[ darkness is no excuse for shoddy shooting. sharpe is out behind the barracks, where he's lined up a series of shielded lanterns at the forest's edge. with their glow so muffled, they are only dim presences among the shadows. and, still, the rifleman crouches a fair two hundred (maybe two-fifty) paces away. he draws back the heavy hammer and raises the gun to his shoulder, carefully training one lantern in the rifle's stubby foresight.
the barrel barks a cracking report, higher-pitched than a musket's cough. smoke wreathes sharpe's head but even still he watches the lantern explode in a miniature ball of lamp oil and flame. he smiles. and he understands that his night-time shooting will likely bring attention down on him, but he doesn't mind. he's doing nothing wrong. ]
no subject
the barrel barks a cracking report, higher-pitched than a musket's cough. smoke wreathes sharpe's head but even still he watches the lantern explode in a miniature ball of lamp oil and flame. he smiles. and he understands that his night-time shooting will likely bring attention down on him, but he doesn't mind. he's doing nothing wrong. ]