[ Sharpe lifts an arm and turns his head, taking a long deep breath of himself. He can't smell much beyond the thick cake of gunpowder that seems to have been pressed straight into his skin, and that smells horrid enough already - of rotten eggs and burnt trees. Sharpe takes a slightly deeper breath and tries to find the rank scent of sweat- but he gives it up after a second and makes a face. ]
Not by much. [ Dryly. ] The smell of gunpowder ain't poison, though I don't smell of rot, at least.
[ A pause. And he leans back onto the railing, looking at Mia for a long moment. ]
no subject
Not by much. [ Dryly. ] The smell of gunpowder ain't poison, though I don't smell of rot, at least.
[ A pause. And he leans back onto the railing, looking at Mia for a long moment. ]
You alright there, ma'am?