Summary:So many people, in animal forms. This was bound to cause problems. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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One of the few places where May can spend some time and feel truly relaxed is, perhaps oddly enough, a bookstore. But not just any bookstore, Cover Story. The store owned by one Loki Odinson and his wife Sigyn. The otherworldly pair were welcoming and understanding, and the lack of six year olds and tea parties particularly endears this place to her.
Currently lounging what little of the weak sunlight that makes it through the store's front windows is there to bask in, she looks completely at ease with her front paws curled close, her tail waving lazily, and her eyes half-closed. Of course, then there's that annoying stray thought: Are the powers that be going to require that she spend vacation time on this?
…he may not have a dime, but he's got street savoire faire —
Wait, still the wrong song, but appropriate nonetheless, given Ambrose sports no pockets for change at the moment. Instead, idle boredom and curiosity has brought him along the subway (to bolster the Bane's need to feed and it's assuaged now from little nibbles at so very many bodies packed like sardines in a can) and to the Lower East Side.
He pads down the street in his black dog-sweater, still very convinced it's too cold to go without it, and his diamond-studded leather slip-collar sits comfortably at his neck. The tag, snarkily lettered, is tucked away into the neck-hem of the dog-sweater itself. All of around twenty pounds, the Jackal trots contentedly down the city street towards the book store. Rounding the corner, he sees someone leaving the place and breaks into a quick dash. ZIP — into the store he goes, barely avoiding the tip of his tail being caught in the closing door.
And oh-HO: how the store smells NOW to his canine nose. Lifting it, he takes a moment standing off to one side to assess. The books are all of quality, old and fine in their bindings, and he can scent other more esoteric things: incense, dust, and the near-effervescent tickle of true magic. It makes his hackles lightly rise before he skirts to the left. It brings him beneath the alcove where May sprawls in her ray of sunshine.
Maybe she'll see the tips of his ears and the wag of his lifted tail before his animal-voice reaches her. If it isn't the kitty with the pretty bell… How amused he sounds, lips parted in a canine grin.
Tortie-May had been ignoring the human customers in the store, but the clicking of little claws on the flooring after the customers depart catches the attention of her ears at the very least. Said ears track the little footfalls, so she doesn't startle when the pale jackal's animal-voice floats up to her. « If it isn't the street savvy little dog that isn't a dog, » she mrrs back at him and THEN lazily sits up and turns around to look down at him from where she's been lounging, her tail curling around her front paws with the tip continuing to wave seemingly lazily.
You are as astute as last we met, milady Shanzha. His canine grin doesn't lessen in the least. Those ridiculously large ears continue to lift forwards towards her. I am, in fact, a gentleman when I feel inclined to be as such. By your current state, you have not resolved your issue, but you appear to have been fed at the very least. That is well.
Ambrose seats himself with the appearance of one of the ancient Egyptian statuettes behind glass at the MET, dignified and balanced with his paws aligned. Your sunshine is tempting. I might join you upon your window seat.
Tortie-May continues to look down at Ambrose-jackal, sitting primly just like her own version of an ancient Egyptian statue. « I haven't, but the owners of this store are gracious enough to let me visit. »
When the sunshine is mentioned, her tailtip twitches faster for just a moment. « It isn't as warm as I was hoping, but it will suffice. » She stands and steps to the side delicately along the books displayed along the window's ledge so as to not so much as budge any of them.
By the subtle flick of his ears, Ambrose was half-expecting to be denied and to hop up regardless of any ire he might meet. With space cleared, he crouches and then arcs up onto the narrow window seat. Despite his lanky build, he's decidedly delicate with his own steps, not wishing to draw attention to himself from the owners in question.
It will indeed suffice. There is no cold air to draw it from the sweater's dark fabric. He turns two times in place before curling up into a rather small ball, back legs tucked and forelegs extended out over the edge of the window seat. Tortie-May now gets a more indolent look from those off-blue eyes.
And no progress made as to your state, I presume? Of course he's going to be nosy; he's got quite the sharp one as is.
Watching the little jackal settle himself, May takes her ease as well, crouching down then curling her front paws inward to form a classic cat loaf. It's efficient because it's a compact way to sit and it keeps her hands warm.
