pro_patria_mortuus | democratically elected to an Epic Quest

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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.

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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)

The soldiers -- the ghosts -- are gone, as if they'd never been. The road is empty.

A moment ago swords were slashing down at Bahorel, and Enjolras was too far away to stop it, too far away to do anything. A moment ago, he was charging towards those same cavalry swords. And now, the road is empty.

It's going to take a few moments for his heart to slow.

He keeps an eye on the road -- still empty; still quiet -- as he watches Bahorel coax words out of the strange cat-child. The explanation that unfold is a partial one, and doesn't clarify much: yes, the ghosts happen often enough around this whole area; no, they didn't used to; no, the child doesn't know them personally, or know why the change. About the rock, the child is cagey.

Edited 2016-03-04 05:47 (UTC)

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.

Enjolras grimaces a little at the watch's failure. It's not the best of outcomes, no. But it's what's happened. Since nothing immediately presents itself as an exit route, or even any indication towards one, there's nothing to do but carry on.

And keep an eye out for flaming deer-lizard-things. Sure. Why not.

At any rate. Bahorel is pulling faces for the strangely furry child, and letting himself be guided over the hill and onwards. Enjolras is content to follow. Certainly in preference to any other course of action currently available.

And it's really not too long until they're in the heart of a small village, with houses as strange as the cat-eared people who live in them. The translation spell, or whatever it is, holds here too; it's easy enough to talk to them, aside from the occasional bewildering proper name.

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?

They both recognize that weight; it only takes a few exchanged glances at certain silences, certain sentences begun and reworded, certain implied questions left unanswered, for Enjolras to know that he and Bahorel agree.

Whatever has these people scared, it's no one in this room. But it's also nothing too far away, or at least its deputies aren't. This is a fear that comes from looking over shoulders, from lives that are threatened or constrained or both by something near enough to lay down those constraints.

But the other thing they both know is that there's nothing to be gained, and a great deal of trust to be lost, by pushing too fast and too openly for information.

So: dinner, and casual conversation, and open ears.

(Bahorel is better at casual conversation with all and sundry, of course. But Enjolras falls in with a cluster of cat-eared young men and holds his own. It isn't so hard, after all, to slowly and carefully steer the conversation towards the matters that spark their impatience and defiance the most. Which seems to be trade, compelled by some unnamed and resented authority; going out to gather rocks seems to be at the heart of it, for reasons that no one's saying outright just yet, and nobody's saying anything at all about soldiers that vanish into thin air.)

"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)

(Of course they are. If the people don't want the help of strangers, that's their right; it's their land and their problem. Any help Bahorel and Enjolras can give will be in following the lead of citizens here. But they need to know as much as they can to know what help they can offer, and to be of any use if the offer's accepted.)

"Hmm."

It's a start -- and far more than they'd known before. But there are, of course, still plenty of questions to ask.

"The children talk about it. I wonder if the adults will? Not in a big crowd like this, clearly, but..."

"They're afraid of ghostly ears, but I had a hard time telling if they were thinking of mortal ears too. And wary of the king. The new king, yes -- very new, and some kind of broken promises around how he came to power, or how he's holding it now. There's some anger about that, kept quiet."

How many are angry, and how much so? Hard to tell yet. But at least some; it's there, in the undertones, in sentences muttered or begun and shushed.

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.

If only.

There's a solution to that dilemma, of course. It only takes one exchanged glance, very early in these discussions, for Enjolras and Bahorel to know that they're thinking in similar directions. Especially since there's no sign yet of the kirin, or any way back to their friends, or their watches communicating with anyone back at Milliways. But even if there were, this matters.

But the obvious solution has some fundamental questions. Will these people accept as reliable and trustworthy two near-strangers from elsewhere? Will they consider those two near-strangers able to represent their hopes and concerns accurately? If not, is there anyone free to go with them? If yes, can Enjolras and Bahorel understand the local details of what they see and hear enough to bring back the relevant information, and do what really needs doing, instead of chasing false tracks or missing something obvious and vital?

So there's circling. Learning, and consideration, on both sides.

But in the end, when they make the offer, no one seems surprised. And it's not much of a surprise either when the headman and headwoman look around the village, and nod slowly, and accept.

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.

It felt like rain on the skin; cold and driving rain, sluicing down, plastering hair to foreheads and running down collars in an icy stream, like the worst kind of early spring day, but no worse than that. It patters harmlessly off the broad blue-green leaves of the trees, too, and puddles on the ground in muddy cold puddles like any rain.

But their clothes look as though the raindrops were made of knives and sharp rocks. Enjolras's coat is in shreds. He might as well take it off, he thinks, irritated; he'd be at least as decent in shirtsleeves and (only slightly less abused) waistcoat. Clearly there's no rain protection to be gained from this coat right now, or possibly ever again. His shirtsleeves are tattered now too, but at least they're better.

He casts a look of baffled, annoyed resignation at Bahorel. (Bahorel shed his coat hours ago, and is casting a look of gleeful bafflement down at himself, in contrast. Then he pulls out his camera and demands a selfie of the two of them, for no reason Enjolras can discern.)

The rain ends just as suddenly as it began. They wait a little while just to make sure of it, but the sky stays resolutely blue. Fine. They'll carry on.

But it's not long before there are hoofbeats -- several horses, around a curve of the muddy road but getting rapidly closer.

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democratically elected to an Epic Quest

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