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[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

It's a perfect day to go take a walk. Yes, it does look like rain; yes, he's supposed to be memorizing his Marx and Lenin; yes, it's Friday the 13th.

But since the door to Laigle's room seems to have vanished completely, leaving him stranded, it's a perfect day to go take a walk. To explore. To stretch his wings. He avoids the church building site on the principle that construction of any kind is a hazard, and he makes a general effort not to fall in any lakes and get eaten by mermaids, but he has no idea about the shooting range out back.

Whistling a jaunty tune, Bossuet goes to see the sights of Milliways.

((Just because I forgot that Friday the 13th was coming up is no reason for the canonically unlucky to escape fate. He's due to be set on by dogs, but if anyone wants to throw anything else in his direction, he's fair game. Just let me know before you drop anvils on his head?))

Comments

[hecu_marine]

These things, they happen. At least his door has not been turned into chocolate, the way it happened to a few people some years back.

Not to Shephard, you understand. Just to people he knows.

And we bring him up because he's out at the target range with his Osage selfbow, testing out his latest batch of arrows. He knapped the arrowheads and fletched the shafts himself, so it's best to make sure he did good work.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

By now Bossuet has begun to warble aloud. "Allons sous ma chaumière, Bergère, vite, allons!" Ah, he wouldn't mind a shepherdess of his own, and a roof to shelter her under...

Tra-la. He pauses to admire a butterfly as it flutters by.

[hecu_marine]

The French gets a vague notation in Shephard's consciousness; he's mostly used to hearing Quebecois rather than proper Academie French. As long as it's not getting too close he's not going to worry. He brought four of his dogs with him to make sure people stayed well back from the range.

Well, 'dogs' might be a little generous. 'Three-legged Satanic Christmas hams' is probably more accurate.

They do seem to have come to their feet to start moving towards the new arrival, though. Humans can't be allowed to hurt themselves, they know that.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Upon closer examination the butterfly appears to be made of thin slices of bread-and-butter, with a sugar lump for its head. Lesgle backs away from it slowly, but it follows, perhaps drawn to the spot where he rested his sleeve in spilled tea this morning. He backs away faster.

Tra-la.

[hecu_marine]

"rrrrrrrrrrr."

It's more metallic-sounding than a regular dog's growl would be, but it's definitely a growl.

Also it is coming from three different directions.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

The noise doesn't quite register as a growl. And Lesgle is a town boy, really. A city boy. He doesn't keep an ear out for dogs guarding fields the way a country-born fellow might.

The bread-and-butterfly has him backing rapidly closer and closer. Only when he stumbles on an awkwardly-placed molehill and falls on his backside does he notice the growls.

[hecu_marine]

There are four of them, forming a ragged sort of half circle, and all of them are crouched low to the ground. They have no heads, only a large front end so packed with shiny black eyes that it resembles a wet blackberry.

They're watching you, Lesgle. Really, really closely.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Flying toast creatures are mildly unnerving, the sort of thing you'd rather didn't flutter suddenly into your face or land on your cravat.

HEADLESS EYE HOUNDS are terrifying. Lesgle makes a sound like hrrkk and rolls onto his feet. What are you supposed to do about angry dogs? Angry monster-dogs? Do you run? Maybe you run.

Lesgle begins to run.

[hecu_marine]

Good! Good! Running is good, that way he-

OH WAIT HE IS RUNNING THE WRONG WAY

WE NEED TO FIX THAT

Two of the hounds swing around to push closer to his left flank.

(Worth noting: the growl has stopped, and there is no other noise. Just the sound of hoofbeats, because they don't have paws, they have cloven hooves.)

(That's ever so much more reassuring, we're sure.)

[ostro_goth]

There is a black cat, crossing his path.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Isn't there always.

Lesgle is fond of cats, generally speaking. He pauses mid-tune and bends over. "Puss? Puss-puss-puss?" The cats here probably speak English. He'll try French though, just in case. "Minou?"

[ostro_goth]

If anything, the cat speaks Gothic or Latin; but Bossuet can't know that.

She turns, and approaches in meandering loops, as human attention is interesting, but no cat should come immediately when called.-

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Well, that's a reasonable sort of cat behavior. Lesgle smiles at it and continues to coo embarrassingly. "Who's a pretty puss, then?"

[ostro_goth]

Murrrrr, the cat says, coming almost but not quite close enough to touch, and looking up at Bossuet expectantly.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

There's no one to witness him being foolish over cats--he hasn't yet met up with the shooting range dogs--so he indulges in a little more coaxing. "A very pretty puss. Do you live here?"

[ostro_goth]

The cat walks around Bossuets's legs, upper bit of her tail held at an angle.

She seems friendly.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

What a nice cat. He goes in to rub her chin. "I haven't any milk for you, Minou, nor any fish..." Joly would be delighted. If he were here.

[no_vampires_plz]

Perhaps Bossuet should be looking up.

If he did, he would have a better chance of avoiding the tiny purple alicorn that's plummeting toward his position. She flaps her wings frantically but can't seem to halt her descent.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He's looking down for his hat, instead. The Bar could always make another, but this one has sentimental value. So he really would like it back.

Bossuet has barely recovered from the sprint and the climb. When the thing lands on him, he falls over.

[no_vampires_plz]

Twilight is dazed enough from the impact that it takes her a moment to realize she's hit something other than the ground. When she does, she quickly backs away, stammering apologies. "Ohmygosh I am so sorry I didn't even see you there are you okay??"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then buries his face in his hands when he sees what's in front of him. "Other than suffering from delusions, chimaeras? Quite all right, I'm sure."

[no_vampires_plz]

"Chimeras? Where??" Twilight looks around in alarm.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Right in front of me. Speaking to me, having fallen from heaven onto my unprotected head. I don't usually resort to personal remarks but this is too much."

[no_vampires_plz]

Twilight gapes. "You're joking. You're joking, right? You think I'm a chimera?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"...An illusion, a fabrication of the mind, an hallucination? A fancy, a figment of the imagination? I don't mean the fire-breathing Lycian beast, but it wouldn't surprise me."

He sits up. If this hallucination attacks him, he's not running. He's all run out for the day.