« There has been progress, yes. The individuals working on reversing this situation for me are preparing to contact the owner of the … magical signature? of the collar. Bast. One they do contact her I am not entirely sure what to expect, but the worst that can happen is nothing. »
Hmm…Bast. Of all the goddesses, I suppose she would be the most likely to have laid a fingerprint upon your collar, the pale canine agrees, his eyes fallen to this very object and the bell attached to it. You might have your individuals look into Li Shou as well, though I suspect he is less likely to be a culprit. He is said to be more concerned with protection of the crops than in dabbling with humanity's state of being.
Ambrose's tail lift and flops once as he glances to the window, watching pedestrians walk by. I have no truly useful suggestions in the matter other than this. My own state is something I may revert by removing my own collar at any time.
« They've confirmed that it belongs to Bast. What they're preparing now is to have an audience with her to ask about removing this curse from me. That is where the uncertainty lies. Though I will be sure to mention Li Shou to the supervising agents. » May settles a bit more, the mostly-black of her fur soaking in what warmth is available from the sunlight coming in the window.
« And you? Have you been by that butcher's shop again recently? »
Have I spoken to a god before…? Not someone from the realm of…Asgard? Asgard, Ambrose amends, his ears briefly flicked back. I do not believe I have, though I have dealt with Kitsune. They are mercurial creatures, I assure you. As to the butcher's shop, no. I was not hungry on my travels today.
How could he be? The Bane assuaged itself during his travels on the subway.
And I have not had reason to visit it in my human guise. Our usual butcher has not been short-stocked on any of the meats we require in my household. With an indulgent stretch of his front feet, Ambrose then settles in moreso, tucking his own thin tail overtop his hind hocks. Why, do you require something from the shop, milady Shanzha?
The days were getting late and Christmas was right around the corner. She had to get something - how do you get something for people that may have everything they already need? Guess that wasn't the 'reason' for the season, as it were. Passing the window of the shop, Lena gives pause if only for a moment. She considers something, that golden glimmer still in the upper corner of the showcase, and then her frosty-peepers fall upon something she knows. Leaning down, she gives a gentle tap against the glass and smiles at the white creature in the warmth of the shop.
The orange and black mottled lump next to the white creature turns her head abruptly at the tap against the glass, revealing the angular features and HUGE, wide-set ears of an Oriental shorthair cat. She likely can't hear it through the glass, but the bared teeth and opened mouth imply she just hissed at the woman outside the store.
« Go away, » Tortie-May hisses at the woman. « Why do people insist on doing that? » Anti-social much?
Ambrose himself sharply looks over at the fingernail tapping the glass and his ears take briefly akilter angles in blatant surprise. He gets up from his lounging upon his side to approach the window and look shockingly perky at Lena beyond the glass.
Ruddy hell, it's the young lass. What is she doing here? Of course he won't be heard behind the display window, but Tortie-May can hear him easily enough. She is one of mine own, not of blood, he further clarifies even as he turns and drops to the shop floor. Tick-ticking claws mark him walking over to the shop's front door as if to goad Lena over to opening it.
Lena Snart rolls her eyes at the cat, seeing that shift in expression - she doesn't have to hear it to know what happened. There's a furrowing of her brows and from the reaction alone, Lena presses her middle finger against the glass in the cat's direction. "Fuck you, too, kitten." She mutters to the cat behind the glass. Noticing that the white 'pup' moves, Lena stands taller and glances up and down the side walk. Whatever was in her hand, some red canister that's purpose was to hold gasoline, is hidden away as she moves from the showcase as well.
Slipping into the shop, she smiles down at the creature and tenderly plucks him up. "Hey, pretty. Sorry if I messed up your date." She coos, offering the white thing scritches a-plenty. A few paces toward the window, she eyes down at the cat. "Don't hiss. I like animals, honestly, but I don't take bitchery from pets, get it?"
The middle finger earns the woman flattened ears and a twitching tail, while Ambrose has to listen to May growl and offer some VERY colorful metaphors in Mandarin. But then he recognizes her. « One of your own what? » May mehrrrs after Ambrose as he hops down from the bookstore's front display window ledge and clicks on over to the front door.
She takes longer to abandon her spot in the window, standing and stepping delicately through the items on display before hopping down to the floor herself and streeeetching languidly. « If she tries to cuddle me or kick me, dog, the least I will do to her will involve claws. »
…one of mine own, Ambrose repeats more cautiously now, unable to find any other way to put he and Lena's…regularly volatile friendship. He takes a few silent steps back as she enters and looks up into her face with ears lifted. I sincerely do not why — no, miss Lena, must you — PUT ME DOW —
Lifted up into the young thief's arms, he decides that scritchies aren't terrible things, especially when Lena's nails work into the fur beneath the begemmed enchanted collar and behind those ridiculous ears.
