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Sherral's in full armour when he enters the Bar, surveys those people in costume, and then with a popping noises, vanishes and is replaced by a dog.

A black German Shepherd, specifically. He has a little red and grey collar with a tag that reads 'Cpt. Sherral Maduin / Rabanastran Garrison West Division / Imperial Army of Archadia, 8th Brigade.' On the back is the symbol of the Empire.

Sherral, for his part, cocks his head and makes a confused noise.

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A gentleman in 18th century clothing nods to Sherral in non-committal greeting when he enters, then raises his eyebrow when there is that pop and there is a dog.

"Hello, Sherral!"

"Nnarf," Sherral says gravely.

He pauses for a second, then trots over to Hannibal, because this at least is someone who knows. He nudges at Hannibal with his snout a little, possibly looking for either a cure or treats.

Treats are delicious. He knows this now.

Hannibal reaches out and pats the dog; then, he procures some sausage ends from the bar.

Those sausage ends aren't around for very long before Sherral scarfs them down.

He gives Hannibal's costume a look, then makes a long, inquisitive noise.

"It's harmless," Hannibal says. "It's just simple late 18th century clothes. The hair feels odd."

Pause.

"You should have seen Jean Valjean, though. The poor man."

Sherral cocks his head. He's never met this Jean Valjean, and is intrigued to know what he was made to wear.

"He was given gold lame trousers and a leopard print shirt," Dr. Lecter offers, "which is all the more incongruent as he is, usually, a very, very earnest and serious person."

Sherral pants a little, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"Narrafghaharharhar," he says eloquently, in a reasonable imitation of laughter.

"He was quite dismayed," Dr. Lecter says, shaking his head slowly.

Sherral shrugs slightly. Gold lame, man. What are you going to do.

(Well, take it off, he supposes. Possibly with tearing or a lot of oil.)

"At least he could still talk," Dr. Lecter says.

Thoughtful snuffling noise.

Then, a raised eyebrow at Hannibal. Frankly, Sherral kind of prefers being a dog for the day than wearing gold lame. Besides, this is a hearty breed, like the ones his family trains for the Empire.

Dr. Lecter reaches out to pat him.

"You do seem to do quite well at communicating in dog-shape," he says.

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Autor blinks at the animal. And blinks again.

"Hey there," he says preemptively, trying to determine whether or not he needs to pick up a barstool or try to skitter off in these damned high heels. He never knows with dogs. "Are you lost?"

Edited (mun fail twice, sheesh) 2013-11-03 19:26 (UTC)

Sherral trots over to Autor, then sits down, back perfectly straight and ears erect, very much like - well, like the stance of someone who has been a soldier since he was fourteen. If that person was a dog.

"Arrarf," he says, by way of explanation, then pauses, and sniffs at the high heels. Okay, Autor, his eyesight isn't the greatest thing right now, but Sherral can see the tassels and the high heels, and he is confused.

Autor doesn't know how good a dog's nose is; he probably can smell the kid's blush.

"So, um," he says, holding on to the bar so he doesn't topple. Thankfully he's had a bit of practice at that at the very least. "Are you someone's real animal? Or a wizard transfigured? You've only a thirty-four percent chance of being the latter, so I'd better feed you."

The look Sherral gives Autor suggests, with the minimum of sarcasm, that it might be difficult to answer questions when he can't talk.

He may also be sniffing around to see if Autor has any food on him. He's really hungry, man.

Autor purses his made-up lips. Honestly, he can never tell around who's who here. The Aeslin mice are able to speak, Count is real but dead, and Rabastan turns into things that go 'pip'.

"Bar," he says, turning to her. "Would you mind getting the potential dog something to his tastes?"

Bar provides several - well, they look like crunchy bars of something brown and probably oat-based, and a small bowl of stew.

Sherral scarfs them down in all of a second.

"Nnarfargh," he says approvingly.

Autor turns to the dog--and nearly topples in the process, requiring him to grab onto Bar again. Once settled, he glances down at the heels and then cocks his head at the dog. "You know," he says, "I'm going to kick myself if you're transfigured for the holiday. Mind barking twice if that's the case?"

Sherral obediently barks twice.

Pause.

He snuffles at Autor's tassels a bit. There may be a derisive sneeze.

Autor squeaks at the nasal investigation, stumbling back. "Hey, I didn't choose this, okay? Count yourself lucky you're covered in fur and not fringe," he says, natural blush clashing with his lipstick.

He crouches down, minding the skirt quite expertly, and wraps an arm around his knee. "Do you think you can write while you're like this?"

Sherral raises a poor, and waggles the digits about as much as he can to indicate that they are not optimal for penmanship. He snaps his jaw a few times too, just to indicate that it's a bit clumsy for the task too.

Autor jerks back at the jaw snapping. He takes a bit to resettle himself. "Well, that's going to make it difficult to find out who you are," he says. "I take it you don't know why you transformed. One bark for yes, two for no."