Summary:Ambrose gets his answers after catching Cain in a magical trap and Cain gets answers of his own - and nobody dies! Wins all around! Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Reassured that he isn't immediately going to be re-targeted after the affair in Battery Park, Ambrose finds himself bored — and a bored Jackal is absolutely the devil's play-thing. Relative immortality in combination with a wish to avoid ennui at all cost has him spending part of the morning in the library doing research. He flicks pages through a few specific tomes and murmurs to himself under his breath in Farsi until he finally has enough tidbits of information to once more depart the manor.
It wasn't a perfect map of the major leylines in New York City, more akin to the faded and outdated world maps before the age of easy oceanic travel, but Ambrose is fairly certain he's found one that crosses on the periphery of Central Park. The rest of the vein takes a sharp turn to enter the Park itself, but this particular sector is quiet at this time of the evening. There's nothing interesting for locals and tourists. As such, he carefully draws his circle upon the pathway a good dozen feet away from the leyline itself. The paint, containing iron, rowan-wood ash, and pure salt, isn't too obvious on the pavement, and as Ambrose stands up, he's smiling in anticipation.
"And let us see what we net…" The bottle of the mixture is corked and tucked back into his longcoat's interior pocket. He retreats a number of steps to the shadow of an old oak tree still standing tall despite the city around and seats himself on one of its roots with a book. He's warm yet via a blessing granted by the Trickster God of Cover Story — thank you, sirrah. The Jackal is patient as he sits, idly turning a page at a time, seemingly innocuous.
Cain has been reading up a bit, something that Pepper Potts had said resonated with him 'the lines along which magic flows', a bit of research later and he had a new term to add to his lexicon: 'Leylines'. And /that/ led to some interesting possibilities that fit with what he'd experienced with the debacle leading him to that 'lovely' encounter in The Bar With No Doors. Seriously…what the f'ing f'ety f…really, a /head/ in a JAR is the bartender?
A trip to various libraries in the five boroughs, research follows, and the man reads at /absurd/ rates, and he has in about an hour a pretty good idea of where the leylines in New York might be. So, stage two - testing!
Cain doesn't have a costume as of yet, so he simply dons warm clothing and a pair of mirrored goggles and seeks out the first ley line - bust, the second one he finds, however, and steps into it. "Oh, this is INTERESTING…" And BOOM! He dashes off at literally insane speeds, like, multi-mach, -so long as he stays in the line-. The rest of the morning is spent learning some of the lines in the city, it is about dinner time when he finally takes a break, and wants a snack - remembering a lovely hot dog stand near central park he line runs there, and steps out, and of COURSE…right into the Master Thief's trap. Crossing the boundary he screams with pain as the cold iron briefly robs him of his powers. As a result he is /fully/ inside the circle when the trap springs.
The very second poor Cain crosses the finger-drawn line of the circular magical trap, it slams shut with all the finality of a glass room air-tight.
And for Ambrose, it's like blinking. One moment, the inconsequential spread of grass and pavement is a blur of half-attention while he reads over the finer details of the Wild Hunt…
…and the next, his patience is rewarded. Sudden movement appearing from near-literally nowhere has him glancing up from his book. At first, the Jackal sits and squints, his book still spread across his thighs. His chin slowly lifts and there, slowly, his smile begins to appear. Within the depths of his pupils, the crimson werelights of the Bane flare up. It knows well what's so nearby now: life-force in incandescent spades.
"Well, well, well," the master-thief says as he rises to his feet. He takes his jolly-good time slipping the small book back into another interior pocket before he slips his hands away and saunters over as nonchalantly as if he were picking up the morning newspaper from the drive. "I daresay I wondered if I would catch you in this particular net. How are you today, Master Cain?" Stopping short of the edge of the circle, Ambrose continues to give the young man a lazy, content smile.
