...He'd left his journal open on the bar, eyeing it with twinned apprehension and eagerness. Somehow, he'd hoped for a message from someone else even so late into the evening. The man was growing mad for the Admiral's daughter. Even still, he found himself sinking in the realization that -- should she be dragged into one of those terrible conflicts -- he might not have the capability to protect her. Last draft, there were some moments where he'd barely been able to extricate himself from tight corners. To lead a lady through that madness as well---

Ah. His mouth twitched into something not-quite-a-smile when Ganondorf's message flickered over the page. Perhaps his waiting felt a little wasted, but all the same Sharpe enjoyed the quiet murmur of the pub around his ears. He exchanged a few courteous words with Sparrow's woman and downed his watered brandy.

Although he wasn't anticipating a fight nor any animosity at all, he walked with his rifle not slung upon his shoulder but tucked readily under an elbow. Although this left his palm resting gently upon the hammer, he didn't anticipate having to cock the thing in the near future. No, it was merely a comfort to a man who didn't get to shoot it often enough. And -- sure enough -- when he arrived at the southernmost bridge at midnight, he eased his fingers off the rifle's mechanics and gripped it instead with a fist.

He glanced up. "...'S a bit covert of you, ain't it?"