Summary:Loki follows through on informing Ambrose of the care of his daughter and stepson and a daggers-match is planned for the future. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Another sunrise, another sunset, and the city of Patna still rests on tenterhooks, awaiting the fall of someone's aggressive action. With the sun's fall comes the cooler air of night and breath of snow potentially on the wind. Perhaps against wisdom, Ambrose isn't inside tonight. He's found his way to the rooftop of his hidden abode, that place where he and Kent have vanished away like foxes into their dens, never to be seen unless by the extremely lucky coming and going. Both gentlemen have long-lived practice in remaining under the proverbial radar.
Leaning against the sole mud-daubed chimney for warmth (a fire has been built within and glows warmly to keep Kent comfortable), the Jackal has his knees pulled to his chest and his chin tucked in the small valley they create. He's wrapped up and around his ears with his fringed scarf and all that can be seen within the layerings of this, coat, pants over combat boots, and fine kidskin gloves are his eyes. They surveil the area beyond and below, ambient light flickering carmine in his pupils now and then. He sighs and his breath curls like silvery dragon smoke about him.
Closing his lids, the master-thief then attempts to still his mind. It might be risky in more ways than one, but Ambrose is certain he's safe where he's stashed himself. It makes his poise melt into something more akin to meditation and makes his mind more open to idle visitations. Kent below…he dreams, Ambrose can tell. Insofar as other minds…
Oh, perfect…the Master Thief is not only under more tenuous warding, but is also in a receptive state of mind when when Loki scries him. He builds an invisible, save to him, fifteen meter pole 'through' Ambrose so he can see how high, if at all, the Bane's shell jumps. Or is it more of a shill? Hard to say.
Truly, that is unfair, even Loki has to admit that they seem to be in some sort or symbiotic relationship, but…he likes the snark, so there you have it.
Once the measuring pole is ready, and yeah, the bane might feel a faint tingle…and then Loki reaches out mentally. «Greetings Lieutenant Atherton.» Loki's mind voice, from out of NOWHERE. And yes, he said it 'Leftenant', even with a faint Brit intonation to his mind voice.
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 5
Ever seen a cat suddenly realize there's a cucumber next to them?
There goes Ambrose in a shift of weight and lithe reaction into a rather graceful if surprised swinging of limbs and saurian SNARL from the Bane, surging up into his skin with a vengeance — a fist arcing there, a boot coming around at the height of a standard human being's chin, before he lands in a crouch, staring wide-eyed at nothing again. Then comes the collapse back onto his arse and hand to his chest, head hanging back as he pants up towards the clouded night sky.
"Oh…fuck me," he breathes in another burst of silvery breath before he laughs ruefully a few times. The curse is soothed back down and away until it tingles in his bones rather than radiates beneath his skin like the earth of Chernobyl.
Your highness, greetings. I am at leisure at the moment and able to speak. How do you fare? His voice floats back, a bit 'tinny' at the grand distance between them, but the masterful skill of Loki means his half of the connection stays true enough.
«Perhaps later.» Loki's immediate response to the part Ambrose did /not/ bespeak, which might say a little something about the Prince's efforts, good grief is he Mindspeaking from the US /and/ scrying him simultaneously? Yeah, that takes just a FEW magical chops to pull off.
«I fare very well, thank you. I thought it might be glad tidings for you to know that your children are well, send their love, and that my wife Sigyn personally prepared their victuals. Starvation is off the menu. Further, they have my contact information in case of emergency.» Loki is amused. His summary perhaps a bit…sanitized. «HOw goes your operations abroad?»
A bright flare of shocked Victorian prudery is followed by the rosy-dawn flush of a blush in the mental link. Well! Ambrose is admittedly both honored and flustered by the comment, surely to the amusement of the one speaking it.
Still, the Jackal listens and he sighs yet again, this time in relief, allowing his head to hang forwards enough that his chin might touch his chest. Oh, thank the gods — thank YOU, your highness, it is comforting to know they are provisioned. If Mira can only keep Sterling within the bounds of the manor itself, they will be safe. I shall let Kent know.
Long legs fold up and into a crisscrossing as he settles himself on the cool rooftop, now looking at some distant point before his bootlaces as he thinks of how to reply to Loki's query. I suppose the best way to explain it is an uncomfortable standstill — a stalemate, in a way, where I have not found the locket, but neither has the opposition…nor have they moved further in their other plans here. I do not know what their hesitation hangs upon, but if it is my locket and my head, I… Teeth fret at the inside of his cheek as he frowns, eyes scrunched briefly shut. There is someone here aiding me in my search and…I wish to trust her fully, but she is an acolyte to a goddess gone mad. I dare not say the goddess's name, not here and not aloud, for this is nearly the seat of her power. To say it might be to summon her attention upon me and she…unfortunately does know of me well enough. There is a delicate, mincing manner to this informing.
