If You Come Back | { OTA }

[aforethought]

WHO: Melys Auldwine + [ Malcolm Reynolds, Rafael, Bruce Banner ] + YOU!
WHAT: Arriving at Skyhold, some unexpectedly familiar faces, rampaging poultry.
WHEN: Mid-to-late Wintermarch, at various times.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Language, feathery mayhem. Will add warnings as necessary.

Starters below. Please feel free to wildcard me!

Comments

[motherfucking_ghost]

They are everywhere. Just a stampede out of literally nowhere. Everywhere! They're all over a certain human guy, who just cannot seem to get them off him.

See Church. See Church flail. Flail, Church, flail. Flail and run around in circles, cursing every English curse under the sun. And some in Spanish. It's actually pretty entertaining to those not currently covered in chickens. Feathers are everywhere.

"jesus fucking christ get these stupid fluffy shits off me they're fucking everywhere ow this son of a bitch just scratched me get off what the fuck they're gonna shit all over me the shitting fucking bastards I'm gonna fry you all up and baste you if you don't get the fuck off"

is generally the kind of ranting that can be heard beneath the feathers.

[aforethought]

She took off like a shot when the cage came open off the wagon, but now she stops just short of the pinwheeling mass of arms, face screwed up with the sudden, contortions of someone trying not to laugh very hard.

It'd be fucking hilarious if she weren't half-afraid of him stomping one of them — and if it weren't for that hand glowing fit to set a lantern.

That just isn't any kind of good.

"Hey!" Melys knows how to crack her voice sharp when she's gotta; some things you never forget out of basic. "Easy!"

She steps forward deliberately, slowly, making as much noise as possible. Her hands splay out placative, the right clinging to an empty sack, only to swoop down suddenly and scoop up one of the squabbling hens into the bag.

"If you keep moving much more they're gonna panic," They're panicked already, but this guy doesn't act like he knows much on chickens. "And then they'll engage their poison glands."

[motherfucking_ghost]

It's true, the only thing he knows about chickens is that they lay eggs and they're delicious when fried. He's pretty sure chickens aren't poisonous, but who knows how mutated and weird chickens might be in this world?!?!

He almost trips and falls when he's startled by her voice, but the pinwheeling and general flailing at least comes to a stop. He is, however, hunched over in a silly position, arms out, a few more panicky birds taking perch on them or his head or down his back. "Are you fucking serious, cuz, man, that would be just what I need right now, god damn mutant snake-chickens!"

[aforethought]

"Serious as your funeral," That's two in the bag — three — "So hold right still now."

Four. Bag's not gonna be big enough. She knots it loosely, sets it aside.

"I'm gonna lift them off you. Don't fuss." Melys coos softly, nudges a few off Church's head, and onto her own shoulders. It's. Not comfortable. But it beats the alternative. "Alright. Reckon if you ease up slow, the rest'll move onwards. You're doing good."

Maker, did that really work? Did that sort of really work? Where in the Maker's Mire did this guy grow up?

"Doing real good. Straighten up now easy, let the nice snake-chickens off."

[motherfucking_ghost]

To be fair, when he gives himself a minute to consider, maybe standing still is overall better than flailing around like a...well, like a headless chicken. The mental turn of phrase makes him cough out a chuckle as he slowly stands.

"Bullshit," he calls anyway, because, come on, who's ever heard of poison chickens? "Like, what, did you dip their toes and beaks in poison? Attack chickens? Pretty sure that's just a thing in cockfights. Which...these aren't, y'know, cocks. Roosters. Dude chickens. Cuz if you did, I'd probably be dying soon."