One perk of Leyline Running, Cain — Celerity — is partially out of phase, meaning his tell-tale sparks of purple are somewhat muted, until he exits the line, and then of course he is trapped. Well and truly. Shivering with bone deep chill from the proximity of the wards, and the cold iron that infuses them, he wraps his arms about himself in a vain attempt at keeping warm.
One hand is extended, finding the boundary, and on contact he hisses in pain, drawing the hand back. The smoking hand.
When he's addressed, Cain bares his teeth at that smug and cultured voice, his whole body crackling with purple energies as he stands straight, and his hands are lowered to clench into fists at his sides. "Mister Atherton, release me." He says in a low growl.
Ambrose nods and lifts his brows, still smiling so pleased. "I will infer from your demand that you are whole, hale, and able to communicate clearly despite being unable to exit the circle. Hmm." He begins to pace around it, his hands still firmly shoved away into his coat pockets. "I did not expect it to work so well. I shall have to let him know of my discovery." If there's any overt attempt to slink behind Cain, it isn't readily apparent — the Jackal continues to circumnavigate the trap.
"It is good you are not one to yell or scream. It would be unwise to draw attention, especially if the Park police were to attempt to remove you from the circle. You see, only I can scuff it, being its creator," he informs Cain mildly as he returns to where he started. All the while, his cerulean-blue eyes haven't left the young man, half-lidded and intrigued. "You would come across as having…simply lost your bloody mind. I do have a few questions for you, however, since we have a little time to speak."
"Whole, yes. Hale? Not for very long. Definitely able to communicate." Cain admits, and Ambrose would sense the lad's fear, but also his mounting fury and determination. Cain stays perfectly in the center of the circle, grateful (on some level) that it is not more confining. He does not turn as Ambrose walks the circumference of the circle.
When he stops again, Cain nods. "Great, so you've snared me. What do you plan to do then? You can ask your questions, I might or might not answer." NOPE, not inclined to be polite or reasonable, well, he is not /rude/, but it would surely be understandable that he's very peeved. "After that bar trip, I was half convinced I /had/ lost my bloody mind." And then he lifts his goggles to rest them atop his his head, eyes flashing with purple as snarls. "So…what do you WANT, Atherton?"
Ambrose's smile goes deeper and somehow more pleased at the display of bravado. It just begins to show his canine teeth at this point. He reaches to scratch idly at his jawline which sports a five-o-clock shadow and shrugs at Cain's question.
"The world would be a little too much, I think, inasmuch as modern pop-culture tends to sing of wishing it," the brunet replies at first, now standing comfortably on his side of the circle. "I am warm despite the winter weather, so that is of great appreciation. This morning's tea was of a good blend which I shall have to find again. The subway was near to capacity and my hunger is mostly assuaged. What I would like to know…"
A half-step closer is followed by a keener squint at Cain. He won't miss the Bane's carmine motes a-glow in the Jackal's pupils. "…is what precisely are you, Master Cain? Iron betrays you, but you've no look of your kind. Have you no glamour? Please, do be honest with me. The quicker I am informed, the quicker I break the circle."
Cain's expression darkens at the list of drivel responses, then it goes flat. The fear? Banked away, all that remains is righteous anger and seething frustration. "I was an orphan." He states. "Now I am a speedster, a mystic speedster. I can see things sometimes, and sometimes assholes like you have tried to kill me and eat my…dunno…mana? Levin? Chi? I have no real knowledge of what you are asking, no formal training, just bits I've pieced together through trial and a lot of error. I /think/ I am fey, but I've not found anything in any of the myths I've read that describes a faerie with my particular gifts. I have problems with cold iron, and sometimes hallowed ground is a problem." A nod. "And of course there's the encounters with douchebags who like to lay traps."
With a canine-like tilt to his head, Cain's temporary captor listens and weighs the off-chance of the young man lying to him. Drat that Kent isn't present; the mentalist has an uncanny way of sussing out the truth from the false information. His smile, having melted away into a more contemplative cast, returns again along with rolling chuckling that breaks against the back of his teeth.
