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

[greenjacketed]

In my defence, I was convinced mine was a Spaniard.

[ he pushes off the shelf and follows -- grabbing himself a spare bottle of the pinot noir in case the opened one sours too soon. ]

[fleurdesel]

I'm not certain whether or not that's much of an improvement. I've known some truly awful Spanish women. [Her sister in law, mostly.]

[greenjacketed]

I like'em. Spanish women. [ well. that's no secret. ] But this one, bloody hell. I suppose -- in her defence -- it's fair to inform you that she was, at the very least, married to a Spaniard. Her title was Spanish enough.

[ a long pause as sharpe tries to remember the whole damn thing. then: ] La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sabada. Helena. She told me her name was Helena. Turns out, it was actually Hélène.

[fleurdesel]

Any woman, French or Spanish, with a name that takes more time to write out than an invitation to dinner is most certainly going to cause trouble for whoever meets her. Especially if they've a title.

[greenjacketed]

Her husband's title. [ ... ] Trust me, she didn't show much respect for him nor his title neither.

[ take that as you will, adele. take that as you will. ]

[fleurdesel]

I'm afraid to ask.

[And for once, she doesn't. She sets the selected wine in her bag and starts back for the door, the next stop on her list the item shop. Flatware for three's simpler than finding flatware for eight, so in that Sharpe is quite fortunate.]

Have you preferences as to what manner of flatware you would care to requisition?

[greenjacketed]

[ he follows at a respectful pace, knowing he can't grab the door for her. not this time. not without somehow squeezing past her in the aisle and in the long run, that seems far more uncomfortable than just letting her get the door herself. ]

Anything what holds food, lass. Something more than knives.

[fleurdesel]

Brightly colored with an abstract floral print. It'll suit you perfectly.

[She smirks a little to herself as she pushes the door open and stalls outside, holding it for him.]

And doilies. If you are entertaining women you must have doilies.

[greenjacketed]

Bloody hell.

[ he tugs at his uniform's collar so that it more adequately overlaps the black cloth choker tied 'round his neck. and he gives adele an awkward nod of gratitude for her door-holding. ] Is that what you do when you're entertained, eh? Expect bloody blasted doilies?

[fleurdesel]

And fine china, a bottle of good wine, cheese served on a platter, the company of a lawyer and at least one other surgeon with which to share the entirety of the cream and butter drowned meal. Throw some garlic in along the way and I'll be perfectly happy.

[Were her tone any drier it'd be reminiscent of the damned Sahara.]

[greenjacketed]

...Someone ought to shoot you, Adele. [ he grumbles some more. ] And if you're not bloody careful, it'll bloody well be me.

[ empty threats. empty threats. he knows not what he does. ]

[fleurdesel]

So long as I get a running start I'll call it fair.

[The french did love to run, after all. She huddles down into her jacket as they hit the chill and heads along the perimeter of the plaza to the item shop.]

[greenjacketed]

[ as if boasting: ] A hundred paces from a rifleman is still a certain death warrant. Three and four hundred yards is still within my range, lass.

I once saw Hagman drop a French artilleryman from six hundred. [ even hagman had been hard pressed to believe it, but it had happened. ]

So I hope you run fast.

[fleurdesel]

I'd be running to the nearest building or cover, Sharpe, not in a straight line.

[Even she knows that much, though she hasn't had reason to mull over being on the wrong end of his rifle in anything other than jest as of yet. Perhaps it's something she ought to mind in the future.]

[greenjacketed]

You'd never get there. [ ... ] Well. You would, on account of me not even having the rifle with me. Aye? But if you weren't you and I weren't me and if this were some godforsaken field in Spain? You'd never get there.

[fleurdesel]

I'm not terribly surprised by this. I've terrible luck with avoiding bullets.

[It'd be quicker, perhaps, than bleeding out- and that's a morbid turn of thought she has no time for today. She pastes on a resigned half smile and shrugs, picking her way along the path.]

I'd best do what I can to not end up on the wrong end of your rifle. I suppose assisting with this dinner will grant me some kindness, yes?

[greenjacketed]

Eh. It'll do. 'Sides -- I try not to shoot women. Even French ones. Hardly any bloody sport in it, is there?

[ dry dry humour. ]

[fleurdesel]

Slightly less than hunting them with hounds, I should think. I've heard the phrase 'French Vixen' but that seems a touch literal.

[greenjacketed]

Hunting. [ scoffing. ] That's a rich man's battle, that is.

[fleurdesel]

Remind me again how it is you intend to fetch your pheasant for this meal?

[greenjacketed]

Catching your supper's a bit different from fox-hunting.

[ adele, after all, had brought up the vixen. ]

[fleurdesel]

Much more straightforward, I suppose.

[greenjacketed]

...Fewer horses. [ and fewer silly hats. ]

[fleurdesel]

I never understood the idea of hunting from horseback. Would that not add an entirely new and exciting set of variables that might end in one of the hunters shot or thrown from their mount?

[Hunting's dangerous enough with the live fire arms, but adding horses? Maddness.]

[greenjacketed]

It seems that wealth breeds such idiocy, Miss Adele. [ ... ] But the worst of it I ever saw was a man who hunted men across marshes.