pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Enjolras ([personal profile] pro_patria_mortuus) wrote2016-02-28 12:00 am

democratically elected to an Epic Quest

The Milliways grounds are limited, no matter how much magic expanse of forest they contain, and doubly so to someone who hungers quietly for a city. Still, they're a change of scene, and a way to stretch one's legs. And they're pretty too, which Enjolras is largely oblivious to, but many people including his companion are not.

So: Enjolras and Bahorel are walking, arm in arm, beside the lake.

Bahorel is attempting to explain something about the logistics of television show creation. In the interests of clarity, he's restraining his (strong) artistic opinions to frequent asides.
clayforthedevil: (teeth)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-02-29 05:41 am (UTC)(link)
It is pretty! In a sort of general way. But today the snow's melting and there's patches of black early-spring ground showing just a few hints of early growth. It's a brief, ephemeral bit of disorder, which is why it's worth trying to catch a photo of, maybe, especially with the lighting being what it is.

... What it was, anyway, which was a grey overcast late winter day. In the breathe between complaining about the potential of mass live media and the effects of broadcasting standards and other censorship, the light rising over a nearby little lump of ground turns golden. Aggressively golden, and verging on rainbow at the edges.

It's coming from several feet away from them. Bahorel turns to look at Enjolras for a moment, but Enjolras is only reflecting the odd change of lighting.

And then a new creature comes over the edge of the little hillock, a strange, wild-maned beast that looks like one of the creatures Jehan had on an old screen back in Paris. What was it, again...?

Whatever it is , it might have an actual name. Hell, it might have a bar tab. Bahorel waves to it, cheerful and neighborly.
clayforthedevil: (teeth)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-02-29 06:16 am (UTC)(link)
"A kirin!" Bahorel remembers the name with a snap of his fingers. For all the good that does. "Don't ask me what that means, it's one of those Chinese creatures, that's all I know. A myth in our world, maybe."

It looks back at them still; at Enjolras, mostly, or so Bahorel is guessing. It watches them like it was suddenly turned into a painting again, wonderfully still, but there's still an air of waiting , somehow.

Bahorel grins, and nudges Enjolras slightly and tilts his head towards the kirin. "I'm going to follow it." It's not like he was doing anything else today, really.
clayforthedevil: (teeth)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-03-01 02:20 am (UTC)(link)
Bahorel cheerfully thumps Enjolras on the shoulder, then heads towards the kirin. The creature holds still for a few moments, then heads down the other side of the hillock. Bahorel trails after it, walking easily down a hillside that's much broader and steeper than it should be.

That the Milliways grounds should change shape and distance without notice is, by now, no surprise on its own to Bahorel. That the trees and ground and even grass are turning to varieties he doesn't recognize, also not surprising. That the weather itself is changing to something entirely different, a balmy late autumn instead of the fading edge of winter-- that is a little more unusual.

He doesn't have much time to study it. While the kirin doesn't seem to speed up, Bahorel's very aware that he's having to move faster as it keeps walking forward. When it stops at the top of another low hill and yet seems to draw even farther away, Bahorel shouts happily and charges forward at a full run. So this is that sort of beast.

He doesn't stop to see if Enjolras is keeping up with him. Enjolras will, if Enjolras wants to; or else he'll do something else. Neither of them has to worry about the other in a race.
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-03-02 06:13 pm (UTC)(link)
The kirin, whatever reason it had for pausing, taps the ground and goes over the hill. Bahorel, running to catch it, is beginning to be aware of another sound, faint and familiar--

and then he's over the hill, too. The landscape if very definitely altered now; the trees in full and spectacular foliage in glinting metallic colors, a sudden dusty trail of a road with stone markers, a sudden and rather dramatic mountain range along the horizon.

But all that is secondary to what's on that little road; no kirin, no hint of a magical beast, but two men on horseback, swords drawn galloping , the familiar sound of horses' hooves now loud and near-- and an unarmed figure between them, small and stumbling and clearly being chased.

