eachdraidh | (sharpe's locket) ♖ video: open to all courts

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(sharpe's locket) ♖ video: open to all courts

(ACCIDENTAL VIDEO)

...Bloody hell.

[ the locket is propped open on richard sharpe's lap. it catches the lower half of his face and shows a steep-angled frame of one green-jacketed shoulder as he works: trying to transplant a second charm from it's own chain onto the locket's. why carry around two bleeding necklaces when they can be consolidated?

but the chain slips in his calloused fingers and he swears a second time. bugger. ] I should sell it. [ he talks to himself. ] Or else let Pat handle the fool thing. He likes talking. Talks enough for the both of--

[ again, something tumbles; slips; goes awry. sharpe drops another string of strong oaths. ]

╍ ╍ ╍

(PURPOSEFUL VIDEO, LATER THAT DAY)

Who in Caer Glaem's got some scissors I can borrow? [ he doesn't want to ask the damned fairies; don't make him ask the damned fairies. he'd rather the damned fairies didn't even exist! ]

And while we're at it -- [ huff ] -- speak up if any of you poor sods are British army. Either bloody court.

[ he can't yet decide if it will be a windfall or a disaster if he and patrick are the only poor bastards to find themselves absent without leave from their own army. a windfall if he finds some he can order around, he supposes. and a right pain in his arse if he comes across anyone whose rank exceeds his own.

and lacking in many graces, major richard sharpe fails to identify himself. he just sits and glowers at the locket with a scarred face and an impatient expression. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm not going to shoot you.

[ Helpful, John. ]

Of course you're not. [ a suspicious glance around his spot. ] Whoever you are, you're nowheres near me.

[ John snorts. ] Even if I were.

Our countries are allies, when I'm from. And I showed up in Caer Glaem.

Allies! England and America, allies?

[ don't make him laugh! except...except spain and england were enemies once. now they are not -- or at least, not so officially. ]

What bloody fantasy of a world do you come from, mate?

The year 2046.

[ So. Yeah. ]

...Bit of a long march from 1813. [ bloody hell. ]

Little bit, yeah.

[ must resist urge to tell him who wins... ]

You should see the weapons we're working with now.

Oh?

[ long as there are no dreadful inaccurate rockets, he's curious. ]

[ And John will just pull out his modified Heckler & Koch G36. ]

You can shoot more than once at a time and you don't have to shove gunpowder in it.

How accurate is it?

[ don't mind the wariness in his voice. he just doesn't like the feeling of being...outdated. the rifles were meant to be on the cutting edge of weapons technology. ah, well. at least his rifle will still work outside the station... ]

Depends on the person shooting, doesn't it?

[ But he notes that wariness, and with a fond pat to his rifle, puts it back. ]

Doesn't work outside of the Station, though. Too much magic out there.

Aye. It does...

[ but that answer troubles him. he (perhaps rightly) assumes that the range of accuracy must be impressive, or else the skill of the shooter would not matter so much. unlike the switch from musket to baker rifle, which suddenly proved that skill could be a factor. ]</small What's its range?

[ This honestly isn't the reaction he was expecting to get, but he supposes maybe he should have. There's several centuries between the two of them, after all. ]

800 meters.

[ he'd be impressed, except... ] What's that in yards?

[ because you can be damn certain he doesn't follow any revolutionary french measuring systems. :| ]

Just under 875 yards.

[ With C24, he can do the conversion and spit out the actual number -- but that's fucking freaky. ]

...Bloody hell.

[ the baker was a sure-kill at 200 yards, but serviceable up to 400. he'd once heard of a man who'd shot a french general at just about 800 yards...but he isn't certain he believes it. and that man must have been terribly skilled. hagman, he reckons of his own men, could come close. ]

Sounds like shite, if you ask me -- [ disbelief. he cannot comprehend such an efficient gun. ]

[ He can't help it. He laughs, shaking his head before becoming a little more serious again. There are certainly implications in the suddenly increased range for a man from two hundred years ago. ]

It's certainly changed things.

Changed things! Christ, man. Give me a company of them long-arms and I'll have all of France in three months. [ and for good measure, he swore again. ]

What's your name? [ because now he's curious. not necessarily at ease. but pleased to be speaking with another soldier. ]

You don't want France. It's too... French.

[ A+ words ]

Staff Sergeant John Grimm.

[ oh. he doesn't want france. but france wants everyone else -- and so he marches under orders. ]

Major Richard Sharpe. [ his tone relaxes just a little to learn he's talking to a non-commissioned man. not by much, of course, because an american solider owes him no true deference. and yet its a little easier to know he needn't worry about some other officer's ego. ]

Edited 2014-06-26 19:54 (UTC)

Major, huh? You don't seem that bad, for an officer.

[ There's still a bit of a grin; John knows full well that they're from different countries, after all, and that ranks mean nothing here unless you can back it up. ]

I've got several [ read: three dozen ] soldiers in Caer Glaem that report to me. If you need them for any reason while I'm away, I'm sure they'd be happy to assist.

[ a sort of snorted laugh is all the sergeant gets -- don't seem that bad for an officer. there are many things he could have said. sharpe could have explained how he'd not started out as one. how he likely had just as much disdain for the implied bad officers. but it all tread too close to boasting -- of describing his meteoric rise from gutter to officer's mess. and sharpe had no tongue for boasts. not for his own personal ones, at least. ]

You're away? For long? [ because he has a little quest a-brewing, but he doesn't want to inconvenience the man. ]

As long as it takes.

[ He's getting restless, truth be told; John's not made for sitting still and quiet, and helping elves learn how to technology is only amusing for so long. But... ]

A friend of mine was tortured. I'm helping look after him while he recovers.

Christ. How'd that happen?

[ he doesn't really have to ask. he knows the answer: war. ]

Got left behind.

[ Though yes. War. ]

And of course the bastard who did it is someone I fought when he attacked Caer Glaem, but I couldn't quite manage to kill him.

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