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]

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.

[fleurdesel]

The higher the bank account, the lower the intellect. [She snorts and stamps down the path to the item shop.] Why am I not surprised?

...

I suppose he had some manner of justification as to why he was allowed to do so without recompense?

[greenjacketed]

...Hated the Irish? Hated the men? Or else he was simple a sadistic son of a bitch.

[fleurdesel]

The usual, then. I am not certain if that makes it better or worse. [She shakes her head and stops to stomp the slush from her boots before entering the item shop.]

[greenjacketed]

[ sharpe doesn't knock the slush free from his boots. at least, he doesn't until he sees adele doing it and then he backtracks a moment just to ape that same courtesy, swearing softly under his breath as he does. ]

Everything about that man was worse, Adele. [ and yet, sharpe allowed him to maintain command of the regiment. girdwood would be sailing back to the battle alongside the same men he'd terrorized. there's a strategy in that. ] He weren't all there, if you catch my meaning.

[fleurdesel]

Mental illness is no excuse for such blatant disregard for human life. It makes it easier for them to make that disconnect, yes, but it does not forgive it- that most certainly does make it worse. There are reasons most military branches in my time have psych evaluations prior to permitting a man to join.

[Muttering, though she isn't certain if such an evaluation is normal for the officers- it seems like it should be. Heavy talk for a formerly meandering conversation. She sighs and instead searches the shelves for flatware. And doilies.]

[greenjacketed]

Trust me, no one will be forgiving it in Colonel Girdwood anytime soon.

[fleurdesel]

Good.

[She shifts the bag on her shoulder and slows to a stop at a stack of simple, off white ceramic plates. No decoration, not fussy and overly fragile. And enough for Sharpe's dinner.]

Will these suffice?

[greenjacketed]

[ he reaches out and touches their smooth surface -- seemingly entranced by them all the same, independant of their sparse style.

he gives a low whistle. ] Oi. They're lovely, ain't they? They'll do marvelously.

[ and as if worried he might break it, he picks one so gently from her hands. ]

[fleurdesel]

They'll wash well, and so long as you don't drop them deliberately should be quite hardy.

[She runs her fingers along the edge of the plate before setting it back on the stack, looking around for corresponding bowls or plates of a smaller size. Simply because he did not need them now did not mean he didn't need them ever.]