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

[greenjacketed]

...Can't say whether that's for the best or not, Miss Adele.

[the_other_leblanc]

What little I am told is vague and ominous. I am not certain what to make of it.

[greenjacketed]

Do you mind...do you mind me asking what it is you have been told, ma'am?

[the_other_leblanc]

Not to ask, more often than not. To not worry because I and those I know have come out alive in the end.

[greenjacketed]

It's...maddening. To learn your own fate and to risk it not matching up with your...[ knowledge ] expectatons. They're likely right not to tell you.

[ he's likely wrong to have told her as much as he has. ill-mannered, at least. ]

[the_other_leblanc]

I heard it once when this began. It was...maddening is a good word for it at the time. In retrospect it made it a bit easier to cope with what I was told. I don't blame them for telling me, or for keeping what they know to themselves. I would be unsettled either way.

[She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath.]

Though I would like to know a bit more on the matter of my husband aside from 'you're well rid of him'.

[greenjacketed]

...Can't help you with that one. [ with a huff, he got tired of all this standing. he sat back down. ] Never heard much of the man. I never asked and you never offered to mention much. Which...I suppose is informative enough.

[the_other_leblanc]

A habit in my family: Ignore past unpleasantness and do not speak of it. [Be it death or divorce- honestly she is not certain which she would prefer at this point.

After a moment's consideration she sat across from him again.]

It's a foolish habit.

[greenjacketed]

Is it? [ a sharp shrug. ] Wouldn't know. Haven't had a family long enough to develop any habits at all. But I can't see it working any different than a company. You do what you have to in order to march onwards.

[the_other_leblanc]

It leaves things to fester. Not as apparent as an actual wound but the concept is similar- leaving it be for too long is not healthy. It only ever leaves us sour and miserable. We march on, yes, but it rots the heart.

[greenjacketed]

...Bloody hell. You're still too young to be chatting like that.

[the_other_leblanc]

How old should one be to speak of such things, Major?

[greenjacketed]

...Wait 'till you're thirty, lass. Then I'll allow it.

[the_other_leblanc]

I think I might manage that.

[greenjacketed]

[ he's a hipocrite, of course. he'd been well and truly jaded from such a young age -- or perhaps 'jaded' was the wrong word. but certainly more aware of the world's dingier corners.

he'd even managed to be somewhat happy in india. it was the bloody commission that did it. set up him for success and clipped his wings at the same blasted time. ]

I won't hold it 'gainst you if you can't. You are -- after all -- a Frog.

[the_other_leblanc]

[A failure, a funeral, extensive study and nightly arguments have her dim and flecked with rotten wounds yet. It will be a long while before they fester and turn her truly bitter.

Until then there's the work. Study. The few calm conversations now and then that help her smile.]

And we are known for being contrary, are we not?

[greenjacketed]

Contrary? Aye. And ruthless. [ for theirs is madame guillotine. ] And...and I suppose I could say more, but it wouldn't be fair.

[the_other_leblanc]

Say what you like, Major. I'll not hold it against you. What is, is, be it in the time you come from or mine. You've heard my opinion on ignoring the unpleasant.

[greenjacketed]

Ah. The time difference remains quite that obvious then -- eh?

[the_other_leblanc]

Your attire seems somewhat...dated.

[greenjacketed]

Are uniforms truly so different in the distant future? [ it's true enough that civilian clothing would evolve, but he was yet to see any uniforms not from the msf or some other enclosure. ]

[the_other_leblanc]

I do not know much of the military, but most uniforms I have seen are quite different. Those have been fairly shapeless and printed with a pattern intended to conceal the soldier wearing them.

[greenjacketed]

[ the intelligence officer had been saying something slightly similar.

but: ] 'S what the green's for, I suppose. Rifle regiments are skirmishers. We don't advance in lines but move forward independently and pick the -- [ crapauds ] -- enemy off. The green offers more concealment than the red.

[the_other_leblanc]

I never understood the more colorful military uniforms, at least not those worn in battle. It is the product of a different mindset entirely, I suppose.

[What little she'd seen in paintings and museums, at least.]

[greenjacketed]

...Batallions don't bother hiding. You can see a marching army from a distance. Cavalry patrols'll always have numbers in mind. No -- battles are more science and math than even I care to give'em credit. It's about who shoots more shots faster. And who stands and doesn't break. It's about hoping they loose their musket volleys before you're in range.

A colourful uniform identifies you. [ he plucks at his green sleeve. ] Rifleman. It means I'm a good enough shot to wear the colour and it'll put fear in the French Voltigeurs when we butt heads. A colourful uniform means knowing who's on your flank. Even the reds ain't just red -- they're red with coloured facings, y'see? The South Essex was yellow. The Highlanders wear kilts.

[ it's the most he's spoken all night, really. ]