perhaps we should see to that. Get some sort of banner.

Not quite "king and country," but it'd be a start.

voice:

[greenjacketed]

Aye. It'd be a good task for idle hands, at the very least. And as for king and country...

[ sharpe knows there were few who really fought for england's king and country, patrick harper amongst'em. but there were men who'd fight for the colours. for the regiment. for the men around them and for the pride those colours inspired. it wasn't loyalty that inspired most, but a sense of self. even honour, for some.

but he wasn't yet sure how the navy man would react so such an opinion, so: ] Ah, well. Like you said. A start. Something to raise arms for.

voice:

[captainhornblower]

Something to raise arms together for.

We have capable souls here, but they seem loathe to actually band together. To be anything more than a collection of individuals or sometimes small groups.

The time will come when we must stand together or fall separately. [It isn't until it's out of his mouth that he realises how republican and revolutionary that sounds.

And there's no good way to qualify it. Damn.]

voice:

[greenjacketed]

You preach to the wrong man, I'm afraid. [ but his protest is given in jest, really. because he doesn't care to argue in earnest nor to agree too strongly. and the poor man clearly didn't intend to sound so riled about about it, so sharpe does the courteous thing and falls on his own conversational sword to keep it from getting...weird. ] Us riflemen fight in pairs, Captain. Little collctions of individuals, as you put it. Such is the privilege of the skirmisher.

[ doubtless, hornblower had meant a more philosophical together. cogs in a better machine, not the strict rank and file that sharpe now purposefully misinterpreted.

he may be no gentleman nor a proper officer, but that didn't mean he couldn't talk politely. ]

[action]

[the_other_leblanc]

[As Adele did the day before she spends the evening in Good Spirits, a book in one hand and a long nursed glass of bourbon in the other. She's making her way to a booth for a bit of privacy rather than settling at the bar- she'll not be having that much tonight, when she stutters a bit in her stride.

Was that...he looked awfully familiar and it's taking awhile for her mind to place the face. The film clicked before the actor's name did. Goldeneye, Sean Bean.

What in the hell is Sean Bean doing in this place?]

[action]

[greenjacketed]

[ christ, is that lass staring? sharpe looks up from his glass -- ginger soda if you must know -- and meets the blonde's eyes. and he...

and she...

his brows meet in a moment's confusion. ]

Do I know you, miss?

[action]

[the_other_leblanc]

[Sean Bean. But. Not? With what she's learned here it's best to assume nothing.

And to apologize, as staring is quite rude.]

I- no, I do not think so Monsieur. I thought you were someone else. I am sorry to have disturbed you.

[action]

[greenjacketed]

[ monsieur! ]

God, but you look familiar though.

[action]

[the_other_leblanc]

[She doesn't recall his distaste for the word. Nor his name.]

Perhaps you know me as an older woman? Normally I am thirty, or at least that is what I have been told.

I am Adele. Adele LeBlanc.

1/2

[greenjacketed]

Adele! Bloody h--

2/2

[greenjacketed]

...Of course it's you. I see it now. A young'un.

[voice]

[generalflirt]

-A flag? Like, some... huh. You figure that'd help?

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

I've seen the colours make a difference in a number of battles. [ he speaks conversatonally -- this isn't a man filled with convinction on the matter, but who is merely entertaining a possibility. ] I've seen a town rise up on account of a single flag.

I suppose...I suppose that in the end I more likely figure that it can't hurt.

[voice]

[generalflirt]

Maaah, you know, where I'm from, we unite under colors too. Not flags, but we wear them on our person. Fought to represent them, used them as a symbol of our unity.

[...] I've been thinking it's a childish sentiment.

[But he doesn't sound sure. Just sort of... lightly]

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

Pride in one's brothers in arms and the desire to share something -- anything -- with them? No, lad. I don't think that's childish at all. Sentimental, aye. But not of the childish sort.

[voice]

[generalflirt]

[Dat accent.

Dat maturity.] I think people find it hard to be "sentimental" about this enclosure, honestly.

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

Truly? [ ah, but be fair sharpe! ] This is the longest I've been in one bloody town in years, lad. [ he peers. yes, it does look to be a young man that he's speaking to. ] It's hard not to get attached.

[voice]

[not_a_troll]

I am fairly sure there is no flag.

But that does not mean there cannot be a flag!

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

Aye. If so, it's a fact I've a mind to chance. Nothing elaborate -- but we ought to have something.

[voice]

[not_a_troll]

Indeed, I am completely agreeing with your words, sir.

This village should have a flag, especially since it is common for these scientists to send us out to fight horrific battles against brain eating undead beings.

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

...You were out there on that field as well, then?

[voice]

[not_a_troll]

Aye! It has been far from pleasant but I have been able to make some impressive traps.

Eventually I passed away. That has been a bummer of a great kind.

[voice]

[greenjacketed]

[ christ. a dead'un. that unsettles him.

more distantly: ] Traps of what sort?