Summary:Loki takes Ambrose and Atherton on a revenge quest Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
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Cover Story. The shop is in Hell's Kitchen, nestled between a sandwich place and a florist. It has the property of being always there, yet no one can recall exactly when it showed up. Some claim its been there for 50 years. Others…never seen it before. And this opinion changes from day to day. The signage beneath says 'Rare and Used Books'. The window has a few flyers plastered to the outside, but is otherwise blocked by a curtain. The inside of the shop is lit, and small. There are three large bookshelf rows that extend towards the back wall of the store, though the first extends a bit longer and leads to a spiral staircase. The counter is right at the front of the store, sideways, and a glass case nearby displays some of the rarer and more expensive books the store has to offer. The whole place is much dimmer than outside, but of course this is to protect the books. There are temperature and moisture monitors on the ends of every shelf. The back wall of the third row is particularly dark. It is impossible to tell the time in here. There is no clock and one cannot see outside. There is a smell of old paper, of course, but there is a warmth to it, rather than musty.
Having been able to look up the location of the bookstore in question and, with curiosity piqued despite his semi-cautious nature — who are we kidding, Ambrose is bored and loves a good brawl — the front door of Cover Story opens to admit a man in a black blazer and equally dark fatique pants. Ambrose will be recognized, if only because he wasn't sly about hiding his face last time he spoke with the Trickster God, and he takes a handful of steps into the store before blowing a soft and impressed whistle.
"It even smells like he's got old books in here," the Jackal comments. Of course he's already looking for what is shiny in the place and the glass case draws him like a moth to a flame. "You don't think he'd mind terribly if I borrowed one of these books, do you…?" The master-thief muses even as he looks thoughtfully at each book, idly fretting at his bottom lip. It is enticing…and that one there looks as if it would fetch a particularly good price. Ambrose's hand lifts and…hovers before the glass before he curls it to his chest. "But tsk…tsk, I probably should not touch. His highness appeared to have knowledge of witchcraft."
Ambrose's betrothed is in his human form - a tall, man with hair of a dark, dark bronze, and pale gray eyes. HE's dressed in dark jeans, a white camp shirt, and a panama hat, though that last he's taken from his head and is holding as they entered. He looks about curiously, expression reserved, as he takes in their surroundings.
"I love that smell," he says, with a little smile. Then Ambrose gets a stern look. "My dear, do you really want to annoy someone as ancient in power as the being you describe?"
When they entered, a little bell rang, jingling from the top of the door. And while Ambrose is pondering if he should steal from the locked case…a figure in a black suit moves down the spiral staircase. Pale lips are about to ask what the customer needs when he recognizes one of the man. "Ah…Atherton…and friend." Talbot gets a tight review from green eyes. "Interested in some old, rare books? The most expensive is that one. 75 thousand dollars, though I do have some you might call priceless, that come through me to other collectors." There is a pause. "So, you've thought about the offer. Who is this?"
Ambrose is giving the other man a smirk when Loki begins his descent of the stairs.
"You know of my predilection for — "
Whoops, and there's the big and scary ancient in power! Turning on the spot, the Jackal faces Loki with an expression of almost comical innocence on his face. His hands are quickly tucked away into the pockets of his blazer. Him? Take something? Never.
"You charge a steep price." There's a hint of a grin as the master-thief adds, "Might I introduce Captain Talbot," and he gestures towards Kent. "Captain, this is his highness, the Prince Loki — of Asgard, I assume, given your connections to the Lady Sif. As to your offer…yes, we've our own niche knowledge and due comeuppance as to your enemies."
The Fae, of course.
Talbot stands coolly under that scrutiny, before bowing, politely. Someone had manners beaten into him back when Victoria was on the throne. "A pleasure, Your Highness," he says, but does not advance to offer his hand. Royalty will probably not be up for being pawed by some grubby mortal.
