Summary:In his unending wisdom, Ambrose attempts to take Lena (still cursed as a fox-kit) out of the safehouse for lessons on scrounging in the city. The two meet Min in the process and lessons are for naught. Oh well! Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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After delivering Lena back to her safehouse — and wasn't it a wild ride on the way, with Ambrose remaining in jackal-guise and the not-quite-so-white snow fox-kit slung by her scruff in his mouth — the Jackal himself had returned to his own abode to bemoan the entire affair to Kent. Kent, pragmatic as always, made certain to act the perfect sounding board for his mate's thoughts on matters.
Whether or not it was deemed wise for Ambrose to return to the safehouse to check on the young kit is another matter entirely, but there he is, lifting the window to slip into the apartment with its open layout. Lena is collected and they descend back down the fire escape ladder to the alley below. In order to better understand and communicate with the young fox-kit, Ambrose then kneels down before her. She appears to have been bathed, at least, her fur back to a near-pearly gleam.
"Now, listen here, Miss Lena. You have your secrets and I have mine," he says, voice quiet and calm. "I know of your sister…and now you will know of my own trick." Out from his coat comes the diamond-studded leather slip-collar, hung on a crooked finger. "This is my magic."
He slips it over his head and his clothed figure disappears in a swirl of gossamer, heat-mirage'd magic. Then, there, seated before her looking woozy for only a second or two, the pale-furred jackal she knows so well. He lifts his ears at her. And there. Now whatever terribly insulting things you wish to tell me will be far clearer, he says, dry humor resonating to end with a swishing flick of his bushy if thin tail.
Ambrose would have found the apartment in a bit of shambles. Had she been alone all this time? Where was the pyro? Had he even seen her form yet? Lena had gone into 'survival mode' in the safe-house, trying her damnest to make sure she had water, food, and a warm place to sleep. She'd done well for herself, save for the mess she'd left behind. Garbage, ripped up cardboard and plastic to get at the good bits of food. There were even parts of some machine scattered about. Perhaps she was trying to build and damning herself for not having thumbs. When Ambrose finds her, she has a red splash of sauce staining her muzzle. Her tiny body can do little to not be picked up, offering a grumble and little more.
In the alley, she licks at her chops, watching after Ambrose in silence as her tail flicks idly from side to side. Looking to the collar, then back, she blinks and watches the man shift to beast smoothly. «Would have been better if you stayed up right. You could have at least got me something to eat.» She mutters.
Outside, in the street, someone passing in the night. Stops. Pauses, almost tripping as a scent in the air absolutely trips all the alarms, and the thought in its head is almost one of panic. There should be no such scents, not this far into town, THIS town even less than any other!
Having no clue how to react, it gets small. A city critter, what type hardly matters, perhaps a rodent..it slips to one side, vanishing into the shadows, into the shade. And peeks. Perks, moves, dives into another shadow, all unnecessary.
They aren't watching for it. For her. She peeks, ever so slightly, into the alley. Then stops cold. Fox. Fox and …cat? Dog? What IS that thing? THEY DON'T HAVE THOSE IN KOREA!
Unsure how to react, she doesn't. She shifts to her human form, peering into the alley, her scent in the air shifting. Rat, then human?
And they're..talking? Her eyes narrow.
I could have remained as myself, yes, Ambrose agrees even as he rises to his paws. But you will need to learn to exist without thumbs, little bird, and that is why I am here today. You will not survive the week without a few tricks of the trade… I do hope your stomach is stern and that you are aware that no one feeds the mouth which bites the hand that feeds it.
The pale jackal then shakes himself out from nose to tail and to the sensitive snout, a frisson of lingering magic falls off of him like a warmer breath of mist. Stay close to me for now and I shall show you how to best utilize your current shape. Despite what you might think, we are not going to sit on a corner and beg. New York City's animal control officers are quite keen to lasso anything which does not appear to be a dog. You, Miss Lena, are too singular to miss. My collar grants me a modicum of immunity.
Its tag shines in the light and reads to the front, I AM NOT ROSEBUD, and to the back, I AM NOT LOST.
A waft of winter air brings scents from the sidewalk into the alley and Ambrose's dark nose twitches. His ears roll half-back in sudden base suspicion. There is something odd nearby, mind yourself, he warns Lena quietly as he eyes the entrance to the alleyway. Light falling in gleams velvety-red in his pupils.
If pups could roll their eyes, Lena was surely trying to. Watching, listening, she gives a shake of her own and starts to pad silently behind the desert dog. There's something lingering on her mind, just at its front, but that smell kicks against her senses and gives her pause. Her head cants, tiny and curious, small ears perking up. «I smell it.» She answers in kind.