My name is Atherton, little kitten…remember? he asks of Tortie-May, giving her a bit of a squint. If you do not encourage her, she may not attempt to touch you.
"Your companion seems rather sassy." Lena smirks, watching after the cat's warning of a twitchy tail. "I like it." It being May. Hard to tell gender from fright off the bat, after all. Done with her greeting pets, she nuzzles at his scruff befor setting Ambrose-pup down. "How'd you get in here, anyway? Is that who owns you? The guys in black that runs his place?" The girl questions, now starting to pace the rows of merchandise. "What's his name…Loki or some such?" Her gloved fingers move out, delicately tracing over odds and ends in passing fancy.
Tortie-May sits primly and curls her tail around her front paws, watching Lena unblinkingly. She doesn't comment any more now that the young woman is inside the store, as the bell on her collar will translate her cat-words to English, and she's not about to let this Muggle learn any more than she already does.
And now that the young woman has mentioned the sorcerer who owns the bookstore, she suspects he's going to be showing up any moment to find the additional visitors. Maybe he'll text Rogers and get her a ride back to SHIELD.
As for Loki, he's rekeyed his wards a bit - since Tortie-May has been dropping in, and since she's not even faintly a threat, he adds her to the alarm wards for the shop, Ambrose has proven to be wise enough not to fuck around with his stuff, so he added him to. LENA, however, was not added, so when she enters, he is notified and he /knows/ she wants some of his stuff.
Amused, the Lord of Lies shifts forms, becoming a beam of moonlight, enters the shop through one of the windows, and then solidifies - not as himself, because that would be too obvious. Nope, he turns into a raven, a good sized bird, and very handsome of plumage, but definitely NOT the sorcerer in question. Into the main room waddles the bird, because really, birds do no walk with any grace. Beady black eyes study the room, and then he 'wark'. Probably scares the shit out of people!
And he is working very hard to appear as that bird, not himself.
His fur and the sweater riffle as Ambrose shakes himself out from nose to tail once he's set down upon the floor. A few pale hairs float about. Lena's got a ghost in her shadow as she walks, given the Jackal is very concerned about her fingers roving where they should not in a store like this.
Yes, yes, miss Lena, this store's owner is Loki — you have met him, little chit, use your brain! No, do not — stop touching that — oh my ruddy god, Kent must feel as such — STOP LAUGHING, YOU KNOW I CAN HEAR YOU!
That last bit wings off to his other half, snug at home with a cup of tea, through their kythed state. Yes: Kent is about belly-laughing at the delicious, delicious irony.
The sudden cry of Loki-Raven, however, makes the Jackal clear the floor by a spritely, springy three feet or so. RUDDY FUCKING HELL MY GOD WHO — Half-crouched behind Lena's legs, Ambrose stares at the rather large raven in question. …it is you, my lord Loki…? asks the pale creature in a speech Loki could recognize given his All-Speak lessons. He's not even in the least bit certain of who or even WHAT this newly-arrived creature could be — all he knows is his little heart is racing and he can probably run faster than it can fly.
Lena Snart tenses, that nose sparking through her system. Once the 'pup' hides behind her legs, the thief turns and faces the bird in question. "Bit of a zoo around here, huh?" She asks to all of the animals at once. Staring, she moves toward the bird and squats down, arms draping over her knees as she studies the creature with a canting of her head. "Thought fuck face said this place was owned by Loki, not Odin." Huffing out, she moves and stands, going back to her casual walk within the building. "Such a genius, doesn't even know what familiars belong to what Gods."
Tortie-May's reaction is about as dramatic as Ambrose's, leaping into the air and to one side at that loud noise. And, the jig is up, as she cusses quite colorfully in Mandarin. Of course, it comes out of her feline mouth as a hiss, but that bell on her collar translates it oh so helpfully. And definitely loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the store.
Ears flattened, tail puffed out like a bottle brush, and eye dilated, she stares at the raven completely incredulously. There are no words beyond the initial cussing.
"Nevermore." Quoth the raven.
He turns a cold black eye to Ambrose pup, and just looks at him flatly. (No! Not Michael Flatley, Loki is the Lord of Lies, not the Lord of the Dance!)
And then Lena is crouching in front of him, and calls him one of Odin's flunkies. The identity of the bird is probably not going to be very secretive anymore as the room warms, noticeably so. "Never Hugin, Never Munin." He asserts, and mantles his wings a bit in a potentially threatening posture.