But for someone like Loki, skilled in magic….he has a magical brand on his aura, in the sigils used by the sorcerers of England. Someone's an exile for trafficking with demons, no less.
Loki is travelling with TWO people who have been naughty, then! He makes a humming sound, then nods. "Very well. We will be travelling to a place in what is now Ireland. It is an old place…I know it from many years ago. Once, it was a fortress, then it fell into ruin, but the hill beneath it is hollow. It was a place of strong magic long ago, and I highly suspect that it still is." Loki drags one finger along the glass top. "I wish to make it clear that…this strike will be against those that are technically innocent, insomuch as any fae is innocent of anything. So far in this war, Asgard has taken on the position of defender, and though Baldur, Sif, Thor…even Hod may disagree with me, /defender/ is not entirely Asgard's way. I intend to destroy the mound, their sacred home…and that could mean killing those that stay to defend it. There may be treasure, but if you loot…keep in mind that much of their treasure is cursed, or false anyway, and I get the feeling that niether of you wish /another/ curse upon you."
As Ambrose listens, he lets his eyes wander. At least, at first — the mention of questionable intent has him glancing over at Talbot for a long moment and back to Loki again, his expression more neutral now.
"…no, neither of us are interested in yet another geas or any sort of lingering witchcraft. We've our own devils, as you seem to have surmised," the Jackal replies quietly. "I have narrowed my collection to a very certain set of parameters, so I can assure you, I've no interest in cursed Fae items. You'll find no pilfering from me." For once.
"I would say we're prepared for such an escapade…?" This is a question more for Talbot, given the Jackal's glance to him again.
Kent's expresion grows more and more severe, as he listens. Not displeased, but clearly taking it very seriously. "The fae are known to me, and I to them. They have long ….taken an interest in my family. When I was first sentenced to exile, they made their displeasure with my actions very clear. We are not currently actively foes, but….a little vengeance will not go amiss."
For all his impassive manner and even tone, there's a feral gleam in the gray eyes….and in the dimness of the shop, his pupils have blown wide enough that the inhuman green glow of his retinas is clear, as he looks at Loki.
Loki draws in a deep breath. "So, obviously, it would be helpful to know what you can /do/…if you don't mind giving me a little overview of things. If all you can make are bubbles…I need to account for that." Loki grins crookedly.
As if pulled into the maelstrom of Talbot's subtle display, there appears an equally crooked grin on Ambrose's face. In the dim light of the bookstore, and in the face of an impending fracas, his own pupils have gone a little wider. They flash carmine-red in partnership to the Bane's wending through his aura.
"I've an affinity for drawing the biological energy of other living beings through my curse." Lifting a hand before himself, he allows the Bane to prickle over his skin; he can't See it, but both practitioners might via the Sight. Both will feel the air go a little tighter around him and shiver with the influence of an ancient Mesopotamian variant on blood-magic. "I can utilize what energy I've…borrowed for my own uses. Strength, stamina, speed, durability…" He shrugs and then curls his fingers closed in a fist before dropping it to his side. "Mine is the stolen element of life itself."
Kent's expression takes on a hint of dry humor, at that. "I can command some minor illusions," he says, self-deprecatingly. "A little mind magic. Mostly this."
'This' consists of him stepping back and to the side, so he's no longer visible from the outside of the store. Once satisfied he's achieved a little privacy, he performs an odd forward bow - not so much the salutation of politeness as if the beginning of a yoga practice. But even as he's bending, his shape is changing, with a ripple of magic. And once it's passed, what stands there is an enormous black dog. As tall as a Great Dane, but far heavier in build, like a mastiff.
"Excellent…you will both be useful. I will open up the hill…and that's when we attack. I love the dog form. It will terrify them greatly…for they hate the beasts. Ah…the fae we face will be small in form, but vicious. They may also try to tempt, lie, feign great injury. There may be a king of the hill present, who would be a larger threat. Still…what we will face largely depends on the folly of succumbing to temptation like eating enchanted food, so, we should be able to have success. I…understand that your powers may…harm me?" Loki looks to Ambrose. "You must touch me to teleport. Try to do as little damage as possible." Then, he holds out his arm for them to touch while his other readies the spell.
