major richard sharpe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenjacketed) wrote2012-11-17 11:01 am
greenjacketed) wrote2012-11-17 11:01 am
Entry tags:
SHARPE'S TEA ⚔ WRITTEN | VOICE | ACTION
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[voice]
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.
[voice]
As you might have noticed, there's oodles of questions inside my head.
[voice]
[ ... ] You are uncommon curious.
[voice]
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.
[voice]
[ hell. he's an officer and he can't afford frills. ]
[voice]
[voice]
[voice]
Please, do tell me how the frills are buggering? Buggering refers to one who commits the act of buggery, yes?
[voice]
[voice]
Duly noted.
Now on to the act of buggery. What is buggery? Is it a cool phrase I have to remember?
[voice]
[ clearly he's less than willing to get all explain-y. ]
[voice]
Does buggery mean something bad? Is it a curse word that does not refer to the act of 'bugging' someone?
Please enlighten me.
[voice]
[voice]
Major Sharpe, sir?
This is a question of a very serious nature. You wish to hear my question of a very serious nature?
[voice]
[voice]
[voice]
Shut it with the damn question, will you? Do you know what we do to impertinent drummer boys who ask daft questions?
[ they do nothing. or, at least, sharpe did nothing. except maybe have harper cuff them 'round the back of the head. but he was in a threatening mood now. ]
[voice]
[voice]
[voice]
The threat is rather...hmm, how would they say that on Midgard? Ah yes. That threat can 'bugger off'.
[voice]
[voice]
[voice]
[voice]
And for now it seems as if no one has figured this out properly yet. Thus the brain of the person with the massive brain is rather small.
[Don't worry, to Loki this makes perfect sense.]
[voice]
Didn't I tell you to leave me alone, already? I haven't the patience.
[voice]
[voice]
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