"Douchebag, please: it's 'Lord Asshole' if you must besmirch my good name. Think of your current state as 'temporarily stilled', not trapped. I have heard remaining still is difficult for speedsters such as yourself. Again," and he presses at the air before himself palm-down as if soothing it. " — a temporary state."
Ambrose searches Cain's face for a moment before continuing. "I can confirm that you are indeed at least a good portion Fey if you cannot breach the circle. If you chose to come at me once you are released, you would find a similar warding exists around my person. Do not waste your time attempting to harm me. After all, I've not harmed you…" His smile now is full-wattage charm and if Cain looks too long into those dark pupils, he'll count his heartbeat in the pulse of the carmine werelights.
"Very well, Lord Assholeton, whatever." Yeah, kid's dander is definitely up, and he seems too angry to be lying to him, but…that COULD be a front. Still, seems pretty earnest. "I…don't do well with confinement." He admits grudgingly. "I cannot, well, I haven't really tried but the touch burned me, so probably a more energetic attempt would be even less fun." He holds up the hand, showing the red skin, and the blisters, and that from a brief touch. "You've not harmed me—/yet/. And really, I don't need to actually /touch/ you." He picks up a pebble, laying it on a hand, and then motions as if flicking it off the palm. "I'm QUITE a good shot. Will your wards protect you from such?"
He does look for a while, and then shudders, averting his gaze when he feels…something, he doesn't know what, and he doesn't WANT to know what.
A knowing wickedness slips in and out of the grin still aimed at Cain, even if the young man chooses to no longer see if he can out-stare the Jackal. Indolently sleeking beneath Ambrose's skin, the curse metaphysically sniffs out at the Fey speedster — Cain might as well be a pie left temptingly on a windowsill within easy reach of a quick snatch; only its host's self-control keeps the ancient malevolence from tendriling out and sampling the crust, as it were.
"Throw what pebbles you will, Master Cain, I will heal. I might even show you how quickly, if only to educate you on your…poor decision," the Jackal comments silkily. "But I did not intend for the trap to injure you. My good intent is sullied. Shall I heal you?"
One hand appears out from a coat pocket and rotates palm-up, its fingers casually half-curled yet before Ambrose. It's clearly on offer beyond the ring's painted line. "It will be an unkind thing, this healing, but you will find your blistering gone. Dare you trust me?"
There's something in the depths of the Jackal's eyes again that seems to whisper casually of how harmless he is — go on, by all means, agree to take his palm.
Cain is very much aware of how tasty he is to creatures that feed on magic, and in some regard he can sense the /thing/ inside Ambrose's hunger, though it isn't conscious awareness, more…a feeling of unease. But that's enough. "Well, there's always the option of some steel wire with a weight on the end swung at hundreds of miles an hour." Okay, that's /another/ option and a scary one, that would turn the wire into a massive bandsaw. Kid is both gutsy /and/ inventive.
"I heal fast too, normally." He allows. "Iron poisoning though, that's not so good. It can actually kill me, you know."
And then comes the offer to heal him. "I don't know that I can afford to, Atherton." He sighs then, and closes the open hand. "So…now what?"
"Hmm. Ah, well…that is unfortunate," opines the Jackal quietly. His own offered hand is then retracted, returning to his pocket. "And here I thought I had earned myself a modicum of trust by not devouring you where you stood. I still do not intend to do that." Ambrose smiles thinly and the emotion doesn't reach the predatory attraction still gleaming nightshine-red in his pupils.
"But, since you are still standing there so patiently without any wire or weights, another question yet. Are you aware of any cults recently moved into this city? Better yet, those specifically involved with wolf-like interests?" If there was idle curiosity in the master-thief's initial questioning, this line of query comes with a far less casual air. His entire air seems to become more cautious, as if he'd accidentally summon trouble by mentioning it alone.