Bahorel doesn't pause; he lowers his head and puts on all the speed he has, catching up to the horses just as the swords begin to swing down. He dives forward and down, into a roll, grabbing the unarmed stranger and aiming them both towards the relative escape of the narrow gap between the horses. There's no time for anything else.
clayforthedevil: (grey laugh)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-03-04 04:24 am (UTC)(link)
Bahorel rolls a little, and starts to stand up as the sound of hooves draws away-- in time to see Enjolras come near, and see the riders draw away, and --

Fade? They'd looked solid enough, but now they're like frosted glass, and then like swirls of mist, and then gone.

Ghosts, then. All right.

But the person who was running from them is still here, and now Bahorel has a chance to actually see-- a child, almost human, with catlike tufts of fur at their eyebrows and cheeks and mouth and off the tips of their pointed ears. Slightly teary green eyes are studying him back, with open curiosity. The child's arms are crossed over their chest, and over-- a rock?

Bahorel smiles. "Did you know those fellows?"
Edited 2016-03-04 04:24 (UTC)
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-03-09 06:24 pm (UTC)(link)
Bahorel stands up, pressing Enjolras' shoulder in amusement and sympathy--being too far away to act has been the curse on both of them long-- still questioning the strange little child.

The child's explanations aren't entirely coherent, or terribly focused, in the way of young children--in that, too, this might as well be a human child. But they are coherent in the way everyone in Milliways is coherent: the language made clear, even though it seems highly unlikely that they've met another French soul here.

The information, everything from their own name to that of their country, is scattered and sometimes said too strangely to understand. But their new acquaintance is evidently still at the age when any adult who's not a terror is an accepted authority, and there's soon enough information at least to know where the child belongs in a village nearby.

Over the hill, the way Bahorel and Enjolras came.

Bahorel isn't entirely surprised to find that over the hill is more of the strange landscape; not a glimpse of Milliways. He takes out his watch, and isn't exactly surprised to get nothing but timekeeping tick-tock sounds from it. He grimaces; that this has stranded him and Enjolras both away from their friends at once is not the best of outcomes.

But here they are. "The Labyrinth, I think, lets people out when they've answered some task; the forest, when it likes the feel of them. This place--maybe if we find that kirin again--"

He's distracted a little from thoughts of strategy by their new companion laughing at the face he's making. Bahorel grins, and makes a more outlandish one, getting a much better laugh. The audience has its opinions!

To Enjolras, he shrugs. Whatever else is going on, whatever this land or its magic might want, there's an obvious task to do right now.
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-03-13 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)
It's a nice little village in its way--thatch and mud houses, little gardens in the yard, the general air of a place that's not exactly prosperous but definitely not desperate. The whiskered villagers meet Bahorel and Enjolras with only a reasonable sort of reserve, no hostility, despite the obvious differences in appearance. (Though there is some considerable curiousity about Enjolras' complete lack of whiskers, much to Bahorel's amusement.) Meal time is a communal affair, and seems well-supplied, enough that two strangers are given a share without hesitation. A good village.

And yet.

There's fear on the place. A low, heavy think, slinking around under conversations, waiting at the edges of expressions. It's a familiar thing, a mood Bahorel recognizes full well--a mood he hasn't felt over a group since arriving at Milliways, a fear of power from somewhere. Not the leader of the town, a cheerful old couple with whiskers long enough to braid and a swarm of grandchildren, and probably about as much dire authority as any great-grandparents. So--what, then?
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-04-06 07:49 pm (UTC)(link)
"It's the King, of course." And it's late at night, before Enjolras and Bahorel have a moment to speak alone, not-sleeping-yet in rather comfortable hammocks on they covered porch they'd chosen as sleeping quarters over one of the tight-packed little houses. "And the ghosts. The kids talk about it, when they don't know they are. The last king--the good king, hah, the last king was always good, funny that-- he did something to settle the ghosts. Far as I can tell, it was just leaving them the hell alone, but anyway it worked. And now this one has them riled up again. Something to do with those stones. The kids say the stones keep the ghosts quite, but the king wants them for his big house."

