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

[dragmire]

"There will be no need for chanting. Come with me."

Ganondorf was a secretive man in almost all aspects of his life. Even in Luceti he didn't much care to have people watching him cook or eat. It was long ingrained in him by his surrogate mothers, a pair of old crones whose home was far removed from others. In this instance, the secrecy was well warranted. The spell he was about to cast was not one he wished to have an audience for.

So he turned and began his trek into the forest. He brought no light with him to guide the way. Though the Moon was adequate illumination for now, it would soon prove less useful under the canopy of the trees. Fortunately it was still winter. While Ganondorf was well accustomed to moving about in the dark, his comrade might not be so able. Not yet, anyway.

[greenjacketed]

The dark woods gave Sharpe few qualms. Although he'd been a city-boy in his youth, a few decades with the army had taught the Major how to march on just about every terrain. Although Wellington hated night assaults, they were still sometimes a necessity and Sharpe had made pitch-black approaches to many a field, town, and fortress. Both a thief and a skirmisher had to understand the lay of the land, how to traverse it, and how not to be so loud or obvious as to be spotted. The only thing slowing him down was the fact that he had to rekindle the old skill after nights of living in a fluorescent glow in his apartment.

But old strengths returned quickly.

"Bugger," he eventually rasped into the darkness -- after a solid period of silence. "Where the bloody hell do you live, mate? Timbuktu?"

[dragmire]

Though he raised an eyebrow, he did not look back to address his companion. "I do not know of any Timbuktu within Luceti. But my home is not our destination."

If he had enemies here, a possibility to be sure, his home would be far too suspicious for anything of this nature. It needed to be somewhere even more secluded than that.

[greenjacketed]

...Such a fact alarmed him more than he'd anticipated. "What, man? Truly? Where the bloody hell are we headed, then?"

[dragmire]

"To a place where I have made preparations for the spell. It's not much farther."

[greenjacketed]

"Preparations?"

A doubt or two boiled in his stomach; however, Sharpe had shaken on it. He'd given his word. And he craved what was on offer. "Not going to be too tricky, is it?"

[dragmire]

"You'll hardly feel a thing." He lied.

A clearing was just ahead. A circle was scorched into the grass, several meters wide, with a complex figure drawn inside of it.

"Stand here," he ordered as he pointed to the center of the circle.

[greenjacketed]

Despite being accustomed to taking orders, even Sharpe was a little surprised by how eagerly he followed this one and took up a space in the circle's centre. He took it as a sign that he wanted this more than he previously thought possible: the power to become someone in this world. After all, men like himself had a mantra: you're only as good as your last battle. And in Luceti, Sharpe's last battle -- that ill-fated mission -- had been horrific. It would have been seen an unequivocal failure by his superiors back in the army.

"Aye," he gave a nod -- if not a salute -- and slung his rifle over a shoulder for it was hardly necessary to hold it even at half-ready.

[dragmire]

Ganondorf stepped outside the circle. Once just outside of the edge, he turned to face Sharpe, eyes closed. There was no chanting, but he did hold out his hand, palm down, over the circle. His lips moved as he summoned up the depths of his power. All at once, his eyes opened, pupils replaced with a blazing white glow. The circle suddenly raised up in flames, crisscrossing as they followed a distinct pattern, save for that small area where Sharpe stood.

Ganondorf raised up his other hand, directing the flow of magical energies. The fire dissipated as it was replaced by a shining white light. He tightened his fists and then the light turned blood red. At that moment, the power began to course inside of the major. Painfully, like it was being injected through his skin by thousands of needles.

Ganondorf spoke.

"I have housed my power in you. If there is anything you desire, then I shall desire it, too. If you have enemies, they shall be my enemies. Rise Richard Sharpe, Warrior of Another World. Savor your new power."

[greenjacketed]

...It was unlike anything Sharpe had ever witnessed in his long and storied life. The circle was strange enough, and the overall notion so peculiar that he was half-convinced it wouldn't work. But just as the Major was about to laugh it off and stride boldly from his place, Gandorf's eyes seemed to generate light. He frowned and found his back foot slipping into a solid, readied position: prepared to flee should it be necessary. But flames followed hard upon the first bewildering sight and before he could shout invective at their heat and their power, everything was a daze of clean light.