Which lasts only until Tortie-May's reaction. As quick as that, the bird falls over in an obviously humor wracked motion, and the temperature drops back to normal.
You — you bloody little guttersnipe!
With Lena's back turned, she might miss the manner of the jackal's mouth hanging open in an affronted near-human gape. It probably appears ridiculous on his canine features, but the hard pull-back of his large ears is clear enough: pride has been pricked!
I know my *gods*! You were raised in a barn and not a bar. His wee nose wrinkles as he plops his furry butt down, unamused. Fine — FINE — touch what you will and earn your consequences, my wisdom be damned.
He does take a moment to glance over at Tortie-May, however, and note with a sparkle of dry humor, You curse as a junk-sailor. I am uncertain as to whether or not you are a lady after all.
Even if he has the willpower to tease May, Ambrose eyes the Raven still dubiously, his regard narrow. He's still stumped.
"As I told the cat, I don't take bitchery from pets." She tells the cheeky raven. The heat is not missed on her, either. Moving to stand, she moves her hand across the cover of her thigh, pulling at the tail of her jacket and resting her hands on an odd contraction of a gun. If he brought heat, she brought the cold.
Blinking, she turns and looks at the cat now, her fine brows lifting sharply. "Did…you just speak Chinese?" Well, that's two. Turning, she faces the defiant white pup. "Ok, your turn."
As soon as the word 'Nevermore' leaves the raven's mouth, May suspects that their host has finally made an appearance. That seems so much like his humor. Of course, there are lots of people that would likely teach pet ravens that particular word. Hugin and Munin, however… that would require someone who has studied Norse mythology… or lived it.
She forces herself back into a primly seated pose, and watches Ambrose's reactions to the young woman with amused twitches of her tail. And Lena's reaction to her surprised cussing elicits a sigh. So much for keeping THAT quiet. « I did, yes, » she mrrps. That turns out to be English, as rendered by the bell on her collar making it sound like a strangely synthesized artificial voice. « And I curse like a soldier, not a junk-sailor, » she mehs shortly at the jackal. Clearly, even if Lena didn't catch it, he conveyed something she understood.
See, Ambrose was present and wise enough not to do anything that would annoy Loki, frankly, Cover Story is probably one of the safest places in the city to meet and be reasonable sure of privacy. Loki takes steps to that end. And Ambrose is wise enough to appreciate that Loki is /not/ someone to trifle with, or disrespect. ESPecially not in his HOME.
The rampant disrespect the woman offers the fox spirit, well, that's okay. Even the dissing of Tortie-May, however - when he's /berated/ by this girl thief, and she actually places a hand on a weapon there's an eye searing flash of heat and light, and FULL ON LOKI in battle regalia appears. In his hand is his flaming sword, and he's not appearing as the more human looking Loki, nope, he's in Jotun form, just over nine feet of blue skinned fury with eyes crackling with power and ire.
"Little wench, you /dare/ threaten me in my home?"
Yeah, his voice thunders, his magical presence enough to be felt by the normals, it is likely agony to Ambrose's senses. "I should kill you where you stand for your temerity, mortal. But death? Death is /easy/." He looms, his shadow occulting her and the entire shop growing warm as the lip of an active volcano.
He speaks in a guttural tongue, his native tongue and not translated through Allspeak. There's a flash of heat and the rotten egg stench of brimstone — into his hand appears a stone of basalt heavily graven with rings of runes, some Norse, others from others of the nine realms. His sneer turns cruel, colder than intergalactic space as he crushes the stone, intolerable brilliance forming about his hand, and woven betwixt his fingers. With a gesture he hurls a web of light towards the cheeky mortal, the strands encircling and seeping /into/ Captain Cold. Growing ever brighter - brilliant white, the light obscures her from sight, and then there's HORRIBLE cracking and rending sounds, before the light fades, and all the remains is…a small white fox kit. A snow fox…with Lena's eyes. "When you learn proper respect, when you prove your contrition, I will /perhaps/ lift this curse. But know this, child of ice, until you do this curse will keep you alive, and the longer it works the greater your contrition must be to have a chance to appease me."
Oh — oh no.
Oh very much no.
Oh, this is trouble.
Ambrose can't do a thing but stare as he watches the raven transform into an ancient presence nearly too large for the store itself to contain.