"Well…true." Cain rubs his eyes, and he shivers a bit despite his attempts to hold it in, in fact…even though it is currently in the lower forties outside, his breath is frosty inside the wards, which is interesting! This IS a new thing, that Ambrose has crafted, perhaps there's a weird synergy of some sort, or maybe the cold iron is being /literal/.
"I…look…how about you let me out, and I'll try to answer you questions. I'm an EMT, not a murderous thug…I'll fight if I must, but maybe we could try less adversarial talking."
A blink at the next question. "I know of no wolf cults, or any other kind of cults, in the five boroughs or environs."
An element of disappointment that flickers across Ambrose's fine features doesn't seem to influence his next decision. He sighs through his nose, drags his attention down and up Cain, specifically paying attention to how the air within the circle appears to be settling at a far lower temperature than outside of its confines.
"Of course, Master Cain. You have answered my questions thus far. I would not be a gentleman to keep you further confined. I am no monster, despite your inclinations to mark me as such." Again, with a thin smile, the Jackal moves. His boot comes out to settle and drag from inside the magic trap ring back towards himself.
It's like popping one's ears. Any muted sensorial aspects wash back in as the magic breaks like a pane of spun sugar to fall to nothingness around Cain.
"There, your freedom." Ambrose appears resentful now, as if expecting Cain to up and vanish in the next breath.
See, the thing about speedsters is that they /perceive/ at the speeds they can move, micro expressions and such are /macro/ expressions, so the EMT is starting to get a feeling like there's /two/ people there, not just one. The different reactions, the body language shifts, the faint tweaks of stance and facial expressions - it is all very very subtle, but that's sort of a speedster's stock in trade.
Of course - Cain is not really hiding his reactions at the moment, he's in a bit of pain, and VERY cold, so when the circle pops, and the world goes back to normal, he visibly considers just running off, what can Ambrose do about that? Nothing.
But Cain asked for a show of good faith, and he got it. Can he in clear conscience do any less?
A sigh.
No, he cannot.
"So…I was going to grab a hot dog." He points over towards the cart. "Hungry?"
Such an intense duality, the Jackal and his long-lived curse residing within him. How he functions in modern society rests heavily on the normalcy provided by his family in combination with his own acceptance of his twisted existence. Ambrose isn't aware of how open he is to someone fluent in microtells, but that's to everyone's benefit given it would cause extreme grouchiness in the master-thief.
Following Cain's gesture with his eyes, the brunet then looks back to him with brows quirked dubiously. "…yes, always, but not for fare such as that," the man replies. "But…you are still present despite my hazarding otherwise. Either you are foolhardy or think yourself immortal, both of which I approve of as entertainment." He too then gestures towards the hot dog cart. "By all means, lead on."
Ambrose then goes to walk towards it. He's forgotten in the moment that Cain is a speedster.
And Cain is /not/ telling about the tells! Nope. So all is well, in tell Hell.
"I…yes, well, I can see that. So…you don't eat normal food at all?" He asks. A faint lessening of the flat look, hands thrust into his pockets. "And I'm not immortal!" And then he pauses. "At least I don't /think/ I am. I guess I could be, fey often are. I'm not really sure of -how- fey I am, my powers were, I think, awakened when my step dad was experimenting on me with alchemy."
No, that won't interest the Master Thief at ALL. Nope.
He leads the way, speedster or not, he doesn't rush about all the time - he walks at a normal pace. It it pretty plain his hand is hurting, but but he doesn't complain, and then asks en route. "Did you hear what the Buddhist Monk said to the hot dog vendor?" A nod. "Make me one with everything."
He actually orders three dogs, and a soda, Coke of course, he likes The Real Thing, baby.
Cain appears to be not rushing off in a blur and so Ambrose walks along after him, content to remain not immediately at the young man's side; his less trusting habits prefer being able to strike at the back as it stands. He does pause after being afflicted with the hot dog pun and lets out a hissing sigh through his teeth.
