A little bit of light reconnaissance.

[gredya]

So a wolf walks into a bar. This time for real.

She comes when she guesses that it will be night at Milliways and finds herself off: a little while before the sun sets here. So Gredya waits very quietly in the library, curled up in a space under a table, and then slips downstairs when she can't hear many noises of people.

Paws are hard for opening doors but she knows how.

Warily, keeping an eye on exits and entrances, avoiding all company if possible, she inspects the hallways, the kitchen--and then the outdoors. Stables. Chickens. Lake. Woods. The place where the monk had appeared when she was here two days ago. Chapel.

((Mostly I just wanted to establish that she's had a good look--and sniff--around, but if anyone wants to deal with wolves in the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, or worry about chickens, or anything else, the post's open!))

((Warning for some demon bunnies getting killed down in the thread.))

(no subject)

[bwbw_aabb]

Zecora has located a table
with the best lighting she was able,
and now is sorting through a pile of ferns,
each frond of which she gently turns
to inspect the bright green leaf's
vermillion-spotted underneath.

(no subject)

[merryeccentricities]

It's quiet, after all the noise and screaming of the barricade; that's the first thing Joly notices, but it's not what woke him up. He's overheating, that's what wakes him; that, and lying on cobbles. He stands up and feels something fall off his shoulder, a blanket, something, and gathers it in his arms without thinking about it.

He's not sure what he's holding, because it's dark, too, and he feels for the wall he fell against so much earlier. Instead of the rough plaster of the wall there's a door-- NOW there's a door, and a handle, and it opens--

And it's very bright in here. Not day-bright, but bright enough after the summer night outside. He lifts a hand to shade his eyes, and it's the hand holding the blanket-thing, and-- oh. The blanket- thing is Bossuet's coat. It's soaked with blood.

So are all of his own clothes, for that matter. What there is left of them-- the work of the barricade, fighting and doctoring, had him shedding his own coat and waistcoat and cravat hours ago. He could tell himself that the blood all over him is from other fighters, friends old and just met who needed what little medical help he could give. But he remembers the feeling of being torn apart, and the shock--

He needs a drink.

Fortunately, as his eyes adjust, he sees he has stumbled into something like a bar. Dead or not, he has to smile at the improbable convenience. He takes the next step in, and the door closes behind him.

(no subject)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

[OOM: Millitimed to a few days ago:

"You know how absurd things are here."

Or: in which Bossuet catches Enjolras up on his recent adventure in world-hopping.]