It's with a proud little smirk that Ambrose glances over at the large Hound. "I would beware of the lure of the Hunt, Captain," he quietly asides to Talbot even as he offers his hand out to the large black dog. Talbot easily reaches to Ambrose's hips at his shoulders — he's massive.
"I've thankfully more mastering of the curse since I first came into it. You will feel little if anything…perhaps the sensation of pins-and-needles at best. Have no fear, I would not turn it on you. You've offered no threat or spite." Still, the Jackal takes in a deep breath and appears to center himself before he sets his palm down on Loki's arm; if there is fabric there, all the better, for it dampens the Bane's interest further.
The beast's eyes are as gray as they were in his human form, and they glint as he comes pacing up to insinuate his glossy-furred head under the Prince's hand. I can understand human speech he tells Loki, via telepathy, including Ambrose in the link. It feels strange, like finding someone too close, whispering in your ear, And speak to you thus. My mind remains human. No worries about him losing himself in beast form.
Loki looks at the dog when the telepathic communication hits him. He nods to agree, then, suddenly, there is a flash of gold and the strike team is off!
Teleportation by Loki is a curious thing. He is not rearranging atoms, but simply slipping through a little space, definitely through a little dark dimension, with a left turn at wherever he wants to get them out. It takes a split second, yet there remains the uncomfortable sensation of having seen and felt things no mortal was meant to, though recalling anything specific is impossible. They are deposited as Loki mentioned, near a hill…presumably in Ireland. The space around them is an overgrown field. Some trees have managed to creep up over the years, but after being treeless for centuries, its been hard for the forest to reclaim. The hill rises before them, rocky, covered in weeds that are trying to claim the fortress at its peak. The crumbled rocks have spilled down, bits of wall here and there. None of the upper levels have survived of the smallish castle, though one tall wall still stands, and much of a round tower. At first glance, there is nothing odd about the view. Since the trio /knows/ that it is a strange place though, they can see and sense some of the evidence of it.
The first is the persistence of a light mist, ringing the hill. They presently stand within it. Everything is instantly moist. There is the sound of birds, but the song is minor, /off/ a bit, for these creatures have been privy to the moonlit revels of the Old Ones, and learned their songs. There is also a scar around the hill, as if the whole thing were a lid. A geologist might say 'sedementary rock formation', but…in this case, it means where the hill lifts up on its pillars during sacred times to lure in mortals to never return.
Ambrose lifts his hand off of the Trickster's arm and shakes it out unthinkingly even as he looks around himself. The air feels…too close and as if it was to insinuate itself beneath one's skin. He lifts his lips just slightly in subconscious jackal reaction before he looks back to Loki.
"Do we intend to strike before the welcoming committee comes to greet us first then?" His whisper still seems loud in the area; his hand drifts to Talbot's shoulders and settles.
Nothing subconscious about the hellhound doggo's reaction - Kent's bristling and his lip is lifted. He's silent about it, though. No growling or snarling to betray them. Not yet. He's busily sniffing the air, even as he keeps his ears pricked, listening for the Trickster's reply.
"Yes…this will only take a moment…" There is another flicker of magic and the trickster is no longer wearing a black suit, but is in his caped, horned glory, with a knife in either hand. He walks towards the hill, his body crouched, and he's definitely looking for something. Feeling the magical lines…the same things he uses to travel along, to manipulate to his own ends. Its just a hill, and yet it might as well have a magical map written all over it. The other two can see him pause, then he tucks his knives away, reaches down to grab a boulder that no human could lift, lifts it, then smashes it back down on the hillside with a REEEAHH sound. There is a strange hissing sound that follows, the hill shudders, readying to open itself to repell the assailant. Then the seam breaks, blue-green light streaks out from every side. And then goes dark as hundreds of fae block it out, wiggling to get out of the hill to attack Loki. Its very similar to if he had attacked a beehive.
