Summary:After earning Loki's ire, Lena begins dealing with her cursed state as a snow fox-kit and Ambrose can't handle feeling somewhat responsible about the whole affair (even though he isn't). He seeks her out. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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She wasn't sure if animals could cry. She knew they could gather up moisture like people could, that it could wash over and help clean out their eyes. Why did she feel like she was actively tearing up? Why did it burn when she ran? Why did her nostrils feel on fire? Why was the world crushing down around her? She knew this city, she grew up in this city - where was she? She remembers running down a stretch of sidewalk, turning left, right, and left again. She felt the cold brushing across her fur, her tiny ears down and body low as she was quick, dexterous and completely out of her element.
Stumbling into darkness, staining her once pristine fur with muck and grime, the tiny kit whimpers out against the shadows. Her small chest heaves, ribs floating out and in rapidly as her tiny heart patters away. A hand up, she rubs at her muzzle. The smells, gods the smells. They were so horrible. Why was everything moving? Did the shadows always move and crawl about? Why was there always something, /something/ hovering just at the corner of her eyes? The sounds, those thunderous sounds - how did anyone concentrate or even think in this city? With a brush and stumble along on unfamiliar legs, the kit finally slumps against a bundle of trash and settles on her stomach. Head down, she attempts to cover her eyes, her eyes shut in tight black lines.
Minutes ago, the Jackal burst out of Cover story in a wide-mouthed gape of shock. In canid form, he panted, looking left and right frantically, cursing this sudden twist of mercurial luck (and the god attached to it) mentally in Farsi.
Kent, the little chit has gone and gotten herself cursed, he reports now to his other half. I intend to find her. If need be, I may bring her to the manor — yes, my heart, I will do nothing foolish — I will be safe, yes, I am not going to challenge the Trickster God.
Not yet, anyhow, not after the threat leveled at him of complete erasure from existence.
There, whisked to his uplifted nose, some of the scent lingering about his mouth from when he had the small fox-kit by the nape. He turns and takes up a galloping lope, only pausing at intervals to ascertain that this is the correct direction to take. Left, right, left…and the scent leads to the source.
Even with her eyes shut, Lena will sense his approach if her nose doesn't warn her first. Ambrose is scented of his own personal fur-musk and the clinging golden sandalwood-incense of his home within the fabric of the dog-sweater. He approaches slowly, ears lifted and tail swinging low.
Here now, little bird, do not run. His voice takes on a surprisingly gentle note, even if it remains firm. Run no longer. Let me look you over. He makes to begin sniffing her over, ignoring the sharper tang of grease and the ranker notes of the garbage.
Lena Snart felt him inch closer, just as she felt the scatter of rats and mice, cats and bugs. Everything was around her all at once but the jackal, he stood out. She hadn't known who he was until that night. In those moments, hearing his voice, it all made horrible sense. Why he knew about Lisa, why he knew anything. She had shown him her humanity before, but never in such a power giving way. He had so much over her now, all without telling her who he was.
Scrambling back to her feet, the once snowy creature is now half and half in hues. Her top is still crisp yet her underbelly and legs are coated in a greyish wash. Head down, teeth baring, she attempts to takes small steps back. She was growling.
«Don't touch me! Don't come anywhere near me!»
Ambrose jerks his nose away from the wee creature and even dances back a step or two, light-footed in his startlement. His ears flick back for a betraying second before they swing forward again, confident despite his quiet words.
Miss Lena, please, do not make this more difficult than it need be. You are cursed at the moment. Allow me to assist you, he insists. Let me guess: everything is simply too much.
So succinctly he summarizes the potentially overwhelming new sensoria available to the young fox-kit.
I mean you no harm, the Jackal adds, just in case it wasn't clear.
Her tail flicks back and forth, almost cat like in agitation regardless of not being feline. With his steps back she takes more of her own to create greater distance. «No! Why should I ever trust you again?!» She snaps, her small teeth clicking with a bark like noise at the question. His assumption, however, is right. Huffing, she shakes her head, trying to drown out everything still assaulting her new form.
«I mean you harm. I mean that 'god' harm. I'll break my own curse as soon as he's dead!»
Again, those large ears go back. Ambrose blinks, taken aback at the ferocity on display from the wee creature. He glances over his shoulder towards the sidewalk and then takes a few steps towards Lena at an angle rather than a direct approach — perhaps she'll feel less threatened this way.
Miss Lena, I assure you, even I could not kill that god…and consider what you know of me in your own experience. Pausing half in the shadow from the streetlight, he sighs, his breath ghosting from his long nose. …and wherein have I abused your trust? asks the Jackal, now pinning her with a keen look.
«I don't care what you can do. I know what I can do, what Mick can…» Then she pauses, her eyes dilating as she looks down at herself. «Mick…what…I…» Head up, she starts to look around, that itch to 'go home' returning. «I have to get to Mick, tell him what's happening…he'll be worried.» Pause, «The gasoline!» She had forgotten his present, it seems.
Then comes his last question. It causes her to freeze and focus on his form. «In that form. You followed me and I spoke so freely. You learned things I wasn't ready to tell you about and you hid that from me…until you slipped.»
Yes, I did. It's fruitless to deny how he remained in the jackal guise while Lena indulged his curiosity. However, I will have it noted for public records that I am unable to change back without assistance in matters and you could not understand me at the time. How was I supposed to explain to you my situation?
