milliways_bar | (no subject)

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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?))

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"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

Yeah. Yeah, that's really comforting, voiceless headless eye hounds. Galloping along on their cloven hooves.

They veer closer to him. He stops holding onto his hat and runs faster. What do you do about angry dogs? Is there a--a heavy stick to pick up and brandish--a stone to throw--a tree to climb--?

There is a tree. Lesgle takes evasive maneuvers, which is to say that he dodges right and then left, making for the tree. The one that's even closer to the firing range.

No! Nononono, bad human, that's not a good idea, if you go for the- well, okay, straight at the tree is all right-

One of the dog-things peels off to run towards the human with the longbow as the others start circling. Better for this human to run up the tree and stay there until their human arrives.

Tree. Tree. Tree. Right there, yes tree, good tree, who's a nice tree then. With branches that a tallish person can reach if he jumps. (Reach and miss and try again, expecting jaws around his feet at every moment.) (It hasn't registered for Lesgle that headless monsters don't have jaws per se.)

He flails himself into the tree eventually, his coat flapping around his legs and giving him the look of a wild turkey. The hat went missing quite a few yards back.

Hooray! He's up the tree! They ran the human to a good place! Now they just have to keep him there, which they're happy to do just by trotting around the base of the tree and occasionally rearing up to put one paw-hoof on the trunk for a moment.

Thankfully they're not there long. The fourth headless beast comes trotting up shortly thereafter, a tall human wearing mottled black and green and grey clothing in tow. "The fuck did you boys find this time?" the human wonders aloud. As he peers up into the tree branches he calls out, "You all right up there?"

Their technique is highly effective. Lesgle gets himself as high up as he can and stays put, trying to catch his breath and slow his heart. He regrets the loss of his hat: he's feeling particularly exposed.

Someone is coming. He half expects a demon, the sort that would hunt with this sort of monstrous hound. It doesn't look like a demo. It doesn't sound like a demon.

"No. No, not precisely all right. 'All right' I would not say."

While there are a handful of people who might disagree on the demon assessment, virtually all of them are currently low-ranking members of the renascent United States Marine Corps, or else men who made very, very bad choices. None of them are currently here. So.

"Chester. Horatio. Bull. Alfred. Git back," Shephard says, and gestures sharply to the dogs.

As one, they back away from the tree, clustering together some yards off.

"Good pups. All of you," says Shephard, and tosses a couple of pieces of dried meat their way. To the man in the tree he calls, "They ain't gonna bother you no more, mister. You need a first aid kit or somethin'? I c'n help you git down if you want."

Bossuet considers. He's not...actually all that keen on hopping down into the arms of someone who keeps a pack of monsters. And, appearances or no appearances, might be some sort of devil.

"Ahh...There may have been an accident to the seat of my trousers--I heard a distinct ripping noise on my way up--and modesty dictates that I hide myself."

Shephard grunts. "Suit yourself," he says. "Tell you what, I'mma go take these little fuckers back to the Bar'n git you a spare pair. Least I c'n do, considerin' my dogs made you rip the ones you got."

Ordinarily he'd just get a needle and thread, but for some odd reason people don't seem all that inclined to huddle in trees while they fix their own pants.

"Sound fair?"

"Those aren't dogs. You may not have noticed--it may have slipped your mind--but dogs generally have heads. They have paws, they make a noise like ouah, ouah. Such is my experience."

He's not letting go of his branch. "But--you know--another pair of trousers might not be taken amiss." He can always run away once the probably-not-a-demon-but-let's-not-be-hasty is out of sight.

"Long story, friend, long story," says Shephard with a sigh. "They're as close as, where I come from. Less'n you want one of them big furry fuckers they got up the hell in Norway... I'll go git them pants. You four, come with me."

The houndeyes fall into line behind him as he heads back to the Bar, bow in hand.

"...Thank you!" For taking the monsters away and going away himself, as much as for the rescue. And the pair of pants that Bossuet is not going to wait for. As soon as the man and his beasts are out of sight, Bossuet shimmies down, trying not to think about the state of his clothing.

He should really be looking up.

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