«I do have one question though…do you prefer female or male companionship? Or other?» Again, the question is one that is asked without any hint of prudery on Loki's part - it is literally all the same to him, but he does so like it when those he partners with have fun too. That's the best part really! Well, that and the 'little death', hopefully many such!
«It is apropos to give thanks to me, you know. I /am/ a god.» And then he grins, very much enjoying this conversation. «I guess she really /thugee/ at the heartstrings, mm?» Thugee of course being said with the H silent. «Is there perhaps something I might do to help? I could see if the deity in question might be amenable to a chat, mad or not, sanity is sort of optional in the god business, you see.»
Cue a deeper hue of the flustered blushing in the mental space. Ambrose physically swallows hard and pulls down his scarf from his face as if he might better breathe — or perhaps is hot under the collar for all he also plucks the wrapping loose about his neck.
Business first, he attempts: Er, yes, she does have a manner of making one question one's moral compass, the Jackal admits with an even BRIGHTER flare of embarrassment. A flicker-flash of Rachana's face shows, with gleaming dark eyes and a come-hither smile that bodes nothing but the best kind of trouble. I…dare not assume your safety, your highness, but there is a madness here that is catching amongst the gods and goddesses. It might be best if you remain a guardian of your territory as it stands…? Consider it a plague, perhaps, that lack of contact is safest…? I would not have you or your wife threatened, not after everything you have done for my family. A sense of a bow is echoed by a lingering nod of Ambrose's head in the physical, eyes downcast.
Then comes the wry little smirk and reheating of his cheeks. To avoid answering the first question might seem rude. …and…mine preference is for female company, though I bind myself to Kent, heart and soul, blood and blade, until my time comes. He is the one exception for his immunity to the curse and I am blessed for this. I am…uncertain that you would remain unscathed if you were to approach me, your highness.
Oh my is the Bane/Atherton fusion FUN to tease! The blushing alone will never get old, granted, it is rather /easy/. Ah well, not every good thing is a challenge. Sometimes 'easy' is quite 'pleasey'.
«I never question my moral compass.» Loki replies. «It is always pointed in the least boring direction, constant as the course of a mighty river.» Which…yeah…they fluctuate a lot, really, so at least Loki is being honest about his morals? The description of a gods affecting madness plague does give even the Mage of Asgard to think. «Mmmm…perhaps you might have something, there. So…I pledge this…find the source of it, and Loki of Asgard will aid an he be able.»
He laughs delightfully, Loki didn't actually expect to be answered. Mental laughter is soft, and a bit sultry, really. «Oh, I can be female. We'll revisit this later, perhaps.» And then a sense of even greater amusement. «Ah, Lieutenant Atherton, think you I have so little experience with curses?» Leftenant, of course.
I thank you for your offered assistance, your highness. When we discover the base of this travesty, I shall attempt to reach out as best I can manage. There is a riffle of laughter from the Jackal at the thought of a questionable moral compass, freed to the wind of whim, and a blip of silent conspiratorial delight: who needs a perfect moral compass, pffft? Those are for that Captain America guy. Tricksy types unite!
More fluster makes Ambrose wish to pull his scarf entirely from his neck now, he's got such heat radiating from his skin. He rubs a hand down his mouth and squints up at the cloudy night sky, his mouth quirked in a rueful smirk. Forgive me, your highness. Of course you would know a manner of keeping the curse at bay. A frisson dances down his spine to make him roll shoulders. …you can be female? This seems to slip unintentionally for how Ambrose then looks down at his toes and runs fingers back through his hair. Still but a journeyman in mastery of the mental speech is he.
«Think nothing of it, Ambrose, I will check in with you in the future and keep my mind attuned and receptive to your sendings.» And he'll also scry on him, daily, actually…so he can keep his deal with the most interesting Lena Snart. A bit of Ambrose's amusement at the silliness of rigid morals is sensed, and he laughs again, the sound very warm even across continental distances. «I liked your daughter, Ambrose. I think I might well have helped her e'en without being asked.» Which is a surprising bit of news, though…Loki IS a creature of whim, she might just be amusing and interesting enough to warrant. «Did you know she was a child of the Vanir?» He's honestly curious, not like a Vanir /looks/ different from human really.
Warm amusement is very tangible at the last. «I can be anything, Ambrose. I am a father - Fenrir and Jormungundr were sired upon a Jotun, my son Seipner was born from my body as a mare in blessed Asgard, I can be sunlight and moonshadow, beast, or sword, I have been every race of the nine realms and some from beyond. I can be fire and ice, lightning and wind, Loki is bounded only by his will.»
His daughter? A child of the Vanir?
Loki, mother to a…horse?
