[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
A young blue-grey husky puppy is nipping at the heels of the little uniformed man approaching the Bar; he doesn't seem to mind it. Oh, he notices, but he doesn't mind it. The pup's not doing him harm, and they'll be going out into the winter beyond the front door soon enough. The way the Mountie sees it, the pup's old enough to at least start getting an idea of life on the trails, and it's a dang long haul to Paulatuk from where he left the sled. There'll be time along the way to come back in if the pup's not ready for it yet.

For now, he's getting a few extra supplies from Bar and paying for it with a handful of long-carried gold nuggets. He doesn't like leaving debts behind.
veryvorkosigan: (Default)
[personal profile] veryvorkosigan
The front door opens to reveal a darkened hallway, and in steps a woman in late middle age with greying red-roan hair: Cordelia Vorkosigan, in a loose green robe over the grey ship knits she wears as pajamas, frowning down at the book-reader she's holding.

When the sudden noise registers, she looks up in surprise, and turns to look behind her.

Where the door has vanished.

"...Oh, crap."
[identity profile] lissla-lissar.livejournal.com
Thirty legs of various shapes and sizes come tumbling through the door en masse. The attempt is for one white woman, one white dog, and a collection of fawn through brown puppies to make a somewhat orderly appearance, but with puppies this young.

She's tired. Even with his help, she's tired. She's tired, the puppies are so weak, and she may have offered the faintest prayer that this time she'll open the door and find that strange, strange place again.

Mouse kept his puppy alive. Maybe Mouse can help her keep Ossin's puppies alive.

((Connection is wonky where I am, but I'll tag as I may.))
ext_442691: [icon by me] (Default)
[identity profile] yuppie-trash.livejournal.com
As far as sock puppets go, he's a damn handsome (insofar that he doesn't smell like Dr Scholl's footpowder) one in (red and yellow diamonds against grey with faint charcoal striping. It's Ralph Lauren.) argyle.

With the shades (Ray-Ban Wayfarers) and cigar (5 1/2 inch, 42 ring gauge La Corona made in 1937). The cigar is unlit. It isn't lit because he is missing his thumbs. The only hand he (doesn't) have is the one that might stuck up his ass, making the mouth move.

So. . .no hand? No talkies. Breathe easy.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
The little Mountie with the silver hair and eyes would have stayed outside last night, burrowed into a lean-to under a convenient bit of snow as was his wont, but the sounds from the woods put him off that idea. He's got a pup to look after and he wants that pup to grow up enough to come with him back to Canada, not learn fear of the unknown at an early age. So he stayed indoors last night, pup and all. He's already taken the wee beast outside this morning for its exercise and to learn the cold, but he could do with a little breakfast- and so could the pup. The two of them are at a table not so far from the back door at the moment, where he's steadfastly ignoring the puppy's periodic attempts to get him to slip it more food now that it's emptied its bowl.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
[OOM: Duty interrupted; duty fulfillled.]

The door swings open to reveal the inside of a tiny, scarcely-lit tent more reminiscent of an animal's den than a man's sleeping quarters. Of course, when you are very small a space like that is less confining than it would be to other men. It suits the silver-haired, white-parka'ed Mountie who's just come into Milliways just fine. He looks around the Bar with an expression of satisfaction on his lined, weathered face as he peels the rabbit-fur parka off. "Good," he says. "It worked again."

He'll find the girl here soon enough, he's sure. Susan, she said she'd been named. And the puppy; hopefully he hasn't been away too long. He owes that pup.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
It's beginning to spook him, how well the puppy's coming along. He's had to nurse a few orphaned calves and foals in his time, and a pup or two, but usually when they're as small and weak as this one had been at birth they don't last long. The ones that do tend to be on the slow side afterwards, or have other problems.

But for all that, the former runt and only survivor of the litter he found in the forest where Shipman had passed is coming along well. He's a month old, and he's starting to explore his world in earnest. The little Mountie's never heard of such a spectacular recovery.

