SHARPE'S MEAL ⚔ WRITTEN | ACTION

[greenjacketed]

[ after the public relations disaster of his last broadcast, sharpe has since kept his journal under a sort of imprisonment: tied shut with leather straps and stuffed in a cloth sack, that sack being knotted as well. but today he gingerly picks it from its incarceration and flicks through its pages until he settles upon one he likes. and then sharpe picks up his pencil.

he writes three messages. as ever, his handwriting is scrawlish, ill-practised, and riddled with errors. none are filtered, although only the first is intended for community consumption:]

LUCETI -- I need to speak with someone who can cook a des--deecdecent meal. [ ugh this is borderline humiliating someone shoot him and put him out of his misery. ] Frogs need not apply, beecuz I don't want the lot to taste like cheese and garlik.

KATNISS -- I'm coming by before 12. We have our wager to settle.

MISS FAITH LONG -- might a man call on you this afternoon?

-- R. SHARPE

[ OTHERWISE the man can be found staring disconsolately at grocery items. some of these things have never before been seen by eyes such as his. in fact, some of these things look barely edible. sharpe's been in luceti for a year, but he just about never goes to the grocery shop -- not when he has katniss looking after him with her stew. not when he can still shoot his own game. but today brings his boots squarely inside this devil's shop. as he browses, he mutters: ] Bloody hell...

[ LATER, sharpe has taken up a sentry position at the bar in good spirits. he's drinking watered down brandy because he can't afford to get drunk tonight. he's on the lookout for a certain fire-haired giant of a man. ganondorf. for it occurs to sharpe that he doesn't know where he lives, only that he's often seen at the bar. so he waits. ]

Comments

[fleurdesel]

Wives and family of the soldiers that kept the camp tidy and soldiers fed while on the march, yes?

[Pheasant? Pheasant. She has to take a moment to confer with Helios as she's never prepared that particular bird. A few minutes and a new cookbook later and she's half certain all that's changed is the time spent roasting.]

They ought to, but I am not certain. I've never roasted a pheasant.

[greenjacketed]

Yes. Harper's Isabella always took good care. The woman could cook. [ his sergeant had found a keeper in that one, certainly. sharpe had never quite managed to capture himself one of those kitchen-savvy lasses. they'd all been too well-bred to do it themselves or too interested in killing frenchmen to care.

of course, as an officer, sharpe was entitled to employ a servant to arrange those things for him. but being either broke or disinclined to keep a body man, he'd never had another after little ahmed had died in india.

so. the camp wives did well enough for him. ]

I have. Not properly, though. Just enough to cook it up and make it edible. I can't imagine serving it off a knife's blade, though. Wouldn't be --- proper.

[fleurdesel]

I suppose it's foolish to ask if you've a roasting pan and flatware that isn't chipped?

[She meant nothing by it, truly. Sharpe had what he needed and anything fanciful wasn't something he had much need for, and didn't have a place in his home- at least from what she'd seen of it in December.]

Cooking, carving, serving- you'll need the tools before you actually dress and roast your pheasant, Richard.

[greenjacketed]

That's to be the second part of today's mishmission. I don't have enough plates.

[ it's woeful. ]

[fleurdesel]

How fortunate that they are provided by the item store, in matched sets no less.

[greenjacketed]

That place is worse than the commissariat.

[ it's strange how there are some large, awkward words that he spells correctly without a second thought. strange, at least, until one realizes that there are some words an officer probably has to write an awful lot. notes to the commissariat are not rare messages. ]

[fleurdesel]

[That. That but not 'because' or 'garlic'. Then again he probably didn't have much call to ask for garlic on paper.]

Worse how, or should I not ask?

[greenjacketed]

Encourages a man to load up on all manner of useless shitedoo-dads. [ at least that correction had nothing to do with spelling. ]

[fleurdesel]

However will you withstand the temptation?

[greenjacketed]

Discipline, Miss Adele. The thing what marks the difference between an Englishman and a Frenchman.