Head up, her nostrils flare as she takes in the smells all before chuffing and shaking her head wildy. It'd been a bit since she'd left that apartment and the hammering of scents was maddening. «Ambrose, can't you just get me something to eat instead? Mick wasn't home, he might be on a job. I don't know for how long.» Her last words seems a bit somber.
It's not right. Scenting the air with a widening of nostrils, the human can't get the scent of magic from the air. It's …it's almost too much, but it's not RIGHT. This isn't, they shouldn't…it shouldn't be a fox in there. Unless there are other ways.
So she kneels, uncertain if she should come out. But it IS a fox there, with that threateningly larger beast. So she gets down onto hands and knees, and does something she hasn't done in ages. And the mists swirl, coalescing into cloudy blue.
And a cloud-blue fox walks out from the edge of the alleyway, peering into view with a hesitancy that suggests confusion.
But its words, and it IS an it, not a he or a she, suggests more. «Is this the magic of this city?» It's an odd introduction, but it's an odd beast.
…yes, food, after we are certain this being here is neutral at worst and friendly at best. Ambrose keeps his multi-hued eyes locked on the newly-arrived form of the blue fox. Granted, he has never before in his long-lived life seen any canine with a pelt that hue without the Fae involved, so he steps boldly in front of Lena. She can see clearly enough through the trunks of his legs, but it's obvious that trouble will need to go through the Jackal first.
It is mine own magic, not that of the city, he replies to Min, entire posture confident, from lifted large ears to horizontally-held tail. And mine own magic came from a land far, far from here. What of your own, stranger? Ambrose makes no move to introduce himself just yet. The chary master-thief has severe trust issues, but they are well-earned.
And the pair of feather doth flock. Lena remains behind the larger of the pair, her body that of a kit after all. A pale gaze of ice peeks out and around Ambrose, watching over the other animal now standing along with them, speaking. «This fucking city is lousy with odd animals, isn't it?» Honestly, she never knew it was a thing until very, very recently. A soft padding backward, the kit lowers her ears and head, her body rippling and tensing.
Retreat. Do not fight, do not engage, the blue fox's body says. It pulls back from the larger animal and backpedals, certain that this was a mistake. A bad idea in a lengthy list of bad ideas, at least this time it isn't strung up or held by the throat. Yet.
Talkative, too talkative he is, the larger one. Her own hackles rise, she wants to nip at him. She doesn't, it isn't a smart move. And it is smart. «I thought her, one of my own kind. I was wrong.» the blue one says, body making itself small, ready to run. «This part of the world confuses, it drains us. Our paths muddle until there is no path to get home.»
Then it backs into something, something that wasn't there a moment before. It frowns. No, no no. Don't do this, it pleads to the universe. It's cruel. But the smell wafts anyway. Food. Exactly the right food, whatever Lena would want most, though Min wishes that the magic weren't so forgiving this once.
You do appear to be far from home… Ambrose muses towards the blue fox. The cream-pelted jackal drops his head without losing the keen focus on Min, his ears still lifted forwards. His hackles remain sleek and flattened given his silent defensive stance seems to have done its work thus far.
It's when the food randomly shows up that he narrows his eyes in an expression all too human: suspicion. Of course, his overly-large ears communicate this by flicking and remaining mostly back. Little bird, it may make you sick. I do not recommend eating the pastries. I've no idea if this being is of the Fae or not.
Whether or not Lena finds this pearl of wisdom worth keeping is a whole other sack of cats entirely.
He asks directly of Min next, Have you a name? Or a Name? Subtly, the inflection defines the opportunity to identify as something simple or something more significant.
Finally, a good smell. She had been surviving on water, stale beer and pizza for, well, awhile. And bread. Horrible, horrible bread. She was lucky to knock the butter out of the fridge, but it was empty. It was at that time she made a mental note to yell at Mick later. That smell was heavenly. Quick to pad forward, she only halts once Ambrose starts talking again. «But…food.» She explains, moving her small head back and forth between Min and Ambrose. «This fox shows up and gives me noms. You show up and give me lectures. I like the food one better already.»
It pauses, it shifts uncomfortably. The question doesn't faze the blue fox, though it hesitates to answer. «Of course I have a name, all have…names» it says, moving uncertainly, trying to block the food with its body. A greedy gesture, though it would wish the food would just go back where it came from.
The words coming next are somehow sardonic, through body language if not tone. «Yes…I have food. Apparently.» Wow. Sarcasm DRIPS off of that one. The fox's eyes turn back from the hated magical food to the ones watching her. «It is not for Min.»