The mystical backwash is strong. As if hit by a stun grenade, the Jackal weaves in place and tries burrowing his pointy face in his paws. Gods below and above, it's enough of a magical effervescence that he's half-drunk on it by the time the entire process comes to a conclusion. There's a prickling dissonance to his own fur in accompaniment with hyper-heated air as he looks up, near-blue eyes gone wide and ears pressed back flat to his skull.
…WHAT?! Blunt claws skitter across the store and Ambrose slides himself fully in front of the newly-transformed little fox-kit, his own hackles lit from nape to tail. The sweater barely hides this.
You — my Lord Loki, see reason! See reason, my lord! She is but young! Her mouth may run as a broken spigot, but do not subject her to this! He plants himself there between Lena and the angered Trickster God, head low but ears still lifted up. My lord, please, reverse what you have done! She did not know better!
The odd, terrifying sensation washes over the girl's body. She sees that figure, watches at it shifts and twists into some being of ancient lore and myth. Perhaps, perhaps she would admit that for once, Ambrose was right. Granted, it would never be to his face. Jaw tight, locked for the moment, her expression states that she is already thinking of something else to say. A growl for a growl and bite for a bite. Eyes glaring, tears rolling down her cheeks, her teeth bare only for her body to twists and pop out of being. Dark clothing noted with shimmers of snowy blue puddle on the floor. A heavier 'thunk' sounds as that odd shaped weapon also hits the floor. Wriggling out of all that darkness is a shock of white fur. A soft trill of a noice sounds from her muzzle as the world is suddenly a lot bigger.
She can hear a voice she knows starting to weave through her small, round ears. Her movements shift, uneasy on four legs instead of two. With a push of paws…paws?! That noise sparks out again, alarm and a yelping bark leaves her mouth again. Anger wins over fear, and in a stumbling mess of being some other creature all together, the kit struggles and starts to nuzzle at her gun. Was she going to attempt to use it?
While May had indeed decided to act on the assumption that the raven is Loki in bird form, she had NOT been expecting him to go from bird to JOTUN just like that. His appearance, sheer HEIGHT, the booming of his voice, even the flare of heat from that sword has her flattening herself to the floor in shock, her cat body's instincts kicking into overdrive. Since GIANTSCARYJOTUNLOKI isn't looking directly at her, she scrambles to wedge herself under the nearest bookshelf that honestly shouldn't have enough clearance for a full grown feline. But she manages it.
Except for the last five inches or so of her tail.
Dilated cat eyes watch what little she can still see from her hiding place, and she can tell that the snarky young woman is gone, and the sweater-wearing jackal is begging Loki to undo something that she can't see… but can smell. Another small non-dog smell.
« Frog-humping son of a bitch, » she moan-meows in Mandarin.
"YOU WILL BE SILENT, AMBROSE." Loki snarls in a deadly rage, his form briefly limned with fire. "Another word in this foolish woman child's defense and I swear by Hela's withered teat I will /unmake you/." He leans forward, his presence terrible, his words reverberating in the room. "I will free you of the curse that extends and preserves your life, I will watch you wither and die as /time/ remembers what has been forgotten." He bares his lips to reveal teeth, but the expression is anything but a smile, not even close. "Try me." He whispers.
Tortie-May's flight is barely noticed, but Lena-Kit's attempt to fire her gun draws an incredulous look from the nigh three thousand year old god. "I warn you one last time, Lena Snart, child of ice…fire that weapon and I will never lift the curse, you will live on and on, aging and growing weak, AND YOU WILL NEVER DIE."
That's…a very real threat from Loki. Now Ambrose crouches down lower to the floor, his lips lifted in the beginnings of true fear to reveal ivory teeth. However, scuffling behind him makes him risk a look.
Miss Lena, no — not right now! Somehow, even Ambrose himself isn't certain of how, he gauges the quick turning snap of his teeth to set into the soft white fur of her scruff with firm yet painless control. Lena is lifted up and away from the danger of a misfiring gun as well as several skulking feet in distance from the Trickster God in his current snit. Her hind paws barely brush at the floor given the length of the Jackal's own legs, even if his build is rangy at best.
Those who run away live to fight another day, he chides the wee white kit-fox in a voice laced high with controlled fear even as he gooses for the front door of the shop, dead-set on getting out of this place one way or another!
Her small paws flail and fumble, trying to slip within the trigger guard and pull back. That's all she needs, a brace and a squeeze. The weapon hums, lights starting to glow in its triangular barrel - then it stops. In that instant, it stops. She feels the tension around her throat, not choking her but leading her away. The world is gone, her body fall limp reflexively. Without voice yet, or an understand that she can speak, all the kit does is bark and whimper helplessly. It's a truly pitiful sound.
