...Sharpe flinched. Not because he couldn't take an old fashioned yelling -- one got quite used to that, after all, in the army. But he'd rather comfortably slipped into his old sergeant's boots and -- quite frankly -- he never would have expected a subordinate soldier to shout at him. Not if they cared for their ribs and their life. But then again, Effie was no soldier. No Chosen Man. No volunteer. Just, he suspected, a small creature backed into a corner. Well...he'd been one of those, once, too. And even a creature in a corner could turn the tide of a fight, when all that anger was harnessed. It was why -- ultimately -- he welcomed her reaction.

"Better," he delivered his verdict in a gruff tone. Certainly, her attacks would do little against a trained swordsman...but they showed more promise than those feeble first jabs. "Keep in mind your sword's edge. I know that piece of junk is some poor tree's limb but...a real one'll have a point. And it'll be good for slicing or it'll be good for stabbing. Be lucky and it might be good for both. Do it again," he ordered in the kind of voice that brooked no protest, though Effie was welcome to protest all the same, "but slice instead of smack. Think of it...think of like when you're cuttin' vegetables for dinner. You don't bloody well just chop down, eh?"

He made a slicing motion with the hand that wasn't still resting on his sword's hilt.