On closer inspection, Ambrose's sharp eyes would see. Through. See through…this is NOT a fox at all! One can see through it's body to the alley behind it. Spirit fox! Trickster…but why does it sound so annoyed at the trick? Does he even know of them? Of gumiho, or kitsune?
Does he, or they, know THOSE stories? The blue fox wishes it had anything to give that was real. But the only thing it has is this. «I wish you didn't want it.»
You do not need to like me to live another day, Ambrose drily informs the wee white fox-kit. He hasn't moved, and it so far appears that he won't actively stop Lena from doing anything…yet. Perhaps there's a lesson to be learned here, and maybe the Jackal is a huge fan of life's 'School of Hard Knocks'. He doesn't, however, look away from Min, not at all.
In fact, he seems to look harder, as if trusting his own vision was coming into contention. The blue fox is…translucent now? One moment now…ruddy hell, the Jackal murmurs, turning from broadside to better face Min with a few deliberate steps. He doesn't close any distance. I saw something akin to you recently, whomever you are, but you are no living tattoo. Are you…kitsune? Ambrose pronounces it perfectly in proof of having lived in Asia for a good number of years over a century ago. Only now do his hackles begin to rise in something like nervous curiosity. Oh god: kitsune — those, he knows of.
«Story of my life.» She mutters back to Ambrose. Perhaps with less care and more driven by her belly, the kit waddles out of hiding and gives a bit of a scamper toward the food. The food that the blue fox was pushing back and away from the kit. «Hey, now…» Lena was always one to get what she wanted - such is a thief. With a glide of silent step, and the aid of Ambrose holding a lovely conversation with the so called Min, the kit creeps closer until she's within swatting distance of a solitary donut. Still warm, too.
Feeling that softness of some joy in her tiny heart, and the loud grumbling in her tummy, the kit parts her tiny jaws and eats away. The taste of it, the sensation of it, sweet with a hint of spice and frying oil - heaven. After it passes across her tongue and she licks away crystals of sugar, the kit blinks and seems to wait, frozen. «What gives…» she questions, pawing at another treat.
The eyes on the blue fox narrow as Ambrose talks in his animal-speak. Something he said was annoying, somehow. Luckily it doesn't take long for it to enlighten, sharp tongue suggesting a firmness deep inside. «Do I go calling you names?» it asks him, eyes missing what the fox girl does. «I come from a proud family of Gumi-ohno!»
The 'gumi', which is probably short for Gumiho, the korean version of kitsune, turns too late. «I didn't ask the magic for this, I'm sorry!» It backs away, trying to retreat. It seems less real, more sad. «We're supposed to want to trick people. It's supposed to be fun.» It puts its paws over its own face, shamed.
Gumiohno? By the confused microtilt of Ambrose's head, he doesn't know that particular strain of fox-spirit. Drat, if only Kent were around: he might recognize the being through his broad and expansive studies of the esoteric and mystical.
However, Lena eating the not-food? A strangled yelp of shock leaves his parted mouth even as his ears flick up in time with his tail.
MISS LENA — NO! No, you DAFT — move away from that, you've NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DEALING WITH! His voice cracks with militaristic force. It is Lieutenant Atherton, after all.
Lena Snart paws at the not-food with a pout, if that was at all possible. She smacks it about like a cat might with a mouse. Magic, or dealing with it, was new to her obviously. Hell, she only found out Gods were real a couple of days prior. Who knew? Well, everyone, but who believed? «What?! I was hungry, ok?! I told you that! This didn't do anything, though!» She yips back, barking in her tiny voice as she smacks the thing away with a bit of fluffy rage.
Padding back toward toward Ambrose, she looks to the blue one and cants her head. «Get your head up. Never pity yourself for what you can do. Make it work for you.» That voice was somewhat more…stern before.
Mist swirls around the blue fox as it speaks, changing forms mid-words without pausing to adapt. «I wouldn't hurt her, I wouldn't hurt anyone - I didn't know the magic would do that, it's so much stronger when I'm a fox!" When it starts it's a fox, when it ends she's a human. A female, small, korean. Blue smoky hair, soft features.
Worried. "It won't hurt her, I swear." Then she looks at them, backing away a little. No fox, not here. The food is also gone, turned to wind and dust.
Head low, she says, "It all turns to dust. I am nothing." It sounds almost like a ritual. It may be one. But she adds, "I have no real food, I'm sorry miss."
Lena's return is marked by the pointed nose of the Jackal following her path. You are bloody lucky you did not get further cursed. Think with your head, not with your stomach. Ambrose means well in his chiding, but he has never been nor ever will be anything but disciplined in regards to methods of survival.