May's cat-body is in full panic freak out mode, but her mind can still parse at least a little. She hears Atherton — whom Loki just addressed as Ambrose? What? — scrambling about and the other, smaller noises. It's the 'run away' that galvanizes her into action.
Prying herself back out from under the bookshelf, probably clawing a few marks into the floor in the process, she races for that same door but not to escape. Oh no. She BLOCKS the path from Ambrose and the tiny white fox kit he's carrying like a kitten. She yowls at them, her claws showing and her fur almost completely puffed out.
« Don't you DARE run away! You, » she snarls and hisses and spits, swiping a paw at Lena-kit with claws very much out, but it's obvious that she's not even trying to make the strike connect, « you brought this on yourself with that invincible teenager attitude. If you don't make it right, he WILL make you stay that way! You'll be cursed, STUCK in that little body, no longer able to eat onions, or chocolate, or drink CAFFEINE. Was it really worth it? THINK about that. »
Somewhat mollified by Ambrose's reaction, Jotun-Loki sheathes his flaming sword, and then gathers up Lena's fallen clothing, and that ridiculous gun. He looks at it, and though he's reasonably up to date with tech, he's not a super-scientist by any streatch. "You were going to shoot me with…/this/?" Just to see her reaction, he cloaks it with magic then crushes an illusory version. "Well, so much for that." He declares with a smirk slanting his visage. Oh, it is still cruel, but now it is cruel AND amused both. Which, whilst off-putting, is actually a hopeful sign.
Blue-Green eyes study the fox kit, and he chuckles. "So you are cold by nature, interesting. The magic often chooses the form." Loki shrinks down to his more usual form, merely six-feet and four inches tall, and much more slender, dressed in silk and fine Egyptian cotton, and all in black. He turns then, and quirks a brow as Tortie-May blocks their egress, AND BERATES THEM.
Is is not really a good thing, but May is firmly on Loki's radar now. On the plus side it isn't actually a bad thin either.
I know, miss Lena — stop making that sound, it's attracting attention — silence is necessary —
Blunt nails again slide on the shop's fine flooring and Ambrose's front legs splay comically as he stops himself so abruptly as to almost seat himself. He avoids slamming into Tortie-May and then takes a few padding steps back, ears up and lips risen fully despite his mouthful of white scruff. Poor Lena, swinging in his jaws!
I will not warn you again. Move. Lena likely feels the deep, deep rumble suddenly vibrating the Jackal's chest at a volume and pitch far more demonic than his form might bely.
Still puffed up and growling, May is actually a bit shocked when Ambrose GROWLS at her and tells her to get out of the way. In the face of that, her cat instincts win out again and she is suddenly bolting under a different book display. Loki would likely recognize it at the one she hid under the very first time she entered this store.
A voice, that tiny little voice finally breaks. It speaks out, woven through the mind and in understanding to other beasts like her. Her small, pale eyes growing wide as a word, a name, leaves her body. «JADIS!» There were few things in this world Lena Snart actually loved - apparently, that weapon was one of them. With a wiggle and a shake, a struggle, the kit wriggles her way out of the jackal's mouth. Those eyes settle on the smaller version of Loki. In them is such anger, such rage and contempt for the figure. Then, that look falls upon Ambrose. It lingers for but a moment and with the cat out of the way of the exit, the kit runs off and into the night of a New York much, much too big for it.
Tortie-May moves and Ambrose enjoys his brief victory in the midst of chaos. Still: there the white kit-fox goes, slipped from his mouth in a wriggle of fur. Miss Lena! Stop! MISS LENA, STOP! HALT!
There the Jackal streaks after her in a skurling blur of golden-cream fur beneath his warm black sweater, dead set on corralling the errant kit. He has to —
— before New York City eats her alive.
A snort as May takes cover once more, but…she's a small cat, Ambrose a Demon-Jackal, instinct is powerful and had he remained in his bird form Jadis could have actually killed him! He /becomes/ what he becomes, it is a powerful boon and a terrible weakness both. When he sees the fox kits hurt and rage and contempt - the last something he's seen far too often, and all to often deserved.
This is not one of those times, but only May is around to hear Loki softly murmur. "If she /really/ does a good job of contrition…her Jadis will be restored." He then moves to the front door, closing the door, and with almost a ritual quality turns the sign on the door to closed. "Come, little one, there's cream upstairs."