clayforthedevil

Bahorel charges ahead of Enjolras and into the red-walled caverns he shares with Prouvaire, still bouncing from the recent adventure. He charges in not because he's in any hurry, but because if he doesn't charge everywhere right now he's going to start shouting even more loudly than he already has been on the way down the hall.

"--but then the beast doesn't even stay around to laugh at us? Unkind! And showing no sense of-- ah! Jehan! Did you leave too? We've been away for months--at least on our side--how far did you wander?"

Jehan is in a costume that might be called medieval, if someone had only a general idea of what medieval dress was like, based mostly on illustrations. It involves a liripipe, to the apparent delight of little Marguerite.

But Bahorel's not wearing anything less picturesque at the moment. More unusually, neither is Enjolras. Bahorel, at least, is delightedly aware that they also both look like they stepped out of a fantasy story, and even more delighted that they have.

Bahorel stops by Feuilly's room not too long after the weekend he can't remember, a small paper packet held lightly in one hand. He's in a fairly thoughtful mood, so he knocks extra loudly.

Milliways gets a lot of snow; a lot of wonderfully cooperative, snow-sculpture-friendly snow. It practically demands to be converted into snowmen.

Bahorel isn't one to ignore the demands of the populace; if they want to rise up, he'll certainly oblige. If the nature of the populace arising from the snow seems to be mostly things a little heavy on the extra limbs and peculiar in the dimensions, hey, no one can help how they're created. Especially not the multiheadedsnow beast currently acquiring a new hole where its heart should be, if multiheaded snowbeasts have predicatable anatomy at all.

That's a question for the scientists. Bahorel being none of that, his current concern is how much he can hollow out the torso before the whole thing caves in under the weight of its own heads. It's probably metaphorical somehow.

Gavroche gets a sketched out map of Paris, from back in their year, with a few of the less-than-official landmarks that anyone who really lived there would have known drawn out into fuller illustrations. 

Thor has a tunic made out of a soft wool, in simple deep crimson, with simple geometric pattern quilted into  the sleeves and collar and hem in matching thread.

Kazul gets a fruitcake castle; proper fruitcake, meaning the flour is really just an excuse to hold a bunch of fruit and nuts and booze in a solid shape. It's in a tin so vapors don't crinkle any of the room's paint. 

Demeter's gift is simple--a set of  charms, woven from the grass and leaves  outside over the course of the year, spring and summer and fall and some evergreen needles once the snow fell. They're not exactly for her, but they're the ones Bahorel's mother taught him to make and put out for the changing seasons, and the only ones that feel right to give. 

For Sam there's a small set of drawings of  stickfighting moves-- not formal things, but ones that would have been recognized in Bahorel's year. 

William gets a good undershirt, with proper cufflinks, and a couple of books he'd mentioned not having read yet. 

Ysalwen gets a silk scarf wrapped around a drawing of a spider, perhaps more importantly,there's also a box of toys and treats for Liranan. 

Liz gets  a sketchbook and some colored pencils; scattered through the book are  a few sketches already, or the beginnings of sketches, in a sort of challenge

For Gredya there's a small bag, big enough to hold the little journal and pen, sized to fit over a  human shoulder--or around a wolf's neck, if need be, without dragging around and being a nuisance. There's a note in it--because there's never a pen where you need one. 

and for Harry, there's a Christmas stocking full of havoc, or at least  toys that bounce and explode and stick to things and are generally distracting.And gum. Gum is an excellent modern development. 

Bahorel's been outside as much as ever since Enjolras returned from Paris, turning over the old and new of that trip. He'd assumed Monsieur Fauchelevent had left Milliways once he'd returned to his own body; he hasn't seen the old fellow since, and everyone else Bahorel knows jumped back to their usual lives with relief.

But there Fauchelevent is, outside near the lake.

Right, a second ago Bahorel was definitely not out walking Feuilly and/or Harry's dogs, but now apparently he is.

...in Feuilly's body, apparently.

There's a brief moment of confusion with the dogs and issues of legs and balance, a while spent cheerfully rolling around on the ground and convincing the dogs that he is, while not Feuilly, someone they know. After that there's some time spent running, tumbling, and trying out the basic limits of his current body in general.

When he's figured that out well enough, he calls the Hector and Lady and saunters back toward the Bar, where he spots Kazul's sign.

... This body isn't used to sauntering. Well, it's going to have to get used to it, because Bahorel apparently isn't going into another one for a couple of days.

It's the sort of fall day that reserves itself to reading outside, so that's what Bahorel's doing, legs propped so high on a tree trunk that he's nearly standing on his head, book resting on a fallen branch he'll probably take for firewood later. At the moment the book he's chosen has him grinning broadly, if not quite actually laughing.

...And now he's laughing. "Oh yes, horror, not Arétin!"

Bahorel strides into the library with easy speed. He walks past the strange computer help desk and past the current front shelves-- something about animation, this time, and history, and those changing shelves are always interesting, but it's not what they're here for.

Harry, while clearly no admirer of libraries, may still notice that there a few more books here than in the libraries he was used to. Just a few.

Bahorel wakes up on the floor in front of the fireplace, caught in a ridiculous multiplicity of blankets, pillows, and Jehan's elbows, which are, in Bahorel's considerable experience, far more omnipresent and wrathful than any God. It's all so far from unusual that he has a rare moment of confusion-- this could be Paris, and his old apartments. He shakes the confusion off, along with several pillows, one of which makes a reproachful yowl as it falls.

Bahorel grins at Marguerite, who blinks at him in offense. "Your pardon, Mademoiselle." He sits up, stretches and yawns in time with the kitten, and looks around to assess the damage of the night before. There's none especially evident; judging from the general scatter of overcoats and waistcoats, they both seem to have managed to get somewhere along the line of ready for bed before getting bored with consciousness. He looks for his coat and grins to see the poppy from the Labyrinth still vibrant in the lapel. That goes on a high shelf, away from curious kittens with unknown opium tolerances.

Jehan, at some point, apparently managed to turn his own shirt into something of a straightjacket, arms pinned to his own head and sleeves knotted. Bahorel untangles him, and lets Jehan thump back down into the pillows with the steady unconsciousness of a naturally deep sleeper who also notably overdid the mead last night.

Which leaves Bahorel free to go about his morning with his usual energy and lack of concern for quiet. By the time Jehan wakes up, Bahorel and the kitten have both eaten, stretched, and aggressively groomed themselves for the day. For the kitten, that means it's time for a nap; for his part, Bahorel is properly sprawled on the couch, reading.

As far as Bahorel can tell, there's no reason he shouldn't paint on the walls of his new room. (It's hardly going to damage the aesthetic unity of the place, which appears to be "secondhand bazaar held in a cave" . It's very liberating.)

So that's what he's doing tonight, dressed up even to the point of tophat and tailcoat and tracing the outline of a city-country-something skyline around the room in red paint, his door open in case one of the wait-rats needs to come in-- or anyone else.