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.