Summary:Surprise, Kent! Aren't Jackal-kits the best? Save for when they chew on chair legs. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Surprises galore!
The return of the Jackal to the Talbot-Atherton manor was likely not expected in the manner of its doing. With the kind minder having left a few minutes ago, it falls upon Kent to deal with his other half as a far smaller being if not less grandiose in mind.
For currently, the wee black-backed jackal-kit is happy trotting on his way to find the nearest chair leg and put his wee teeth upon it. His gigantic ears are perked, his body language bouncy and tail lifted high. It's very easy to distinguish his main emotion in the kythe: relief.
Kent is…..shocked. Even after all these years, all the magic and oddities, this takes the cake. Kent's sitting limply on a living room seat, peering at tiny Ambrose. "Dear God, what happened? And please don't chew that. I have some unchewed dental sticks if you want." He keeps chewbones around the way other people stash cigarettes here and there in the house. Never know when the urge to chomp might come on you.
Ambrose pauses in sniffing the chair leg with the obvious body language of someone caught. His blue-green eyes roll to consider Kent and he plops down, ears still perked. The regression in age came tandem with a regression in mental fluidity, but he tries nonetheless:
Big rat — big stick — shook it at me — tried fighting but too many rats — magic, I think — dental stick? Apparently, those chewable sticks are a good idea. Rising to his paws, he trundles over and flops down on Kent's feet, immediately making to put his mouth on the man's pants-cuff.
He's so cute. There's a sparkling sky blue bubble of amused affection in the kythe…and Kent bends down to scoop him up, tucking him into the crook of his arm. "Yes, dental sticks. I got beef flavor at the petstore, yesterday." Large and small sizes. He goes rummaging in the kitchen cabinets for them, grinning down at Ambrose. "So, you fought a magic rat and it turned you into a pup?" That it might be permanent, irreversible, doesn't seem to have occurred to him.
Tiny toebeans spread for a second upon being lifted, but Ambrose is far less wiggly this time given he knows his current handler well. Beef is good — steak is better — I got fed pastrami — magic rat, yes — big as me — it was disgusting. Those radar-like ears fall flat to the sides as he glances up at Kent and then at the cupboards.
Potts found me — went inside a building — man with a metal suit there — I should break in there again. Musingly, the master-thief remembers the layout of the building as best he can. Stark Tower did have some interesting architecture.
That startles him nearly into dropping Ambrose. He peers down, hand on the cupboard door. "You ran into Miss Potts? And you went into Stark's building? That's…." He casts an image of Tony in full Iron Man drag into Ambrose's mind, gently. "Did he look like this?"
Yes — very loud suit — loud man. Ambrose flicks his ears entirely back in disapproval. Ceiling talked — magic — phone call made at ceiling. He means the internal AI, JARVIS, responding to Pepper's request to call his own cell phone and the message left upon it. Tiny pink tongue bleps against Kent's knuckle and then comes the gentlest exploratory mouthing of his hand, while those odd off-blue eyes roll to look up at Kent.
Teeth sore — molars — down please, he requests with a whining wriggle, little paws paddling at empty air.
Stark's involved. Kent's still not at all sure what he thinks of that. But he sets the jackaling down as requested, then comes out with one of the dental bones, stooping to give it to him. "What did they say? Or do?"
YAY! Such innocent, truthful enthusiasm from the jackal-kit as he takes the small beef dental chew — and ZOOM, there he goes, full-tilt, out of the kitchen. Er, almost out of the kitchen; he drops the chew-stick and has to execute a fast and furious turn to come back and snag it, snarling in his delight. A stoop and then there he goes again, back to the living room, where he slinks beneath the coffee table. Three turns, whiddershins, and he plops down. The end of the chew-stick is immediately jammed into his cheek pocket and the sound of contentment at relief is audible in a soft murrrrrrr.
After a second or two of chewing, it occurs to Ambrose that Kent had asked a question. He thinks back at the Hound, Potts gave Stark pastrami — he didn't want it — foppish — man had something to do — suit was loud — Potts let me cuddle — warm.
A child's mind, as well as a child's body. That doesn't bear thinking about. Kent sighs, gets himself a bottle of coke, and comes ambling out to the living room again. Rather than dispose himself on a seat, he settles cross-legged down on the floor, watches him chew. "Do you remember where you had this encounter with the magic rat?" He may have to consult Strange on this.
Alley — um. The Jackal-kit stops chewing to stare at Kent, as if this might jog his memory. Big ears go back and forwards, back and forwards, one back and one forwards. By Stark Tower? Rising to his paws, he then drags his chew-stick over so he can plop down and lean his back against Kent's shins. Holding the beef dental chew between his paws, he shoves it back against his molars again.
I fought them — they ran — only ran because too many — fierce. A soft, high-pitched growl follows as small teeth dent the chewable stick. It's definitely adolescent fluffing of his own ego. A skim of memories will give Kent proof that the Jackal turned tail and fled yelping at the sight of the Rat King.
He blows out a slow breath. "We shall have to see if we may negotiate directly…." he says, musingly. "Did you kill any of them? Do you remember?" Gently, Kent reaches out a hand to run fingers down the fur of the pup's spine.
Dozens, the kit reports with a pop of pride at himself. Guards — smaller rats — attacked me first — slimy gits.
