greenjacketed | SHARPE'S TEA ⚔ WRITTEN | VOICE

[ 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. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah, an universal phrase.

It still sounds as if it is meant for old people, though. Really old people. With wrinkles.

I'm not that old.

At least, I don't think I am...

Maybe you have been around a lot of old people, therefore the old people jokes, you see?

...Hagman's the oldest of our lot, and he can't be out of his forties yet. It's just that -- the young ones -- they don't last long, y'see.

That is why he is called Hagman. An old hag of a man.

I might see, yes.

You're lucky he's not here to listen to such a thing. Hagman's a crack shot. He'll have a pimple off your nose without breaking the skin, he will.

[Loki's not following you there, Major Sharpe.]

Your phrasing is entertaining and confusing at the same time. But how does one shoot crack? I figure bullets would be more efficient.

Christ, lad. It means he's a bloody good one, alright?

A bloody good crack shooter?

[He gets it but, hey, sometimes it is fun to pretend he is not getting anything.]

A Rifleman, lad! He's a Rifleman.

Chosen, such as it is.

Has he answered to a great ancient prophecy that has been encripted in some old, mysterious stone in some incredibly complicated forgotten language and that is how he became the chosen one of rifles?

Old Hagman the chosen man of rifles.

It is most fitting.

[ he mostly skips over the chatter. what he does understand, he doesn't care about. ]

Chosen Man. It's a rank of honour amongst the regiment. Picked out for courage and accuracy.

Shouldn't he be a general then? The rank of Chosen Man is rather confusing.

[ probably because it wasn't actually a rank. but sharpe isn't great at explanations. ]

Generals, you'll find, ain't raised for their battle skill. [ but for their money. ] No, lad. Chosen Men are merely hand-picked elites from the Rifle regiment. Good enough to do the dirty work.

Do they wear prestigious uniforms with a lot of frills and medals? Are you one of the chosen chosen men as well?

As you might have noticed, there's oodles of questions inside my head.

They were green jackets and the white cord of courage. They wear no frills, for they are common soldiers. And I am their officer.

[ ... ] You are uncommon curious.

[Loki chuckles.]

You are the chosen chosen man. They should wear frills, since they appear to be a rather important part of the British army, you see?

[He emphasizes the first 'chosen' extra and there's a short silence afterwards.]

I am very aware of that, yes.

But, you see, frills cost money what the common soldier doesn't have.

[ hell. he's an officer and he can't afford frills. ]

That is a pity. If anything, you should demand frills.

Would you leave off the buggering frills? They're a damned bloody inconvenience, that's all. Window-dressing.

But frills are important, you see? And I think you are deserving of a lot of frills.

Please, do tell me how the frills are buggering? Buggering refers to one who commits the act of buggery, yes?

[ watch him ignore the question of buggery altogether: ] Doesn't matter if I deserve'em or not, lad. I don't want them.

[But Loki does not know what buggery means...]

Duly noted.

Now on to the act of buggery. What is buggery? Is it a cool phrase I have to remember?

Piss off, boy.

[ clearly he's less than willing to get all explain-y. ]

Absolutely not.

Does buggery mean something bad? Is it a curse word that does not refer to the act of 'bugging' someone?

Please enlighten me.

[voice]

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