-— New Activity ---
Ambrose isn't about to follow Loki towards the hill, with its weird crumbling ruins and ambiance of Lovecraftian horror-tickles up the spine. He stoops a little without dropping his watch of the Trickster to aside to Talbot,
"I've got the feeling that he isn't going to knock politely."
Nope, that ain't knocking.
Inhaling sharply, Ambrose pulls out a silver ghurka knife and leaves the other hand open. The Bane whips into a maelstrom within his aura, not touching Talbot out of long dint of practice and habit. "Bloody fucking hell…!" He stares, pupils gone scarlet and pinpoint.
Dear heavens, what a maniac, comments Talbot, with an absurd primness. Nevermind that he's already bristling and snarling aloud, eyes glowing, fangs dripping. Let's go wreck them, my love, he adds, already racing up the hill to Loki's side. Let's also hope that he isn't actually here to trade us as the Hell Tithe, he is famous for his tricksiness. Be wary. I have his back.
The hill continues to rise, shedding more of the light as creatures about one foot high, with leathery wings and distorted faces spew out in a large quantity. The are instantly furious, and as the other two arrive, Loki can already barely be seen, except that his slashes with his knives cut swaths in the swarm. "This is for Hod…and for Baldur…for I am Loki of Asgard and the crimes of the Tuatha will not go unanswered!" Loki talks a big game, but its clear that he'd be a little in over his head alone. thankfully, he's not alone.
Once the Old Ones realize this, Ambrose gets his own swarm. These Fae have strange faces. Some have two faces instead of a back of the head. Others are only a great mouth, with eyes in their chest. Many are naked, or wearing very little, but their genitals are shaped by whimsy, or lacking entirely. Definitely nightmare fuel. Some have weapons, and they try to stab and bite with pointed teeth.
Those that attack Talbot though…do so with arrows, slings or spears. Small-scaled weapons are directed his way as their fear of getting too close to the beast, at least at first, keeps them at bay.
"«I WAS NOT EXPECTING THIS!!!!»"
It's not English, but a more archaic variant of Farsi that escapes the Jackal upon seeing the rush of Fae swelling at him, armed with all sort of things he's very glad won't show up in dreams — because he can't dream and thank god for it sometimes. Still, it's a welcoming party to make one yelp.
I mean, it's a war cry, really now, and not a yelp that escapes Ambrose when the first Fae enters his personal space. The ghurka knife blurs along with the air around him, turning every living thing within a span of five feet out from him into a battery. The Bane spatters and clings, biting with its own teeth at the Fae — but not before one of the evil little things ducks beneath the swing of his knife to leave a nasty bite of its own on his leg.
"FUCK!" There it goes with a busted head like a badly-kicked soccer ball, but red blood spills down Ambrose's leg beneath his knee where teeth marks bleed.
They are, distantly, his kin. The lineage of the Hound takes this form for having once been part of the Wild Hunt - one that turned on its master to defend an innocent mortal. Do the Fae recognize it, their blood so far diluted….and would they care if they did?
Kent, for his part, has no compunction at all about ripping and tearing those he can reach with leap or pounce. But he keeps himself very close to Ambrose and Loki. No being lured off to where they can surround him.
They are technically living creatures, so they are able to be killed, particularly with metal blades, but they are also vulnerable to the life-sucking bane. Many of them wither and shrivel into strange husks…but when they die, they turn into water, or dust. There is no blood for Talbot to taste when he grips one in his sharp teeth, only the high-pitched screams which only he can hear the upper registers of, until their deaths transform them. The illusion of cages spring up while Loki fights, trapping some of the creatures in the magic to thin them down.