[ it's coyly written and yet -- and yet -- the joke is far darker than he'd ever willingly admit. but in the end it is only a joke. he knows even amongst his comrades that he would be the odd man out to not stuff as much of the item shop's selection into his pockets as he could fit. ]

[fleurdesel]

God save The Queen King.

[Though it's a king for Sharpe, isn't it? There's a bit of a delay before the correction, but cheek is met with cheek.]

[greenjacketed]

King. [ he confirms. ] Prince Regent, if you care to get picky.

[ though the king was undeniably the top dog, even if he was in no shape to rule. ]

[fleurdesel]

No sane man or woman spares the time to be picky about politicians.

[A beat and she pulls herself back on track. Dinner. Company. Proper flatware.]

You mind the flatware, I'll mind the meal as best I'm able, or at least what you'll need for it save the pheasant.

[greenjacketed]

[ sharpe can't see much room for being picky, anyway. having met the man, he's not convinced the prince regent isn't half-mad himself. ah, well. ]

Will there be much? [ he writes -- almost as if with a wince -- when he wonders what the meal would need beyond the bird. ]

[fleurdesel]

For an Englishman and his company? Meat and potatoes, herbs for flavoring the pheasant as it roasts. Perhaps a lemon, a bit of salt. Not much at all.

[greenjacketed]

[ he reveals but a peek at his otherwise well-guarded plan when he confesses: ] The ladies'll likely appreciate something sweet, afterwards.

[fleurdesel]

Apples or chocolate? Though the Tart might be simpler, even though it's terribly French.

[greenjacketed]

Apples. [ god, but this answer comes quickly. sharpe figures everyone's had just about enough chocolate lately. ]

[fleurdesel]

Tarte Normande. I'll prepare one for you, unless each lady needs one of her own.

[greenjacketed]

...And it will be good?

[ the reheated chicken at adele's place had been more than edible, but the woman doesn't exactly gush confidence about her own culinary skills. so it seems fit enough to ask. ]

[fleurdesel]

May I live to be a thousand and never hear or speak my native tongue again. It will be good.

[Pheasant may have thrown her but this? This she knows, has known for a long while, and has served to a god to his satisfaction. His company will enjoy it.]

[greenjacketed]

Heaven help any of us should we live so long. [ it's an idle thought, idly written. still -- he wonders if it's somehow cheating to have someone else do the work for him?

eh. his conscience is not troubled by cutting this corner. even still: ] I will requisition the stuff with you -- [ another five-dollar wound scrawled without hesitation. ]

[fleurdesel]

If we live that long there's almost certainly no kind heaven, Richard.

[She's already making a list- the English are disciplined but this Frog is organized enough to get what she needs and only what she needs to assist Sharpe in his plans, whatever they might be.]

I'll meet you in the plaza.

[greenjacketed]

[ he checks the watch the same frog had gifted him, judging his time. aye. a while yet before he had to go capture katniss's ear. ]

I will be there.

[ and, true to his word, he turns up in punctual fashion. he doesn't wear his greatcoat today, but he is once again in his rifles uniform; however, its tatters and worn out elbows are mended. lost buttons have been replaced. it doesn't look perfectly new, but it looks as though it's been tended to.

when he sees her approach, he pushes to his feet -- forsaking the seat he'd taken by the fountain. ]

[fleurdesel]

[She makes good time, enough so that he's not made to wait for her long. Stable in the weather Adele's tucked and bundled her petite frame against the cold in her blue trench coat, hair bound up and pinned in place against what breeze there might be. She lifts a hand in greeting as Sharpe stands and huffs a soft laugh at the memory of their mild argument about standing and sitting when they'd spoke last.]

Richard. You look well.

[The mending and minding to his jacket is taken in with little more than a quirked brow. Whoever he held in his company he wishes to impress, it seems. Or he was simply tired of it being a mess. One is as likely as the other.]