It's with a well-hidden twinge that he realizes he's going to have to leave the pup behind for a while. It's safe enough, and he's not ready to bond with a human yet- won't be for two weeks, if he's like other dogs in that. He's weaned, even if it's only onto mushy stuff and meat shredded as tiny as the Corporal can get it. Two weeks can be spared.

The first he sees of the woman who's been named Susan, the Silver Corporal's going to ask her to look after the puppy so he can go and get his man. In the meantime, there's a man not a whole lot larger than an overgrown child wearing a Mountie uniform, over by the fire with a blue-grey husky puppy tumbling about at his feet.
[identity profile] lissla-lissar.livejournal.com
Outside the world is white. Ice, and snow, and the woman who glides through the trees blends in quite well, between boots and trews, tunic, gloves, and coat, all of white leathers and fur. Her skin and hair match her clothing as well, but there is blood that covers her gloves.

Her movements are not that of the wounded, nor of the worried. She is seeking someone, the golden eyes still wary but no more than always.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
The little Mountie who's been hanging about Milliways for the past few weeks hasn't always been a lawman. There's a whang of the Wyoming cow country to his voice that makes that pretty clear. Thing is, when you grow up in cattle country and spend your life on the trail, you learn a few things. One of them is how small things grow and survive.

The pup he rescued was the runt of the litter, a squirming little thing other people probably wouldn't expect to make it through the first night. He brought that pup to Milliways within hours of its birth, and man and pup alike have been here since. That's fine with him. He's got the means to pay for it, and outside the door is frozen as still as when he first came here. He's stuck around this long to give the puppy a chance. And that's the thing...

See, when you live among beasts wild or tame, you learn how long they take to grow (if they grow at all). They've all got their own rates, just like plants do. Not just in getting bigger, either, but in how much they know. And the pup... well, he's never seen a puppy grow this fast, or be this alert this young. Especially not one that would've died a runt's death in the environment of the north country. (There's a simple enough explanation for it, but a man of his time in his situation has no way of knowing what a modern vet could tell him. This is what supplemental vitamins and nutrients can do, slipped into the milk by Bar every time he orders more for the little beast.)

He's taken the pup outside again today to get the husky accustomed to the cold in small doses, and while the dog's coming along nicely, he still wonders.
[identity profile] lissla-lissar.livejournal.com
She was ready to go and seek humans. She was. She was ready to seek other humans.

Not quite this fast, not nearly this many. Golden eyes flinch from the light, pale limbs cringe from the noise, and only the questioning noise from the long-legged, long-furred hound combined with the sight of the land outside the door causes her to move.

She flees from the front door and out the back without ever testing the wall behind her, or managing to acknowledge anyone she may have run over in her wild flight.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
There are, according to modern science, five critical phases during which a puppy may be emotionally or mentally affected to a degree more profound than any others. The most notable to most people comes at around six weeks of age, when a puppy is most capable of socializing and learning how to deal with other dogs, but that age is a long way off for the husky puppy the Silver Corporal rescued from the exceptionally vicious winter of 1905. The pup's a little past three weeks old now, in another phase entirely. He's at an age where no sane human would take him away from his mother.

Not that the little Mountie had any choice. He's over by the fire at the moment, seated cross-legged on the floor. The little blue-grey husky toddling around his knees is just starting to figure out what yipping is for and what biting can actually do. In the absence of other dogs, this is directed at the human, who does his best to return the noises in kind and treat the little fellow as much like a mama dog would as possible.

It's hard being a puppy's substitute mother, although you could never get him to admit it.
[identity profile] beyondbatman.livejournal.com
If you were Batman and you were Bound, what would you do?

Terry's open to suggestions. He's not in costume, but he's not telling anyone what his name is, either. The thing is, being in the suit for more than a couple hours makes it essentially unbelievably hot everywhere.

He's sitting in a chair near the door. Come and bother him.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
The little Mountie is capable of going very long stretches without sleeping or eating. He's had to do it on the trail often enough. Getting sleep with a nearly new-born puppy isn't as hard as one might think, so long as he sleeps near enough to the pup to catch the sound of the tiny thing whimpering. It's the eating that's a little harder, since he hasn't really cared to leave the pup alone long enough to order anything for himself and bring it back up.

