2019-08-29 - Shiners Ain't Shiny

Summary:

Kent is ALSO not impressed with Ambrose's black eye.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Thu Aug 29 02:36:40 2019
Location: RP Room 3

Related Logs

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Theme Song

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talbotambrose

Being take off-guard is no one's favorite state to be in.

The Jackal detests it on par with biting flies and Nazis.

As such, he's not immediately returned to the Talbot-Atherton household. Instead, he spends at least another handful of hours within one of his many bolt-holes, no doubt searching through his collected knowledge from spanning many years in the city about the punch-throwing young woman, nom de guerre of 'Cold', and her beau, apparently 'Heat'. The entire time, he's seething.

Eventually though, the Jackal does sweep in the front door to the manor belong to himself and the Hound, scowling as fiercely as he can manage.

And wow, that's…a shiner.

Kazirmira calls down from below, "«Baba»?" Ambrose glances up from toeing off his boots and tries hard to stifle down knee-jerk inclinations to snap back because right now, he's far too annoyed to be 'Father'.

"Yes, «Babri»? Is Sterling alright?"

His daughter, be-freckled and with eyes of tanzanite-blue, appears at the railing of the second floor. "Yes, he's fine. Still sick, but the bottle worked. Oh…" A wince. "Who hit you…?" Down she comes in sweatpants and a sweatshirt to sweep against him in a hug. Stiff at first, Ambrose then sighs and rests his chin on her head.

"Someone who did not think before they acted," he murmurs rather…coldly.


Kent's downstairs, working on something. The kythe is full of the hum of it. But it dies away, and he comes up the steps with that light tread. Only to nearly fall back down the stairs when he catches sight of Ambrose's bruise.

He's so used to thinking of the Jackal as a deadly and nearly unbeatable fighter that he frankly gapes at it, before he comes over to hover. "Dear God, love, what on earth?"


Kazimira doesn't step back from her hugging of her father or try to escape the loose wrap of his arms, but she does look back at Kent with a concerned frown of her own.

"Yes, I was unable to duck," the Jackal reports drily, his tone ironed nearly flat in irritation. "We will need to speak at length about this." He gives Kent a significant look, glancing to the downstairs area and back to the man once again as directive.

"Do you want ice?" Mira asks half-heartedly; she knows full well her father can make this black eye disappear in seconds if he feels so inclined. It must be a deliberate display, somehow.

"In a highball glass with three fingers of gin," Ambrose replies more lightly, scrounging up a mild smile for his offspring. He plants a firm kiss on her soft curls. "I am fine, «Babri.» Let me talk with Kent. I will be certain to appraise you of things when we are done."

A firm hug and the young woman departs to head back upstairs with the informative of, "I'll keep an eye on Sterling. I think he might go to sleep if I read to him." Ambrose, watching her ascend, nods in agreement before glancing to Kent. Then, down he goes to the master bedroom. As he does, a dark miasm of discontent clouds around him until it's nearly palpable.


Gin on the rocks it is. For the both of them. Kent follows, still all but vibrating with worry….and alight with curiosity. Picture his dog self all pricked ears and alert tail, nose working.


Silhouetted against the falling light of day through the tinted sliding glass doors of the bedroom, one can see him shrug out of the sweatshirt he wore. This gets throw off to one side with a sharp, violent flick of his wrist. Ambrose then threads his fingers up into his hair and lets out a low, slow, growling sigh.

An abrupt turn in place and he walks at Kent, eyes a little wild. "Kent. «Azizam». Remind me: I cannot kill anyone anymore," he says tightly, hands pressed as if in prayer before his chest, as he comes up short. "I cannot, not for a slight such as this. I…cannot," he breathes a little shakily as a spark of temper makes his pupils flash carmine despite light behind his person.


Kent is aghast - as he comes up, the light falls on him. How wide the gray eyes are, with that dismay. So much for his usual reserve. Then, gently, he settles his hand on Ambrose's shoulders, feather light. "No," he says. "The days when you and I could kill for honor or for pleasure or for whim are long done. But what has you angry enough to even remember that time?"

A stroke of his palm down the Jackal's spine, soothing hackles currently only metaphorical.


Ambrose brings his hands up to his face and groans behind it again; a minor uptick in sound is his fingertip accidentally touching the point of impact on his eye-socket. Ouch. His shoulders abruptly slump, cued no doubt by the pacifying draw of warm, familiar palm along his back.

"…my own bedamned pride," he says most bitterly. When his hands drop, he wears an expression both tired and deeply, deeply frustrated. "I was caught off-guard, as I mentioned earlier, by a mere chit…whom I have also mentioned earlier. The young woman who dared try me for the statuette of Gibil," he reminds Kent — the fiasco wherein he had to use a Suggestion to avoid being shot by a modified gun and escape with his intended artifactual quarry. "She is young, and impetuous, and Kent, I…" His eyes narrow. "I will be teaching her a lesson, one way or another, because she has no respect for her elders."

Says the guy who looks about thirty, give or take a dozen silver hairs at the nape of his neck.


Which is when there's that old, familiar, dry look on his husband's features. "That's always gone so very well for ou in the past," Kent says, wryly. "But goodness. I want to meet this young woman, if she can…" A raking glance for his husband, top to toe, "Leave you in this state, well, it's been a long time since you faced such an opponent."