The hill continues to rise until it is on four pillars, gleaming white, about 4 feet high. From within could be glimpsed a large dining hall…and from that hall comes the luring sound of merriment and singing. Magical voices and fae-song flow out of the hill. The words are hard to isolate, but the sentiment is not. COme…join…feast and dance…a siren call.
Loki looks with some concern towards those he has brought with him. "Do not listen to the fell voices!" a plaintiff sound.
|ROLL| Talbot +rolls 1d10 for: 3
Having earned the brief cessation in immediate harrassment by dint of the ring of what appears to be finely-silted mud around himself, Ambrose has time to look over beyond Loki and the gracefully-lunging Hound. The architecture of the hill has vastly changed since last he saw it and frankly, he stares.
However, little mercies come in the blazing burn of the bite at his leg. The pain's enough to wrench his focus back to the here and now, in time to slash across his front and then to his sides in a wide figure eight of silver and speed. He ends of kneeling on his bad leg, but now that he's stabilized, he can focus on excessively draining the life-force around to counteract the numbing venom he feels slinking up into his thigh.
Talbot, don't listen! It's along the same wavelength of earlier's telepathy.
Maybe it's his own fae blood that has him faltering for a beat, for Kent pauses, one paw lifted, ears pricked. The very picture of a dog who's certain he's heard his master's call. He even turns…
But then Ambrose is calling him in earnest, and he turns back, head lowering for a moment. He slinks back to the Jackal's side, still snapping and tearing as opportunity offers.
The swarm starts to ease. The destruction and toll on them was heavy, both bitten and snarled to death…or simply drained of their life. The fae life force is strange, though not unfamiliar, since the Hound has some drops of it in him as well. Much of the swarm is defeated, or fleeing to gossip this to the other hills and hollows where their kind dwell, but the creature yet remaining in the hill is formidable. Loki backs up and readies his daggers, but he does not immediately act against it. There is a sound like a clap of thunder, then before them stand 4 figures. The grandest is a genderless being that is completely grey, with black hair that defies gravity, and floats around the head that wears the crown. One grey hand is out to either side, and long, royal robes cloak its body.
Standing in front of it, forming a guard of sorts, are three people. One is Indian, with dark skin, black hair, dark, beautiful eyes. She brightens and smiles upon seeing Ambrose and holds out her hand.
Another is an army officer, prim, proper, with the haunted look of youth that has seen too many terrible things in a short life. The smile is less broad, but no less sincere, almost shy as he reaches a hand towards the dog.
The third figure appears to be a red-haired fellow with a braided beard, and ancient clothing, wildness in his eyes and an easy laugh. He gestures for Loki to come nearer.
"I am the King of the Hill…and these are my gifts…for the heroes." The voice of the grey figure has so many layers. It calls itself King, but there are male and female sounds in it.
|ROLL| Talbot +rolls 1d10 for: 2
You must be ruddy chuffed, comes the thought along the collective telepathic state between the three men. They're pulling back. Fucking lunatics, the lot of them. Knowing that Talbot is nearby, the Jackal slowly rises to his feet again, still clutching the silver gurkha dagger with white knuckles. He thrums with stolen life-force like a continuously drawn cello-string and by god, his pupils have nearly subsumed his irises in blood-red glow. Each dead Fae was like a hit of adrenaline and bicarbonate in his veins.
Still… The sight of Janaya standing before him yet again, in another hellish place, is enough to take the wind from his sails. Ambrose can be seen to swallow hard. His composure trembles. The Bane crackles in fits through his aura.
"…you cannot be…?" he whispers aloud even as he takes a step towards the woman, just waiting to hear her laugh once more — oh god, does she still smell of jasmine? His dagger-less hand outstretches towards her soft-looking palm.
|ROLL| Talbot +rolls 1d20 for: 6
Kent's swayed, too. He leaves off his attempts at slaughter to stare at the young man in the uniform. The ears come up, his head rises and his fur smoothes. There's even a plaintive little whimper from him.
