WHO: Bastien + Various WHAT: Business outside of Kirkwall WHEN: Mostly August WHERE: Hasmal, Antiva, Cumberland NOTES: If something isn't clear enough or we need to hash anything out OOC, hit me up.
The dog shakes its head. Then, temporarily, it changes back into a man, who heaves a little sigh through his nose.
"I've been working on Bird, but need a lot more practice," he whispers, "...I can try."
If nothing else, he can stick his hand through it and feel around for the latch-- having a criminal history can be handy, even if the odds are against him.
Bastien watches the transformation, his interest stronger than the fact that it threatens to give him the willies, and then smiles to himself at the image of Mado-as-a-bird inside the print shop, fleeing cats, springs into his head. Of course it would not happen that way. Not least because he could turn back into a man and put the fear of the Maker into the cats. But it's funny.
"Try," he says, crouching as if to tie his boot. Instead he is untying one, just enough to extract the flattened fold of leather that holds his lock picks. (Not that he knows anything about criminal histories.) "I will race you. Loser buys drinks."
It's not a set-up. Picking locks isn't his forte, and hard to disguise from any passersby who might peer into their alley. It'll take him a little while.
Mado is capable of looking serious sometimes, and he does now-- at least, until Bastien makes a wager, which causes his pleasant curiosity to split into a grin.
"Buono," he remarks, and glances back to the hole in the wall. A deep breath in, out-- he's been working on this, he doesn't have to fly-- and he melds carefully into a little rock dove, which takes a moment to survey its suddenly much larger surroundings, and then tilts its head to look up at Bastien.
"That is so weird," Bastien tells the dove when he is done becoming, in the same tone he would use to say that is so cool.
But he's also got both hands over the doorknob, picks already working—not forfeiting yet. There's still a chance he'll do this faster than Mado can get through the cats' hole and to the latch. There's a chance he'll be eaten and never reach the latch at all.
The dove struts amiably, and perhaps unnaturally quickly, through the hole. All is seemingly well, until a whooshing sound and a decidedly human gasp precede the heavy thump of Mado re-transforming while under the windowsill and banging his head. An alarmed yowl followed by several feline voices hissing in unison is enough indication of what has just happened, but Bastien will then feel someone fumbling at the other side of the latch, trying to open it before he can.
Bastien tries to the last moment, hands working carefully even while there seems to be chaos happening inside—if Mado is being murdered by cats, Bastien won't be able to help him until the door is open–but he's not quite fast enough.
"Nooo," he whisper-whines when the door springs open, one of his picks still protruding from the lock. Not seriously upset, though. He slips in through the open door quickly, pulls his pick free, and drops the heavy bag slung around his shoulder onto the floor while the door swings shut behind him.
The cats have retreated to dark corners and beneath furniture, in the chaos, but one growls low.
"They will never trust a bird again," he predicts.
Mado's face is alight with triumph when he spies Bastien on the other side, but his brow immediately knits in a more sympathetic smile as he slips out of the way and allows him through.
"Any bird who walks on the ground shouldn't be trusted anyway, I'd think," he cheerfully opines.
He crouches to pull a stack of inserts from the bag, then another. The gazettes are stacked neatly on wooden pallets on the floor. They have at least five hours. This shouldn't be a problem.
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no subject
"I've been working on Bird, but need a lot more practice," he whispers, "...I can try."
If nothing else, he can stick his hand through it and feel around for the latch-- having a criminal history can be handy, even if the odds are against him.
no subject
"Try," he says, crouching as if to tie his boot. Instead he is untying one, just enough to extract the flattened fold of leather that holds his lock picks. (Not that he knows anything about criminal histories.) "I will race you. Loser buys drinks."
It's not a set-up. Picking locks isn't his forte, and hard to disguise from any passersby who might peer into their alley. It'll take him a little while.
no subject
"Buono," he remarks, and glances back to the hole in the wall. A deep breath in, out-- he's been working on this, he doesn't have to fly-- and he melds carefully into a little rock dove, which takes a moment to survey its suddenly much larger surroundings, and then tilts its head to look up at Bastien.
Bird achieved.
no subject
But he's also got both hands over the doorknob, picks already working—not forfeiting yet. There's still a chance he'll do this faster than Mado can get through the cats' hole and to the latch. There's a chance he'll be eaten and never reach the latch at all.
no subject
The dove struts amiably, and perhaps unnaturally quickly, through the hole. All is seemingly well, until a whooshing sound and a decidedly human gasp precede the heavy thump of Mado re-transforming while under the windowsill and banging his head.
An alarmed yowl followed by several feline voices hissing in unison is enough indication of what has just happened, but Bastien will then feel someone fumbling at the other side of the latch, trying to open it before he can.
no subject
"Nooo," he whisper-whines when the door springs open, one of his picks still protruding from the lock. Not seriously upset, though. He slips in through the open door quickly, pulls his pick free, and drops the heavy bag slung around his shoulder onto the floor while the door swings shut behind him.
The cats have retreated to dark corners and beneath furniture, in the chaos, but one growls low.
"They will never trust a bird again," he predicts.
no subject
"Any bird who walks on the ground shouldn't be trusted anyway, I'd think," he cheerfully opines.
no subject
He crouches to pull a stack of inserts from the bag, then another. The gazettes are stacked neatly on wooden pallets on the floor. They have at least five hours. This shouldn't be a problem.