"Master Cain…that was abysmal," he informs the speedster. Still: quick Cain will catch the flicker of amusement through those eerie eyes, aglow yet at their centers with the Bane's influence.
The pie might be walking around now, but it remains a pie, and the curse desperately wants to see if it can influence Cain further even if its host is unaware of it.
While Ambrose loiters back a good number of feet from the hot dog cart, given Cain's ordering, he considers how to best explain the reasoning food isn't necessarily enticing to him. Once Cain's within earshot and the hot dog vendor beyond it, he gives the speedster another glance, trying to catch his gaze. "Food is not necessary for my survival. If it tastes wonderful, I will eat it, but I have gone…a good number of months without it when involved in my…pursuits." The Brit hits the consonants of the word with a subtle sibilance. He wonders at the alchemical creativity imbued to the young speedster, but the Bane's being distracting. Can he make the speedster freeze with a look? The curse wants to know!
Definitely not zooming off at high speed, apparently the lad has an honest streak, probably going to get him into trouble someday. Maybe, in fact, THIS day. Cain can't help but smirk a bit at the pain inflicted via pun, indeed, he was thoroughly PUNished. "Thank you, Mister Atherton." Yes, he treats it like applause.
Pie? No way, he's like either a Tres Leches cake or a chocolate covered eclair fresh baked and still warm from the oven. Still, pastries aren't often ambulatory, unless you're into Monty Python and are watching a blancmange play tennis of course.
Cain meets Ambrose's gaze, and then looks a little puzzled as the other seems to want to hold it. He /does/ feel the heartbeat thing, and it doesn't paralyze him - or rather it does, but he shakes if off fast enough that it amounts to a brief hesitation. "Look, are you doing that on purpose?" He asks, a bit of edge to his tone.
The ambulatory pastry is asking him a question — right? Right.
Ambrose blinks and lifts his brows, affecting innocence now. "Yes and no," he answers truthfully regardless of the angelic cast to his features, this utterly belied by the Bane's hellish glow still quite content with its experiment. Making magical speedsters flinch: possible, check, filed away.
"But you mentioned alchemy. You were subjected to it? This makes you a surviving laboratory specimen, does it not?" He dimples at Cain as if wishing to erase that faintest hint of defensiveness from the young man's tone.
"So it is the other guy." Cain murmurs at the evasive but honest answer. Which the Bane will surely enjoy hearing. Kid does not miss much, or maybe he has more training than he lets on. He doesn't seem to have any mystical defenses, and he didn't sense the trap-circle, still…how did he catch on to the dual nature so fast? Inquiring minds want to know.
"I did?" Cain thinks about it, and then nods, sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, I did." He settles into a seat at a table, and digs into his food with clearly ravenous need, but sufficient control that he doesn't just snarf it all down in a sonic boom. "So…it is like this…I was an orphan, in the system, and then this one guy came to the home and adopted me. Seemed like a sweet deal at first, big house, food, clothing, but…I started to get sick. He was feeding me alchemy stuff - for like a year, until he went too far and I nearly died. I woke up in the woods, and found I was able to run REALLY fast, confronted him, he tried to eat me - I put my fist through his skull at mach speed." A shrug. "Not sure what happened in between him knocking me out, and my waking, but SOMETHING changed. A lot."
How the Bane purrs and ripples through microtells yet again on Ambrose's face. Absolutely: the bottomless hunger is never-ceasing in its hunt for nourishment and the Walking Pastry just keeps lingering within arm's reach. It's torture for the curse. Thank god for Ambrose's long-practiced self-control.
Still, Cain settles himself and so does the brunet in his trenchcoat across from the young man at the Park table. He leans weight forward on his forearms, these folded to rest on the tabletop itself.