….but then Ambrose is being bewitched, and Kent's hastily seizing Ambrose's hand in his mouth. Not biting, not hard, anyway, but trying to draw him away, distract him….even as his own gaze darts again to the soldier.
|ROLL| Loki +rolls 1d20 for: 15
Loki is not swayed. He knows exactly where that dead man is…and its not here. The halls of Valhalla have him in their grasp and would never let him go. He's also had a while to get over it. Loki hisses and yells, "Your tricks won't work on us. You've tried to kill my brothers…and for that, your kind pays. Let the message be spread that ONE of the sons of Odin is not afraid to bite!" With that, Loki presses himself up against one of the columns and starts pushing on it.
The Soldier takes a few steps and calls out to Talbot. "No…help me…I'm fading back…" he cries to the dog. Janaya meanwhile arches her brows and holds out her other hand too. "Come to me, come into the hill and you will never be parted from me again."
More subtly beyond the three figures, the 'King' of the Hill grows taller, with elogated fingers that are sharp like knives. Its mouth is too broad to fit easily on its face and it starts to advance upon Loki with slow steps. Its feet, when seen, have no toes.
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 2
Talbot might have to be a little tougher with those teeth. Ambrose starts out of the near-hypnotic draw that the deceased woman has upon him and glances at the large dark dog. Loki's yelling is another distraction that grounds the Jackal in the present. Still, my god — Janaya is beseeching, and those beautiful dark eyes that haunt his waking hours in wretched flashes here and there…
"I'm sorry, little bird, I cannot," rasps the master-thief even as he tries to take one last step towards her, two fingers extending from the handle of the dagger as if it would complete his soul to press fingerpads to her skin.
|ROLL| Talbot +rolls 1d10 for: 10
Kent is snarling in frustration. He doesn't bite Ambrose, but he seizes the Jackal's hand in his big, slobbery maw, as if it were a toy he were trying to steal, even as he interposes himself between Ambrose and his beloved ghost. The threat to his fiancee seems to have cleared any mist of illusion from him - he pays the vanishing soldier no mind.
|ROLL| Loki +rolls 1d20 for: 5
The old norseman and the soldier fade away, when they are not believed in anymore, but Janaya dangerously remains. She does not move towards him, trying to draw Ambrose inside the hill…where its commander can shut it on them both. Loki grits against the column, trying to break it down. He pushes off, then rams his shoulder into it. But that's when he can see the threat of the King coming right at him with its claw-like hands. "Ambrose! Talbot! I cannot do this alone! I need you!" He draws forth his dagger and has to fend off a few blows. But he can't both break the hill and fight the King.
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 8
Small mercies come in the kythe itself. Alongside the dog teeth rested firmly on his hand without breaking skin and the thunderous growl of the Hound inserted between him and the ghost of his long-lost lover, there comes a head-rocking swat in psychic force. Ambrose can be seen to literally stumble to one side with it, head jounced, and he shakes completely free of the illusion. Realizing what just about happened, sickening anger swells up in him.
"You bloody fucking BASTARD!" His shout echoes towards the King and Loki, given he now realizes the nature of what nearly killed him. "Give me my hand, that bastard's going to die!!!"
He breaks from Talbot (though it won't take but a few Hound lunges to catch up) and arrows in on the King, bringing back and down the silver gurkha dagger at him with excessive speed and force.
Satisfied that Ambrose is freed, Kent's ranging at his side - leaping along beside him like a foxhound at full stretch. Teeth bared, eyes green embers, he's already darting in to try and hamstring the King of the Hill.
