dragmire | Sixth Sin

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Sixth Sin

From Ganondorf's perspective, it had but been mere hours since he had returned to his world, soundly defeated his foes, and returned to Luceti. It was curious that he remembered none of his deeds in this world, but there would be time to dwell on that later. Once again he had arrived in this world in nothing bit ill fitting white pants a few sizes too small for him. The great wound in his chest continues to glow. A clean cut, even the strange unearthly glow can be seen from the other side. Having so obvious a weakness revealed was infuriating. He remembered how much he loathed the Malnosso.

And how much he desired their power.

It was clear time had passed in Luceti in his absence, but he had little way of knowing how much. But he knew the way. So the great lumbering man, all seven and a half feet of him, proceeded back to Luceti. The ground was cold, some of it still icy from the rain a few days ago, and he might have froze if he had not become so accustomed to the cold bitterness of the Twilight Realm. His destination was the clothing store. But it was daylight as he entered town, where anyone and everyone could see. Tedious, really.

After donning his armor once more and claiming a brilliant white blade from the smithy, Ganondorf was left with the curious task of returning to a life of domestic dullness. He'd need a place to sleep, he'd have to collect groceries, exchange pleasantries with people far beneath him, and bide his time in this most curious of prisons. He hated it already. But he could be found in the village doing just that. Eventually he would settle on a home far removed from the village, but not until later.

Later he would address the journals:

[Written]

By my last reckoning, it was the month 'January' in the fifth cycle of this enclosure. I understand much has occurred in this time. I would relish the opportunity to learn what has transpired.

Furthermore... would anyone know what fate befell a woman named Zelda and an assortment of boys sharing the name Link?

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The navy lad was holding a Christmas Ball next month and Richard Sharpe knew that he was by no means obligated to attend. Hell's teeth, he hadn't even been obligated to attend such events when at home -- preferring to duck out of the officer's mess and join the men instead, not because their welcome was any warmer but because their scorn was more familiar than the scorn of his betters. He knew how to counter the gruff mumbles and hard looks, but not so much the frigid faux-courtesy provided by his fellow officers.

At least he could thump his own men something awful if they got too out of hand.

But -- no -- Sharpe would attend this ball because the lads here weren't so awful and because it seemed like the thing to do just to stave off boredom. So now he stood in the clothing shop and plucked at linen shirts and jackets and knew that none of them would quite be the same as his dress uniform, even if his dress uniform was uncomfortable enough.

He was just shrugging out of a far-too-ornate jacket when the behemoth walked in. Bloody. Hell. The man was taller than him, certainly. Taller than Harper, surprisingly. Taller than Dresden, amazingly.

The rifleman laughed into the back of his hand. "Good luck finding anythin' in yer size, mate."

Ganondorf stepped in from the cold, relieved to be walking on something softer and warmer. His hair was long and rested in a wild manner along his shoulders. He looked very much like a barbarian without any sense of dignity or class. Even as he looked towards the rifleman, there was a somewhat wild look in his eye. His fiery wings tensed as he realized he was being addressed.

He did not like being laughed at.

"I intend to find that which was already mine." His appearance aside, there was a formality and elegance in how he spoke. Careful and deliberate. The way a king would speak.

"Oh, aye?"

Sharpe returned the abandoned jacket to its hanger and grabbed his own green uniform off the rack. He'd draped it there while browsing. "If you're so lucky, I suppose."

"I had been once before." He moved past the other man, searching among the racks of clothing for familiar tones and shapes. His armor wouldn't be here, but there would no doubt be something at least.

"I will be sorely disappointed if I am not."

"You have, have you?"

Christ. He'd never met a returnee before. Sharpe frowned at the beast of a man as he shrugged back into his greens. "Were it long ago?"

"It was but hours for me." He turned slightly to look at the world outside.

"In this land, winter had settled in and snow covered everything. It does not seem to be the case here."

Only now was he learning that that the man had a formal way of speaking. The first few exchanged words hadn't revealed much -- but this last sentence? Aye. Formal. Sharpe's expression crinkled with a kind of concern. He wasn't wary, just uncomfortable with not knowing where he stood with the tall tall man.

"That's here for you. But I suppose you already know that."