But the pup's eyes and ears are open now. Today he wriggled to his feet and took a few tottering steps. He's been fed, and he's been otherwise taken care of, and now he's sleeping- so the Mountie feels pretty safe in getting a bowl of stew from the Bar and finding himself a place to eat it. Just his luck that the only place with a decent view of the room tonight is up in the rafters. Oh, well. He'll just have to move the bowl carefully.

Red doesn't blend in too well up there, so those who look up might well spot him.
[identity profile] sime-channel.livejournal.com
Suzi, her book, and a rather large (and growing) blanket of soft red yarn are all curled up in a chair together. By only working with one set of needles she can read as well as knit.

Channels are the world's best (her world) multitaskers. She's also contemplating getting more Pilah to share with Whistler tonight. Her favorite fruit has become so much more of a favorite recently.

Her little photo-album of commissions sold and jewelry to sell is propped up with a discrete sign offering her services as a jeweler on a nearby table. The knitting and reading is what she'll be doing until and unless someone comes near.

She has two baskets at her feet. One of them is snoring quietly, the other has yarn.
[identity profile] call-me-shane.livejournal.com
Outside, it is bitterly cold. Inside the stables, however, the heat of horsey bodies warms the building. It might not be what most folk would call 'warm', but it is tolerable. Shane hauls buckets of hot steaming mash down the center aisle, pouring out portions to those horses that were taken out for rides today.

Just another day at work, is all.
creator_raven: (Default)
[personal profile] creator_raven
There are many tables in the bar.

Quite a few of them are occupied.

One of them, in particular, is occupied by a very gangly man in a black coat and dusty blue jeans.

He also has cookies.

In between inhaling handfuls of said cookies, Raven looks about the bar with bright, black eyes.

Possibly he is searching for familiar faces.

Possibly he is just interested in people.

It only seems like a very great change, perhaps.

Perhaps.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
If there have been other people in the Bar with small animals, the little Mountie is not aware of it. He's been in the room he took upstairs since yesterday, seeing to the needs of the hours-old husky puppy he brought in with him. It's not unfamiliar work; he's done much the same for foals and calves before, though not under such circumstances. It's just work that calls for patience and dedication.

He's got both, in spades, but sooner or later he was bound to run out of supplies. Thus he's down in the main Bar with a truly tiny puppy- barely a day old- in a blanket-cushioned basket, filling that drip bag the doctor-woman Khemrys gave him.

He'll eat eventually, when he's hungry. Right now, the pup needs him more.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
[OOM: The Silver Corporal makes a discovery on the trail of a murderer.]

The door opens to the twilight gloom of a snow-shrouded Canadian forest. A gust of icy wind and snow follows the little man in the white rabbit-fur parka in, but he carefully closes the door behind him. "Looks like it worked," he says as he pushes back his hood. He pauses to look down into the space between his parka and his chest. Then he heads over to the Bar.

"Ma'am," he says to the Bar, "I know this ain't the kind of thing a man ought to ask for lightly, but if you've got any fresh mare's milk or something there- first day's milk- I'd be mighty grateful."

Bar not only provides a bowl of the stuff, but a soft rag and a small blanket as well.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," says the Silver Corporal as he takes the tray and heads for the fire with the greatest of care.
futures_of_ash: (Hound Marks)
[personal profile] futures_of_ash
The door(still running) opened and a red headed mutant stepped in with a few packages and a smile. The packages were soon set in her room, and upon her return to Bar she received a note from Michael. It made her pause, the smile fading into seriousness as she patted Bar's surface.

Bar, typically, responded with a bowl of something to be eaten, and with a sigh Rachel took it and the note out to the lake. It was blustery and cold, wet with the taste of snow in the air as if the weather couldn't make up it's mind...and of course, Rachel simply sat down at the lake edge.