And then everything was pain. A ragged sound ripped forth from his lungs and his throat as he felt his very veins invaded. For a brief moment, at the pain's apex, he was worried he might slip consciousness. But he only slipped stance and dropped to one green-trouser'd knee. A hand crunched into old snow and the rotting detritus below it. In seconds and flashes, he was transported back to the dying room under Salamanca. Having taken a pistol ball to the gut, Sharpe had been incorrectly triaged as a common soldier because of the scars on his back and those in charge of the wounded had sent him off to the dank stone cellar where the men unlucky enough not to die quick on the battlefield were sent to die slowly instead. From rot and fever. This pain, today, was not as bad but was instead spread across more square inches of his body.

In its wake, he expected to feel exhausted. Broken. Anger and righteous fury were already bubbling up as he justifed -- to himself -- why he should despite the man who just now dragged his skin over hot coals and sharp spikes. But the anger wouldn't stick. When Sharpe tried to grab firmly onto it and bolster himself as he'd done a hundred times before, he found the emotion to be ethereal. Impossible to touch. He couldn't hate this man.

What's more, his anticipated exhaustion was trumped by a great energy. Sharpe pushed back to both feet and touched his chest as though he'd expected pinpricks of blood to have soaked through his shirt and jacket. His fingertips came back dry.

Rise, Richard Sharpe. Warrior of Another World. He lifted his scarred face to the moonlight and took a deep, envigorating breath of cold night air. "You must be the devil," he choked out -- and yet, it barely sounded like an insult. More like admiration.

[dragmire]

"I am many, many things." King, god, demon, devil. Power was all the same in the end. But with the task complete, he stepped into the circle, striding easily past the now charred grass. He wished to examine his work.

"How do you feel?"

[greenjacketed]

"Bloody marvelous," he answered -- utter disbelief tainting his voice. He could almost swear the old ache in his leg was gone, too. "Christ. No wonder this world seems obsessed with magic..."

[dragmire]

"Naturally. Its potential is unlimited. But perhaps you'd like a chance to test your new power first."

[greenjacketed]

He looked down at his hands, half-expecting light or flame to leap from their worn lines simply on principle. But it wouldn't be so simple, would it? And, after all, he didn't really want something to flashy. He just wanted...

"How?" Sharpe glanced up, inclined to trust the man's tutelage more now than he had before. So the question is honest. Direct.

[dragmire]

"A mission for the Malnosso would surely be the greatest test of your skill. But for now, perhaps the Dome shall be enough."

Oh, certainly Ganondorf could turn his own blade against the man. But he would much rather see Sharpe's prowess with foes he could defeat. The sort of foes he would be dealing with often.

[greenjacketed]

His hackles rose at the thought of that queer Dome, and Richard shook his head. But all his derision was delivered in a bit of a daze. He'd always been a man who felt solid on the earth -- strong and quick after years of darting between targets and snatching purses and holding up carts and out-gunning the French. His fingers twitched and he half-believed he could reload his rifle with more speed, now. That's how elegant each simple movement now felt. And that thought made his heart race faster. Rifles were slow, unwieldy things to reload but if he could fire at a musket's pace...

"And the spirits--?" He gasped, surprised to find himself sounding so breathless. His anticipation was getting to him. God, he felt like a young man on the eve of his first battle. "Do you think I can contact them now?"

Likely, he could always contact them. He just never believed it. He just never tried hard enough. But here was his confidence; here was his emperor's clothing.

[dragmire]

He had no expectation on any changed control of the spirits. Though he was well practiced with them, only time would tell if his influence with them would transfer to the Major. All the same, though, it was certainly worth encouraging the man's pursuit of power.

"The spirits are beings of power. Those who are in possession of it are worth of their attention."

[greenjacketed]

He fingered his rifle's lock, as though he were itching to give it a few experimental rounds at his makeshift firing range behind the barracks. Although, the night was dark...

"I can make the walk home myself," he answered -- gruff not with disagreement but with an awkward sentimentality. Something approaching gratitude, and something which he didn't particularly want to share even with Ganondorf. Not until he'd sorted out his feelings for himself. Not until this humming in his bones had calmed down or else he'd grown to accept it.

[dragmire]

Time to adjust. Disappointing, but not unreasonable. Anxious as Ganondorf was to see the results of his work, he was a patient man. He could wait until an opportune moment.

"So be it. I bid you farewell, Major."