The King is a creature born of another time…perhaps long ago, it was small like the others, and in time, grew, evolved, changed by magic and by will. It ate a child in 1327…wore her hair like a wig. It killed a farmer in 1409 and made a crown out of his teeth. In 1574, it used this same trick to drag men from their horses and into the hill. Throughout hundreds of years, it has been the quiet source of unspoken tragedies, including the destruction of the fortress above it. Dark fae…unpleasant creatures. Sleepy and subtle…but dangerous. Ambrose's blade sinks into its back…it can feel the amalgam of its life force being drained away. Its icky, and weird, twisted and full of ichor. It hiss-screams at Ambrose, then again as Talbot sinks his teeth into the heel of one toeless foot. The mist disappears as Loki does his part too, stabbing forwards towards its chest. No blood…its like stabbing a doll. Inside is nothing but a hollow cavity. But, stabbing and biting it does seem to do the trick.
As Ambrose's dagger rips downwards, the King finally splits literally in half, cracked open like a vase, then instantly withers. The only thing that remains of him is a single, gold ring.
Loki immediately focuses on the pillar again. "We need to bring down the hill and then get out of here…"
The dagger sinking home into the King's back is darkly and viscerally vindicating. The resistance against its razor-sharp edge is halfway between canvas and flesh, and Ambrose brings all his force to bear upon its drag. He dances away after the being seems to slump in half and further into nothingness, panting, frizzlig with stolen life-energy that has him dizzied and almost nauseous. It's almost as if it's simply too much.
"Then do let's bring down the whole damn ship," he growls before he darts over to the pillar and leans his weight against it, likely assuming that Loki will join him in toppling it. He had observed the Trickster doing it earlier through the haze of battle.
Talbot, in this form, can't do much to help. But he can keep watch - reaching out with his abilities to not only keep them linked, but to listen for other, hostile minds…..and not entirely coincidentally, maybe catch a little glimpse of Loki's own thoughts. Just in case the Trickster might've been waiting until now to spring the punchline.
Between the two men…and the dog keeping watch, they can push over one of the pillars. Once that pillar crashes and the hilltop tilts, it sends loose a whole cascade of destruction. Another pillar breaks, the whole thing tilts, then slides sideways. The fae magic within starts turning everything that the moonlight touches into dust…then finally the fortress falls over and into the gaping hollow hill. Later, they'll call it a siezmic event. huh. And then, Loki will teleport them right back to the shop. POOF.
When Talbot tries to get a glimpse of Loki's mind though, he gets a bit more than he'd asked for. Loki is not human, is arguably the embodiment of the concept of deception in many ways, and he's magical. So, there's the glimpse of thoughts immediately relevant, like 'thought Id lost that one', but also impulses that have not been acted on, kidnapping someone, killing someone else, a swirling eddy of loss in there, also there are thoughts of magic, which is an intimate connection with the writhing world around him, and how he's able to manipulate it to his will, as he starts to cast the teleportation spell to bring them home. But, yes, somewhat alarmingly, though he doesn't seem to have betrayed either of /them/, the greater sense that he's done something tricky and deceptive is there in strong amounts, suggesting he's definitely been up to something.
Staggering back from the consequential destruction of the Fae mound and its inhabitants, Ambrose has time to boggle at what just happened in such a brief period of time before —
— back to the shop. He stumbles to one side and catches himself heavily on the front counter, the silver dagger still in-hand and readied. A heavy sigh is blown as he slides it away into its sheath, looking around for Talbot to make sure he made it.
"Respectfully, sirrah…" he says to Loki, appearing still wild around the eyes, as if he'd had WAY too much coffee in one sitting. "Do let us bring additional hands the next time you choose to foray into such a bloody fucking fiasco."
That's a lot to deal with, that ancient, alien mind. Enough so that Kent doesn't immediately transform, once they're back. Instead, he lies down, carefully, rests his head on his paws. Someone needs a break.
But he thumps his tail in approval of Ambrose's comment.
"I like it this way…too easy it just feels like bullying." Loki smiles and also leans against the counter. Teleporting 3 people, twice, takes a toll. "That was fun…" He rubs his thumb against a place on his cheek where he got cut, and shakes his head. "Thank you, gentlement…"