"Mmm." A casual little contemplative sound once Cain's done speaking. He still gets the shamelessly intrigued look he received back at the Bar With No Doors from the Jackal. "I wonder at a trigger, perchance, as one might set a match to a fuse previously unlit. Such sangfroid, to end him as you did. I approve." More dimpling now.
See? Making friends with the Walking Pastry!
The reactions rippling through Ambrose's features definitely bring to mind TWO different people in the same headspace. If Cain knew that he was torturing the Bane, he'd be HAPPY about it. Alas, he does not know.
He eats at a crazy-fast pace for a norm, but really a rather sedate one for a guy who runs at hundreds of miles per hour or faster.
"The bastard had it coming, no question. That said, I cannot be proud of killing him, I'm trained to save lives, not end them." The Master Thief /can/ be rather charming, and Cain's hackles are a bit less raised, so…if not friendly, at least less hostility? That's something.
Which is exceptional eloquence in a walking pastry!
Curious now, Cain looks to Ambrose, and after finishing his last of the trine of dogs, holds up his hand. After a moment it starts to blur, and then shimmers with crackling purple sparks. Raw magic, really. Tempting fate: Not JUST for breakfast anymore!
"Ah, yes, that's right: you did mention being an EMT. I have heard it is a difficult task, attempting to keep others from shuffling off the…mortal…coil."
The Jackal's words peter off into a silence that suddenly envelops both gentlemen seated at the table. In a manner more commonly seen in cats about to strike, shoulders shifting and tail lashing, Ambrose's pupils blow wider in response to the showing of the electrically-lively display of undiluted energy. He inhales slowly and drags his eyes from the blurring hand to Cain's face.
Now the master-thief's voice goes dry and dusty beneath, echoing in the back of hearing as if in a massive tomb: "Yes, Master Cain, I see your offer. Shall I accept? It will not hurt for long, I promise you this."
The Bane's candleflame is brighter yet and aimed dead into Cain's face. Tickling beneath his skin, the curse attempts to break the control of its host and slither out invisibly to sup at the offering; Ambrose checks its leash. Barely.
"I am." Cain nods. "It can get pretty hairy at times, yes. Especially when there's bad stuff going on like a chemical fire."
He watches the shifting appearance, the eyes and such. His hand sheathed in violet Saint Elmo's fire, Cain looks to the man, and yes, he is both anxious and curious. He's honestly not sure which is the right response.
"And will you promise to take only what is offered, and no more? I'm not afraid of pain, I /am/ afraid of death." Hey! At least he's honest, that shows he's got a measure of sense too. If the promise is given, Cain will nod once. And control the urge to flee at top speed.
Ambrose now looks into those uncertain dark-green eyes with a focus nearly completely predatory. Still, humanity keeps the worst of the ancient curse's draconian influence yet in check.
"You, afraid of death? You shine as a blaze, Master Cain — even I would be fain to snuff your fire out in one go." The emptiness beneath the Jackal's words has deepened; in increments, he's shifted his left hand down to anchor himself on the table and lifted his right hand, as if to ready himself for a fast grabbing lunge. "Though, grant me enough time and focus and yes, I daresay you would be in a world of trouble…" he purrs, smiling again to display a sliver of teeth. Still, tipping at his upper lip with his tongue, the Jackal then reaches out fearlessly towards the cloud of violaceous energy.
When his fingers wrap around Cain's wrist, they do so firstly with delicate pressure. Only after a second does the force increase until Ambrose might be taking his pulse. The Bane strikes hard and true. Pins-and-needles begins in Cain's fingers even as it might feel like myriad small teeth begin to coat every centimeter of the Jackal's palm's touch to his skin. Ambrose inhales and stares at the speedster's hand, his expression going distant and concentrated both, and the brightness of the Fey-fire on display begins to dim with each concurrent second. Like a snake engulfing prey, the Bane's touch continues to slide further down Cain's arm and heads towards his elbow, sure to subsume this and then his shoulder unless interrupted — it's clearly headed for his heart, following the dancing of his pulse with avidity.