Surely, half the reason for the Hound's statements was summoning up that boggled gape of dismay from his husband. Ambrose makes a soft choking sound of disbelief before he then snorts, turning to walk away and over to the glass panes of the backyard-door. He leans a shoulder against it with his arms crossed and looks out over the lawn, sucking at his canine tooth as he does when musing over things.

"I have the…distinct impression that you may one day have the…delight of meeting her. Given I fully expect to find her with her dirty fingers in my business, I might scruff her and you may take a gander through mine own eyes."

A beat and he gives Kent a flat, ruefully-amused smirk. "And faugh on you, sirrah, for implying she even merits the status of an opponent."


"It has been a long time since you had any real challenge," Kent agrees, mock-mournfully. "She sounds like she will be….persistent, at least?" The gleam of humor in those quicksilver eyes, as he goes to sit on the edge of the bed. "A diversion for you."

Then, there's the brush of ghostly fingers within the link. Show her to me. Remember what happened. Let me see. Beguiling and soft as mist.


Dark lashes flutter as mental paths long-walked allow superlative access to the Jackal's memories. His nightshine-red pupils end up shuttered away as his features relax to a state of internal focus, his chin even dipping a touch.

Kent will see a store-front possibly familiar: Oxford Assaying, Refining, and Exchange. The building itself is nondescript; within, the process of converting cash to physical assets or vice-versa might be something the Hound has attended upon. From Ambrose's perspective outside on the sidewalk, one can see the attempted robbery unfold through the panes of the front door — his attention hyperfocuses on a young woman once he hears her voice through the glass, especially the nickname of 'Pretty' given to a uncooperative stranger — this connects to what she called him when they squared off over the statuette at the gala, this and 'GQ', whatever that implied. She wears a good amount of gear including a blue and black fitted suit and what appear to be shades. The young man beside her is similarly dressed. Marking the period of time dedicated to his phone call as inconsequential, Ambrose then leads Kent to the point of impact. The memory jars from the punch to the skull — it rattled him well enough — and he gets to see the young woman stomp Ambrose's phone into oblivion. Both she and the young man flee with the memory's span of view partially obscured by what must have been a rapidly-swollen eye.

"She goes by 'Cold'," the Jackal murmurs distantly, his lashes fluttering again as he comes back fully to himself.


"Good lord," Kent breathes. There is that old, cold anger unfolding its wings behind his eyes. How dare they lay a hand on his Jackal. How dare they. He hasn't got the resources he once did - his money is earned sedately and subtly, accruing in numbered accounts. No cold-eyed thugs answer his calls or take his orders.

But the core is still there, and the Hound still has teeth, and the will to use them. Be the voice of reason for once, Ambrose, and stop him before he wades in.


As vines curl and twine about a tree, so does Ambrose's abandoned inclinations to respond to the cresting ill temper of his mate begin to blossom, ruddy and Bane-dusted — ah, to be set upon someone once more…to know that the seductive fall of the curse like a guillotine is not only accepted, but warranted.

The Jackal feels goosebumps sheet across his skin and fine hairs rise even as he inhales slowly. On a breath, "Allow me to handle this according to my druthers, «Azizam». Inasmuch as I would have you step in, you have your own karma to worry about, yes…?" Swallowing is like forcing down the dance of his heart. It thumps in his bones as the Bane slowly undulates, a leviathan in the depths of his person appearing as a translucent roiling of liquid garnets about his aura.


It brings him back to himself with screeching abruptness, the dog feeling the yank of the very end of the leash. The unfolding darkness dissipates like windblown mist, and he hangs his head. Chagrin writ plainly there.

"Yes, my love," he whispers, tone subdued. "I….even now, I forget. I am not who I was. Not what I was."


"Are any of us, after a century?" It has the notations of a gentle offering in solace through understanding. Clearing his throat, Ambrose then puts fingertips to his darkened eye. A rub once…twice…thrice…and the fourth time, he lets out a relieved sound in the back of his throat, as if he'd finally popped a weather-tightened joint.

No more black eye, courtesy of the Bane.

Then rolling socked feet in silent steps, he walks over and sits down by Kent on the bed. It bounces and dips for his presence. "If you see her on the street, do…" Ambrose glances up, wearing a peculiar smile. "I do not think it would be improper for you to send word to me, via the kythe. Mayhaps I will…"

A shake of his head. His own eyes fall and then rise to the sliding glass door again. "No. I will not forgive it. Not now. Let us see how fate chooses to place her chips and throw her dice. I will gamble against the chit being someone I need to worry about. She is young. She has lessons to learn yet and I will be the one to teach her."


Ambrose being evil, in a way he can't really, any longer…..it's enough to send a little frisson of dark pleasure into the link. The vibration of a spider's claws on its silk….and he looks at the bathroom door. "I think," he say, in that familiar airy tone, "You may need some help scrubbing your back. I imagine a bath might make you feel better…."


The observation is enough to make the Jackal sit up from his contemplative slouch. He gives Kent a look momentarily mildly surprised before his eyes half-lid.

"You are perceptive, my heart. I could use a long soak in some hot water. What ever would I do without you?" He leans in and plants a solid, annoyingly-squeaky kiss smack dab in the seashell curl of Kent's ear, pushing in enough to see if he can topple the Hound from his dignified sit without knocking him from the bed itself. "I might find grit in my bellybutton and heaven forbid this occur," Ambrose comments as he rises to his feet and meanders towards the bathroom. The brunet pulls his tanktop over his head with a laugh. Kent's successfully banished his dour mood.


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