Bahorel laughs a little. "That, I think, sounds off; I'll trust a child for ghost stories, but they don't know much about trade and architecture. Ah, but it's all magic here, so who knows? A king has more reason than most men to want the ghosts around him settled.--Anyway, the ghosts are real enough, and they're coming thicker, and that's all I've heard for reasons why."

(It is, of course, nosy of him to be prying around about these things. But if he and Enjolras are going to be able to help here at all, they have to learn what they can. And of course they're helping if they can. They're here. Given that,the only possible question is how, not if.)
Edited 2016-04-06 20:00 (UTC)
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-06-04 04:56 am (UTC)(link)
They're good questions-- and neither of them has answers.  The obvious decision is to wait until the the next day and hope they can ask their hosts more questions, and more directly.

But it's their hosts offering more questions as the day goes along, and they become more used to the strangers visiting them. More questions,  when another villager comes come back from a simple trip to gather wood with another story of terrifying ghosts.

Even more questions, from  a visitor who's obviously not from the village comes by--questions which are pretty clearly demands. Not that Enjolras and Bahorel can exactly hear from the cottage where they've been hidden away.  Heard or not, the new visitor is clearly an Authority.  It sets Bahorel's teeth on edge, and seems to have the same effect on the people who live there. There's a new quiet while the visitor is there, and new questions, and angrier ones, after he's well gone.  

New questions, and yet familiar ones. Who do they think they are and what are they even doing up there , even if Bahorel doesn't know exactly where There is. What do they think we are, that's an old friend, and What are we supposed to do? 

And the answers all seem to depend on knowing more than they know, more than anyone in the village can know-- and from places farther away than any of them can be spared to go, with the new and confusing orders and demands from their King coming ever more often--and the roads and towns in any case watched for people traveling without a passport. (That makes Bahorel growl too-- passports, again.) 

Conversations go on, and Enjolras and Bahorel  and the villagers alike end up finding themselves circling the same idea: If only there were someone without their own field and families duties to be spared, old enough and healthy enough to have some chance of carrying news. 
clayforthedevil: (Default)

[personal profile] clayforthedevil 2016-06-25 06:42 am (UTC)(link)
It's a walk,to the next real village; they're warned of that. It's a walk. 

It's a long walk. 

Not that Bahorel minds, as long as the weather's good; there are fields and passing...shepherds, for lack of better terms, herding not-sheep, the occasional field workers to talk to.  People are wary of a couple young men with no obvious occupation in hand, but then they are messengers, and don't people have messages to take between these little settled islands in the country? Oh, don't they always. It's a fine way to pick up gossip, really.  And such gossip! More than enough to keep them sure they're on the right track , regarding the real road and their own reasons for the trip.  

"I know we set out about the king--of course I mean to see a king brought to accounts!--but the more we hear along the way, the more the local lord sounds like a real ogre. And I do mean a real ogre--Rawhead-and-Bloody-Bones,  Iron Jacque In the Forest. Oh, every peasant calls the landlord a blood-drinker, I know it, but here it may be something else again--did you hear that last fellow? Another one who thinks our ghost-soldiers are his fine lord's doing."   He's mostly watching the sky as he talks; this bit of road is a fine smooth wagon-trail, and they're hardly racing. And the sky..."We might look to a patch of woods, I think. Those clouds are coming in faster than I would think clouds should." 

And then they are racing, but the clouds come in faster than they can reach the nearest stand of trees, in fact; clouds thundering overhead with thunder that sounds remarkably like horses' hooves, and rain that almost seems to slice the air.  By the time they reach cover, they're drenched, and their clothes surprisingly worse for the experience, leaning more towards tattered than they've any business doing.