"I am all too acquainted with this world."

He fetched a tunic from a clothing rack. Still it had a whole in it. Bloodied from the wound inflicted on him. It fit him better than anything else would, but he'd prefer to find something else. He folded it over his arm to conceal such details.

"January was not yet ended when I was last here."

Sharpe did a quick count -- flicking a few fingers up to help him.

"Then you left just a'fore my -- ah, what's it called? Cycle. Makes sens. I'd have remembered seeing anyone lik you 'round the villag, if you'll pardon the saying so."

"Indeed." From that, Ganondorf could surmise it had been about ten months. How tedious. He had nearly made it through winter, only to return as it began again.

"There are none of my kin in this village."

"Are you certain?"

Because -- mate -- you look a little new. Sharpe casually begain strapping his sword's sling back around his waist. The heavy cavalry sabre was too large for a scabbard, so it simply hung at a jaunty angle instead.

"Perhaps you should ask 'round. Unless you already have."

"As you said, my kind stand out among those here."

In truth, he only guessed there were no other Gerudo around. Nabooru had long ago left. He felt it unlikely he'd ever see any of his kind again. Not in this place, in any case.

"What? And they're all as hulking as the likes of you? Bloody hell."

Sharpe's eyebrows stayed up as he adjusted the dark red officer's sash around his waist.

Indeed they were not. All of his ilk were women. Though tall, they were nowhere near his own height. It was a technicality he saw no reason to share.

"There are few who share my stature."

"Christ! An understatement if I ever heard one."

He stuck his thumbs in his sash-and-belt, glad to avoid looking too up at the man due to the distance still betwen them. "The last time I saw any man who bloody well shared your stature, it were an Indian jetti."

"What manner of creature is an Indian jetti?"

He retrieved a pair of pants and a replacement tunic. A cape, soon after. Now he needed only his boots.

"Religious strongmen," he explained -- lifting a flat palm up to a height about his head in the vain hope of demonstrating their grandiousity. "Brutish as you like. Can twist a man's head clean 'round with their bare hands, they can. Killers. Executioners. Don't speak a bleeding word as they do it."

"Devout and loyal, I would think." Though it was not obvious, he appreciated the description. They were exactly the sort of creatures that Ganondorf would relish having at his disposal.

"Aye. And they were at that -- to their sultan."

Sharpe had stood with his jaw set as he'd watched one Jetti use his fist as a hammer, driving a nail deep into a prisoner's skull. The sand had gone gummy with blood. "Until he met a sticky end himself."

"How unfortunate for him."

The meaning was plain enough. Ganondorf recalled his own 'sticky' end. The wound in his chest, strange as it may be, was quite obvious.

"... if you'll excuse me." Moving on, he went to the changing room.

"Of course."

A chop of his hand -- not as though he was excusing the other man but merely agreeing with his decision to move on. Sharpe stepped aside and dropped his eyes to a pair of nice, thick-soled boots.

Ganondorf had not yet acquired everything he would normally clothe himself in. Without his armor, he truly felt naked. All the same, after he had attached his cape and taken the trouble to use a bit of string to bind his wild hair, he felt that much more confident. He returned a few minutes later, quickly spotting the other man again.

"I failed to introduce myself before. I am Ganondorf."

"You did," Sharpe straightend again -- the boots tucked under one arm. "But it wasn't my place to tell you so, eh?"

Ganondorf. Not the oddest name here. Not by a long shot. But it was unhelpful -- was it a Christian name? A surname? A rank? Where, Sharpe wondered, did he stand against this New Feather?

At the very least, it was easy to see that the man was self-possessed.

"Major Richard Sharpe."

He wondered if he should maybe offer his hand.

"Major." He repeated the world, somewhat unfamiliar with the term itself. But he recognized it as not being a part of the man's name.

"A title of some sort?"

"It would be my rank" -- and one he clung to desperately, it seems -- "in the South Essex regiment."

And what he's told no one in the whole bleeding town is that he as good as commanded the 1st Batallion. Not officially -- no, certainly not. But until recently, there'd been a shortage of men to put above the Major. And things worked so smoothly with him in place.

"His Britannic Majesty's army, though I don't expect you to know it."

For if he didn't know what a 'major' was...

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