Hilarious: the youngling is convinced that's a very bad swear. Kit-fur stands up in a ruff from his nape to his tail until the passing of Kent's hand soothes it down. He murrs angrily at the dental chew for a few seconds more before letting it fall between his paws. A twist and he's on his back, bunny-kicking and grabbing at Kent's fingers with pink-and-grey toebeans on full display. It's apparently play time in earnest now.
Maybe Kent should be upset, take this more seriously. But honestly, at the moment - he can't bring himself to. Instead, he reaches over to the toychest at the side of the couch to come up with one of his favorite toys - a plush cactus with a smiling face. That he teases the Jackal with. "I rather think that may have prevented negotiation."
Rats can't negotiate — filthy things, opines the Jackal-kit as he swats and kicks at the cactus toy. Small white teeth are bared from black-lined lips as he snarls ferociously in a high, juvenile pitch. He latches his mouth onto the toy if he can and holds onto it, thin front legs wrapped around its circumference. Kent might as well drag him around on the carpet for all he's intending to hold onto the cactus like a burr.
Be a dog too? The question is accompanied by big kit-Jackal eyes, even if he's half-distracted by attempting to disembowel the fluff from the cactus toy.
"All right." With that, he steps back a little, to give himself room….and then he tips forward. A blur of magic, like spreading ink, and there's the big black Hound, vastly larger than the kitling. He flops down onto his belly, drops his head to nose at the cactus, gray eyes bright. Defend your cactus, I may take it from you!
Oh whoa, vastly bigger indeed! The Jackal-kit tumbles away for a second from the cactus toy, ears pinned back and tail tucked. Still, young courage wins out over instinctual fear. With a wee growl of fervor, he pounces atop the cactus toy to cover it with his body and then slaps at Kent's big black nose!
Too bad his paw is about the size of quarter at most, smaller even than the width of the Hound's nostrils, and the impact probably feels like a cotton ball bouncing off his snout. Have at thee, brigand! Another swat and then a clumsy, over-excited sprawl forwards to have the Jackal-kit sprawling his chest across the broad span of Hound nose. A wee pink lick between Kent's eyes follows.
There's only a tolerant huff of breath, as the little jackal flops across him. The ripple of laughter in the link, and he closes his eyes. The cactus is successfully defended, it seems…at least until Kent nudges forward, as if to tumble the pup off his muzzle.
With a small urf of surprise, the wee kit does slip to one side from his perch on Kent's nose. He rolls through his back and into his paws again, only to launch himself at one of the large floppings of ear. Nibbling at it, he plants his small front paws on each side of the ear, flat to Kent's skull.
— never beat me! — fang in the night — cactus is mine! Chortling does echo in the kythe to follow.
Silky fur, now being gummed by the pup. You never do relent, do you? Basso organ notes of affection, delight - his voice changes in the kythe with this form. Kent permits the nibbling without protest. Gotta keep the husband happy.
— will never change, the kitling reports with another reel of laughter. Kent's flopping ear is given a few solid tugs before his teeth slip from the soft fur. Backwards he goes, butt over tea-kettle, and then returns to thump against the Hound's skull in a tackle.
Needless to say, it's like throwing himself against a wall. Onto his back he goes again, the pale Jackal-kit, and flails his legs about before rolling onto his side. Shaking his head makes those outlandish ears slap against his face and he blinks at Kent. — thick skull.
He's got a Molosser's heavy skull, a contrast to the lean, gracile human form he wears. You know it, he confirms, with another laugh. Shaking that massive head….and then he leans over to nose at the Jackal's belly, snuffling amusement.
So soft and warm, the silvery-white fur on the Jackal-kit's belly, and scented lightly. Squishy toebeans shove like butterfly-punches at the Hound's face as he sniffs and laughter reels in the kythe.
— tickles!!! As always, he goes to pluck at the refined whiskers of the far-larger dog with his tiny ivory front teeth.
That makes him jolt. It always does - those are sensitive. He still refuses to take offense, but he does jerk his muzzle out of the way for a moment. And, as ever, such an attack demands escalation.
Here it comes - beware the Tongue. The little creature's mask is suddenly draped in wetness.
AUGH!!!!
Squirming like an uncovered grub, the kit tries to escape and trips over himself multiple times. It's rather spectacular. Once he's found his footing, the wee creature dives to one side and then beneath the loose skin of the Hound's neck. Shoving his shoulders as hard as he can against the black dog's throat, as if he avoid the tongue by premise of being too close for its wet-towel slap, he remains there, little tail lashing.
Then, in the usual manner of the young and distractable, he simply flops, resting his chin on the hefty boning of one Hound forearm. — tired, he reports, suddenly blinking.
Go to sleep, my darling, The Hound urges, tenderly. We will do more when you wake. He curls around the Jackal pup, protectively, noses at him. I love you. All will be well.
— sleepy… — why sleepy…?
Forgetful that he can, in fact, sleep in the state of jackal-guise, Ambrose finds himself sinking into a contented state of utter lassitude. The Bane does not recognize him in this form, after all, and kernels away in his being for now. A yawn to make those huge ears shiver and he folds upon himself into a small furry ball no larger than a cantaloupe. Tucked against the Hound's chest, he can hear the deep thumping of his heart and what faster way to lull the master-thief to sleep than this?
After all, he's warm and truly safe now, surrounded by the protective bulk of Kent's canine form. A solution to his aged state can come later. For now, peace.