"Nobody truly wants to die, not really." Cain states emphatically. "But yes, I do fear it, my life is all I have - no family, few friends, only those I work to save." A wry twist of his lips. "There's a half dozen people who send me Christmas Cards, people who's lives I was able to make a difference in." A sigh. "And there's a girl, there have been others, but this one is special…most of all I fear what would happen if I was not around, sure, the world would go on, but I do /try/ to make it a better place." He nods. "The world /is/ a world of trouble."
And then he feels that hand clamp to his wrist, just below the vibrating hand. He grimaces, a grunt of pain at the touch, and then the pins and needles, the gnawing at him…at his very essence, NOT a good feeling at all.
He holds Ambrose's gaze. "Stop." And then it goes further, reaching up his arm, when it reaches the Elbow, his gaze darkens, and then his entire body blurs and thrums, and he steps back about three meters. "So, you cannot be trusted." He grates harshly, injured hand holding his drained arm's wrist.
Confusion flickers through the master-thief's face at suddenly gripping empty air. His fingertips slam against his own palm and he blinks at it before realizing that the young speedster no longer is before him.
So too does the Bane screel in his mind, having been ripped away from its veritable feast of singular energy — as a sommelier, Ambrose has sampled many and this…
He gives Cain a lazy-lidded look now from where he sits still at the table and languidly moves to rest his chin on his palm again. Sudden chuckling isn't necessarily unkind, but more…rueful. "Oh, no, Master Cain, it's not that I cannot be trusted," he muses coyly. "Your own curiosity cannot be trusted. I do not blame you your injured feelings. I did warn you that I bite." The reminder is followed by an indolent drumming of fingertips on the tabletop, in a pattern as if he were playing the piano. Ambrose appears to be…somewhat high — off of this particular hit of life-force.
"But I did not bite too hard…did I?"
And Ambrose then curls a beckoning finger at Cain from the hand rested palm-up on the table. Come back, Walking Pastry!
Anger suffuses Cain's face. "See, you did warn me. And I, thinking it might save lives if I gave of myself, was foolish to take you at your word." He shakes his head. "I /knew/ that you weren't the sole decision maker, Mister Atherton, but I fought my instincts and gave you a chance to prove your strength." A nod. "And you failed."
A soft shudder. "I said to stop, and you did not. The other you would have eaten until I was gone, it was going for my heart." He shrugs. "It is my own fault, I should have trusted my instincts. Ah well, lesson learned, sir. Lesson learned." JUST to taunt the Bane, not that Cain knows that name, he vibrates in place, his goggles lowered once more, and his whole body incandescent with his power, suffused with mystic arcs of purple akin to lightning, cousin to St Elmo's Fire, distant relation to the Aurora Borealis. He stands there, radiant, every magical creature in hundreds of yards sensing his power.
He holds, willing to give Ambrose one final chance to say something…he won't wait long though.
A blase null of expression melts away the sly smile and, yet again ruefully, Ambrose overturns his beckoning hand to flat upon the table once more.
Drat. Spooked the Walking Pastry. Another run of drumming fingers precedes a mild frown of irritation. Granted, the Jackal is more annoyed at himself than at Cain.
Still…look at this: a speedster frozen yet before retreating entirely. Upon realizing this, the brunet dredges up his lost charm and lifts his chin from his supporting hand. Cain gets a megawatt smile and a gleaming wink of carmine.
"Run along then, Master Cain. I would have stopped it from reaching your heart…but you pulled away. Again, I do not blame your wariness. My curse is unkind. Trust me to prove my worth in the future, perhaps, when enough time has passed to dull your instincts."
Ambrose then salutes two fingers from his temple at Cain. "And thank you for your answers. They are appreciated in light of my own private affairs. Be well," he offers as a final purring dictum before the speedster departs.