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.
"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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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.