She let Michael's note flutter out across the waves, he would do as he must, and she would hope for his return. The rest of the morning she spent nibbling at the oatmeal Bar had given her and eying a small stone in her hand.

[open post, but respsonses may be slow]
[identity profile] fathers-cleric.livejournal.com
Here is a face that the bar has not seen in a long time. A very long time.

"-Robbie, I need you to-"

Preston frowns as the door opens, not to his bathroom but to...a bar.

The bar.

It all comes flooding back and Preston steps in before closing the door behind him.

Thank Father.

He collapses into a chair, mentally thanking the universe.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
Snow. Sweet stars above, it snowed here. Oh, it's not nearly as much as what's waiting out the front door for him, but still- if ever he had a native element, this is it.

He does feel a pang of guilt that his dogs can't be here as he pulls on his white rabbit-fur parka, but they'll have to come next time. Assuming the place lets them in, anyway.Wouldn't be right to upset the management, and him not even in Canada, here.

The tracks he leaves are not much bigger than a child's, and they don't last long or go far. Some distance from the door, they vanish under the trees. It would take a sharp eye to spot him up there as he scrambles, agilely as a squirrel, through those parts of the forest that don't quite make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. As far as he's concerned you can't really know a place until you know it even when it's hidden under snow.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
The weather outside's gone wet and nasty enough that the little silver-haired fellow is giving serious thoughts to braving the unnatural stillness outside the front door. Time might've stopped, but duty's still calling out there- one way or another. Even if he gets frozen too, he's got to go.

Tonight, then. When it's the same time here as it was when he stepped through the dogs. That seems right somehow. For now... Well, for now he's going to try something he's noticed other people doing. Most folks don't glance up all that often when they're in a saloon, but he does as a matter of course. There've been people in the rafters more days than otherwise. Mostly he's used to climbing trees, but the rafters aren't all that different- not the way he does it. Someone who happened to be looking into the right part of the Bar at the right time might notice a slender white rope fly upward with a swift zzz! noise, wrapping one metal-capped end around the nearest rafter. The silver-haired, scrawny-looking fellow climbs the rope with almost ape-like speed, then pulls it up behind him, coils it up, and hangs it on his belt again.

Hm. Nice view from up here.
[identity profile] wyrd-fox.livejournal.com
It's early afternoon in Milliways.

To Foxtrot, that means nap-time.

(Of course, kitsune have a highly fluid concept of times, schedules and whatnot, so nap-time happens whenever they damn well please.)

He's sprawled on a table near the fire in vulpine form...and I do mean sprawled. On his belly, all four limbs stretched out with his tail draped over some poor soul's place-setting.

In fact, he looks rather like a fox rug. Well, he's a little small for a rug, but fox placemat just sounds weird.

Care to disturb?
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
The little fellow's been spending the past several days inobtrusively watching and listening to the Bar's other patrons where he can. It's been enough to assure him that the unnatural stillness of the snowy landscape and the normally boisterous dogs outside the front door is nothing strange by local standards- but oh, how very strange those local standards are! Everything about this place, from beginning to end, is at the same time similar and too bizarre for words.

It's so very like something Jules Verne might write that he doesn't quite know where to begin.

For now, he'll do this much, at least: breakfast, and a seat with a good view of the rest of the Bar, and then he'll seek out someone who can explain to him just why the last rabbit he managed to snare and skin in those woods outside was plaid.
[identity profile] ninja-mountie.livejournal.com
He's been outside a long time now- night, and day, and the coming of night again. And he's been cold, and wet, and cramped in uncomfortable places among the trees. But if he's to last any length of time at all here, he needs to know the lay of the land. So he's put up with being cold and wet and cramped for as long as he could.

Tonight, the little fellow's snare had yielded one of the oddly-colored rabbits from the woods, but it had been nearly inedible. That was his sign, he reckoned. So now there's a silver-haired, silver-eyed fellow in the Bar, his civilian clothes in need of a good wash, eyeing the Bar with some trepidation.

It still doesn't seem natural, even if he knows it's going to work.