[ it's early monday morning and something -- heaven only knows what -- has knocked aside the rifleman's journal. the pages flutter open and a heavy sword belt, dropped rather coincidentally on the book, activates that buggered recording function.

major richard sharpe is captured in a state of semi-undress. mercifully, he's already hauled on the dark green cavalry trousers once taken from the body of a dead frenchman. what he hasn't yet donned is his shirt, and so the journal records -- for horrendous posterity -- a soldiering man's battlefield of a back. two hundred and one lashes had flayed the skin well past the point of healing well. although it had been fourteen years since the skin had grown back, the scars are still a mangled and taut mess of mauve and dark brown. hell had happened on sharpe's flesh and when he realizes it's being broadcast to the village at large, he swears. loudly. colourfully. with gusto. ]

--Bloody buggering piece of shite useless...[ he fumbles with the sword belt and struggles with the journal, trying to shut it off as his face fills the frame. but humiliation and a twisted sense of modesty make him clumsy. the swearing continues. he might even manage a mumbled apology.

hours later, he can be found first at the library looking for books about farming. he feels equally humiliated in this venture, but won't bark at anyone who tries to talk to him. later, he heads to good spirits for a pint or two.

he finishes the night with an armed stroll around town, humming to himself whenever he thinks he's alone. marching songs. soldiering songs. over the hills and far away.... ]

( ooc; you can find sharpe's valentine's triggers right here. but these are just preliminary choices; i might switch them up as threads progress. with that in mind, both eventy and non-eventy threads are encouraged. )