He watches Min's shift from one form to another with bright interest, his head still lifted. One has see his dark nose twitching as if he might catch any inkling of the type of magic at play. Yes, that is typical of a fox spirit. Reality is ill-defined within their paws. He sounds almost as if he's musing aloud and confirming his own thoughts. That you did not harm her is well. Thank you. A very human-like bob of his head follows. Min is still subjected to that fearless attention, with irises ringed about their centers in jackal-gold and about their edges in Ambrose-blue.
Lena Snart answers that pointed follow with a soft reach up, swing and bap against his snoz. «With an empty stomach, I'll let it lead. Funny, I usually yell at Mick for thinking with his stomach all the time, but I'm beginning to understand why.» As he watches after the shifter, the girl seems rather intranced by something else. Her senses were twisted and in a moment of loss, so is her mind. There's a small wiggle of her kit like body and before long, Ambrose will find his tail attacked, pounced, and lightly gnawed on.
The human in the crowd of two animals watches, clearly understanding. And who could doubt why, when a moment before she was an it, and a four-legged one at that. Get your head up, never pity yourself for what you can do. She heard, though it may have penetrated her famously thick skull a bit late. Maybe it'll do some good.
She bows to them both, a formal recognition, though she doubts that the fox girl can even notice her now. Play is important. She hasn't been that long since her memories of play. So she addresses the adult instead, with respect born of his tone, of the power in Ambrose's words.
"She needs real food. I am the child of monsters, but a monster girl chooses who she will be. When she grows up."
Then she smiles at the play, choosing better. Stepping back. "Thank you."
In a controlled lift of chin ever so dignified, the reaching of the delicate white paw was mostly avoided but for a brush at white short whiskers. However, rather still focused on the foreign shifter beyond and between their exit to the alley and themselves, Ambrose doesn't see the incoming playful nabbing of his tail. He fully flinches in place down to splaying paws and flashing his eyes wide. His ribs rise and fall in a heaved sigh of tested patience even as he flattens his ears out sideways. This, at least, he recognizes to be behavior brought on by the newly-shifted mindset that comes of the curse set upon Lena. Never will he admit what makes him absolutely lose his mind as a jackal. Ever.
Yes, I concur wholeheartedly, real food, he replies to Min. Lena will find her mouthful of tail attempting to tug out of and away from her mouth to varying degrees of success. You are benign for a monster and, again, I thank you for — BLOODY HELL!
Apparently, no more tail for Lena as he whips around in place and removes it from her. Tiny teeth smart something fierce!
Lost to that beast, she gives playful growls at the initial tugs. Her paws and body flail slightly, bending and bounding about to try and keep the 'toy' in place. The last tug and lift of voice causes her to bark in surprise. Slumping back, she rests her head down and whimpers before falling silent.
She was going to just vanish, the gumiho was. But the sight of a fox kit playing, that's HOME to her. And she is loathe to give it up, since home is no longer hers to share. Home and family. She clings to the edge of the brick wall, the alleyway her support. She wishes she were that innocent, to take her little needle raptor teeth to an adult's unknowing tail again.
So the look on her face if anyone turns is too easy to read. She wishes, she loves. And when it's over, she goes. But a hint on the breeze, a magical gift, and both animals would hear, as she vanishes into the night on sandaled feet.
«Don't grow up too fast. Either of you.» No voice said it, she was too far away to have whispered. But it sounded not like a human. Instead, it was…like a fox.
A small exhaled snort of a scoff from the pale jackal. I grew up…
Ambrose turns around from his stern glaring at the little white fox-kit to see naught but the empty space once occupied by a shifter from another continent entirely.
…far too long ago, he finishes more quietly, his brief pique all but gone on the wind. Instead, a mood more solemn and introspective flows over him, making his hackles sleek down from nape to tail.
A sigh to follow. Come along then, Miss Lena. That safehouse is no proper abode for you — that, and you cannot scavenge to save your life. The fox-kit still doesn't weigh much at all as he lifts her up again by her scruff. It will be the guest room for you, and locked doors elsewhere so you cannot stray into trouble. Your lack of thumbs is in your favor this time, I assure you. My abode is no place to wander freely. Off Ambrose trots with his mouthful of white fox-kit, headed for his own home, the manor shared by he and Kent. There's proper food there and a nice…dog bed somewhere, the master-thief thinks to himself. Yes, plumped with comfortable bedding and warm and quiet and dark beneath the bed itself — a grand thing, he muses. It is a plan.