![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Harper?
[ sharpe wakes up with chattering teeth; his shirt and boots are gone. so is his jacket. his rifle and sword. his shako. his officer's sash. no tassel or trapping of his rank and occupation remain. unless you count the scars -- and he does. ]
Bloody 'ell, Pat. [ thick, dark vowels filled with all the verbal flavours of yorkshire. all the catches and hooks of a guttersnipe. ] Y'bone-headed paddy. Where are you...? [ and alarm. the journal is shunted aside and its new angle picks up a broad-chested man in new feather trousers; looking for his sergeant and his best friend. finding himself alone.
he draws a rough, cold palm over his face and misconstrues his situation entirely: ] Bastards.
- - -
[ once he's had his ears filled with nonsense and advice, sharpe does the only thing he knows how to do when his luck's run out and his aims are at a stand-still: pub. he slouches onto a stool in good spirits -- thankfully more adequately clothed than when he first arrived. a plain linen shirt with the two articles of his he'd been able to find -- green french cavalry overalls and a bloody large greatcoat.
after a few hot rum toddies that grow increasingly more rummy than toddy, he'll venture the attention of a few strangers. asking them if they could shove him off in the direction of the british army. or: ]
Have any of you seen a man called Patrick Harper?
[ sharpe wakes up with chattering teeth; his shirt and boots are gone. so is his jacket. his rifle and sword. his shako. his officer's sash. no tassel or trapping of his rank and occupation remain. unless you count the scars -- and he does. ]
Bloody 'ell, Pat. [ thick, dark vowels filled with all the verbal flavours of yorkshire. all the catches and hooks of a guttersnipe. ] Y'bone-headed paddy. Where are you...? [ and alarm. the journal is shunted aside and its new angle picks up a broad-chested man in new feather trousers; looking for his sergeant and his best friend. finding himself alone.
he draws a rough, cold palm over his face and misconstrues his situation entirely: ] Bastards.
- - -
[ once he's had his ears filled with nonsense and advice, sharpe does the only thing he knows how to do when his luck's run out and his aims are at a stand-still: pub. he slouches onto a stool in good spirits -- thankfully more adequately clothed than when he first arrived. a plain linen shirt with the two articles of his he'd been able to find -- green french cavalry overalls and a bloody large greatcoat.
after a few hot rum toddies that grow increasingly more rummy than toddy, he'll venture the attention of a few strangers. asking them if they could shove him off in the direction of the british army. or: ]
Have any of you seen a man called Patrick Harper?
