pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

Cubefall is a three-day carnival, according to Bar's explanation. At sundown on the third day, everyone who transformed themselves will return to their original shape, unless they choose otherwise.

Enjolras still has no personal desire to change shape. He has little curiosity on the matter, and no sense of whimsy to be touched. The symbolism of the holiday, with its themes of rebirth and renewal and burning down the old world to forge a better future, touches him deeply, but even that wouldn't be enough on its own to get him to do something like this.

But for his friends -- for Combeferre and Joly's delight in science, for Bahorel's rough and physical companionability -- and, it must be admitted, for the dumbfounded delight that he knows will greet this action from every single one of his friends -- for that, halfway through the afternoon on the last day of Cubefall, he asks Bar for his viewscreen again.

He looks over the options again, though he knows them, and he knows which he'll select. Then he taps the third option.

Abruptly, a golden, lean, leggy dog stands where Enjolras was an instant ago.

For several moments the dog is unnaturally still, utterly motionless except for the swell and fall of ribs in breathing. Even his eyes don't move, except the reflex of blinking. It might be a statue of a dog, graven in fine gold wood and set in place.

Then he shakes himself all over, and all at once it's not a statue but a dog. Carefully at first, and then with growing ease, he trots outside.

Threaded | Flat

Bahorel is loafing in the sun by the lake and considering seeing how far he can get into the mountains before nightfall when the door to Milliways opens again. Again, smell and other senses that don't align with anything human make announcements long before sight.

Bahorel blinks in genuine surprise. Really? Enjolras?

He runs over in serious speed mode. And yes, there's Enjolras, and yes, he's ...some sort of fancy dog? Very definitely Enjolras, though. Bahorel greets him in the mostly-silent way their bodies currently allow, with nudges and quick nuzzling and as much delighted astonishment as lupine body language allows, which is in fact quite a bit.