Ambrose tilts his head; the streetlamp glows pink through the thin triangle of ear cartilage. Be angered at me as you will. I have no interest in turning your revelations against you. You have done little to earn my ire and I do not condone the suffering of family when one annoyance can be removed. Long has that been my stance on things, ever since I was the Consort of the King of Shanghai's underworld.
«You tell me afterward, you dumb fuck!» She snaps out at him without pause or hesitation. Head down again, that tiny warning noise vibrating her even smaller body, she shuffles back a few more inches. «You damn well know I'll be angry with you! I wanted to like you, Ambrose. I DO like you and you pull something like that on me?» Another huff and chuff, she drags her paws back, shovelling up gunk.
It was starting to hit her now, what had happened and what was happening to her. It was too much, all too much, and that spewing of rage was all it took to tire out her miniature form. Sitting back, one leg oddly lazing to the side. It wasn't a pretty sit, but then again she had little practice with it. Hanging her head, the small puff of gunk and white starts to whimper and whine.
Patiently, watching her rant and reel, Ambrose merely allows his ears to half-circle back and forth. He can tell that she's nearly about through her reserves of adrenaline-laced reaction and comes no closer. They're now both out of easy sight from the sidewalk, a blessing even despite the few people out walking this late at night in the relative cold. He muses about his chilled pawpads before he sighs again to hear the pitiful sounds begin.
With his head dropped lower again on approach, the Jackal pads over to sit down at a diagonal angle to Lena, ignoring the fact that his tail might be now covered in cold ketchup. His own sit is long-practiced and as refined as the Egyptian statuettes in the MET behind their glass panes.
I intended to tell you, little bird. There had not been time to do as such, he explains again calmly, quietly. Again, I will not use what I have learned to harm. I left that part of my past behind many, many decades ago. That, and my mate would not countenance it. You think that god to be a sight when angered: do not anger Kent. His head rotates again owlishly as he looks down upon her. You might be a tart mouthful, but I cannot leave you as such without aid. I would not be a gentleman otherwise.
«He wasn't a sight, he was a bully. He threatens, has a threat countered his way, and then…» She silences briefly. «You didn't let me shoot him…fight back.» That's all it seems she wanted to do. She knows he's closer now, but the kit is so tired. So much running. So much fear and anger crashing against a swarm of stimuli. Scooching more so than walking, the pale stately jackal will find that kit resting her side against his own.
«You're not a gentleman, Ambrose.» She begins, «At least you're trying.»
Indeed, how could I have forgotten: I am Lord Asshat. Let us never forget it. In such dry amusement he notes this. His canine lips still part in a fleeting facsimile of a human smirk before he closes them, choosing to now sniff towards the fox-kit weighing nothing in her lean against him.
…frankly, she smells like garbage…but, with the surroundings, that is to be expected.
A subtle shift on his part brings him to be closer to the white fox-kit, the better to exude his own body heat. And I did not allow you to attempt to shoot him because you would be dead — tsk, do not argue with me: you - would - have - died. Trust me. I have died before, it is not pleasant, and I did not have a Trickster God deciding the manner of my passing.
«If I had, at least I would have gone out fighting.» She explains, not arguing with him now. There was no fuel left in the tank. Her blinks were starting to get lower, slower, and her vision finds him. Those eyes were her own, he knew them well by now, icy and striking. She did smell of mud and run off, mingled together with frost, lilac and vanilla. And some off hint of gun oil, metallic and sharp.
«Will you take me home? I have to tell Mick.»
«I don't know where I am.» She admits at length.
Lena looks up into eyes not entirely the same shade of blue known to the master-thief. Rather, his irises are gold about their centers, bleeding to green and then into oceanic hues around their outer edges.
I can think of far more pleasant manners to leave this world, he replies quietly, tone gone sober. His attention shifts from her and towards the sidewalk. We are still within the Lower East Side's borough, about five city blocks from the book store. You traveled far in your haste. Ambrose glances back to Lena now, his ears attentive. Would you have me escort you to the safehouse wherein we have met before? Or is there another location you have in mind? Do note that if it is the latter, I will know of it.
He asks, his voice soothing and calm. They had conversations like this before - somber and easy, though heavy. This was odd, however, both had never shared such a canine form before. He asks his questions and looks her way. The girl is silent, eyes shut and body swallowing air smoothly. The tank was empty and the kit was asleep letting off small whines now and then.
One ear sloooowly falls to one side in something not quite dismay, but not quite rueful amusement either. Good lord, he mutters to himself in an unknowing echo of his mate. I suppose to the safehouse it will be then. Ah, but to be young again and nod off when it is least opportune.
No doubt the grousing goes unheard. Ambrose sighs to himself and half-closes his eyes, reaching out to Kent once more along their kythe, sure to be completely unheard save for by the Hound himself. She would prefer to return to her home and I am escorting her there — yes, I will be home as well soon enough — please, at least three fingers of gin…and I will need a wash-down, my heart, I apologize. I appear to have sat on ketchup. …laugh as you will, you irregular bastard, he shoots back in fond snark.
Then, with his ears briefly rotated back to touch tips behind his head, the Jackal leans down. Again, Lena is lifted by her scruff by cautiously-firm teeth and he begins a smooth trotting pace out of the alleyway to the sidewalk. Blugh — you taste of spoiled refried beans, he mutters mostly to himself as he travels, quick and light at this speed in his guise.