Insert the sound of broken clocksprings here.
Ambrose mouths a few silent vowels and remains seated on the rooftop for the weakness of his knees. Tentatively, he assays across the distance: …I…congratulate you on fatherhood, your highness, it is…a state of being to be in, is it not? Then comes the fritz of mental static, as he takes a moment to wring his fists before himself a few times in frustration. So many revelations lately?!
Pardon. You said a child of the Vanir? What precisely have you divined of my daughter? It can't be helped. As a leviathan's shadow might pass just visibly enough to be seen in deep waters, so does his protective fatherly streak shows in a near-silent tectonic rumbling in the kythed space.
«Yes, she didn't know either. Curious.» A warm chuckle, deeply amused. «Her mother is Vanir, or was, since you're not with her I assume she is either dead of no longer someone you associate with. Still, if she lives, you might wish to reach out to her.» And then. «The -really- interesting story here is how you came to be guardian to her. Did she just appear on your doorstep in a baby basket?» The image is one Loki clearly finds enchanting, his interest is almost…child like in its purity. There's no mockery here, or if there is it is well buried and hidden.
A snort…which sounds distinctly odd when heard in one's mind! «Yes. I'm a mommy, Sleipner is actually a very good boy, a pity that he's fallen in with such a disreputable crowd, still…what is a mother to do?» Again, if he's mocking, in this case it is himself a bit and the All Father a LOT.
The laughter to bubble up is faint. Indeed, anything but a disreputable crowd, the master-thief agrees. He's shut his eyes in concentration now in an attempt to further dredge up memories. It comes in watercolor bleedings of remembrances — a flash of Mira's mother shows a woman truly Vanir to anyone knowing of the people, sweet of smile and dark of hazel eyes, someone Ambrose still holds in his heart as a fondest if awkward memory, once a lover.
Lady Elka was her mother. I believe she still yet lives. It has been…nearly a century since she graced my presence. Mira came to me as an adult, as you see her now, not but a handful of years ago at most. Gentle pops of adoration rise up. I did not expect to see my daughter. She is… It wrenches out of him with a guilty shadow of rue. I made a promise I could not keep to great powers when I was far younger, that of my firstborn child. I was cursed then as I am now — how to pay my dues? The Lady Elka, she…there was a magic that kept the curse at bay. Kazimira is without a doubt my child. He smiles down at his boots. She has her mother's eyes and freckles…and a facet of my own curse, it appears.
«Indeed.» Oddly, Loki is just as amused, and quite sincere. «Ah, definitely Vanir.» He mind-murmurs as they speak. «Quite beautiful, clearly your daughter favors her in large. I adore freckles.» Ambrose can feel the Trickster nod, even half the world away. «You are most fortunate, Ambrose Atherton, and you well know it.»
Loki laughs very softly. «The Vanir are very strong magi, Ambrose. Your daughter has talent too, talent that Sigyn and I have offered to train though she was more interested to learn more baking.» Loki can't imagine baking /over/ magic, but whatever. Choice is hers, after all. One cannot really FORCE another to learn magic!
Lessons in magic. I see. There are a long few moments of pensive silence from the Jackal. Mulling over just how fortunate he is seems to make his current circumstances all the more unfortunate in turn…and yet, it strengthens his intent to return home to that beautiful be-freckled daughter of his as well as his erstwhile temperamental stepson.
Mira is her own person and makes her own decisions as such. It is my rue that I was not there for her first steps or words, her first heartbreak or loss. I am here to counsel her, but not to impede. She may wish to speak to me first before attending on lessons in magic for my wisdom in the matter. Baking though, yes: it is one of the few things I know to calm her mind when she frets. She was well-taught by those powers in the art of self-defense. Hell, I am very certain a dragon influenced her lessons at least once if not more. A flash of another face entirely, of a woman with hair the color of a thundercloud's sun-limned top, silvery-bright in defiance of age, with eyes of a bruised-grey and a toothy smile threatening a thunderous roll of a growl at any second.
«Not sure that you do, but that's okay. As you say, she makes her own decisions.» And clearly that is something the least Jotuny Jotun what Ever Jotuned approves of very much. Freedom of choice being the ultimate coin for Gods, and the rarest tender.
Loki is definitely intrigued by the mention of a dragon. "Oh, VERY interesting. A dragon…" A wry grin forms in the air, Loki's face amused and in his horned helm. «And tell me, Ambrose, was she a lover of yours too? If so, you're a very lucky man indeed.»
Good grief, hopefully the laughing head isn't visible to EVERYONE!
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 10
With Ambrose's eyes closed, he doesn't see this fabulous illusory display before himself — at first. Something prickles at the Bane in its low-lying rested state within his bones. Lifting his chin, the master-thief idly glances up as if his attention might have been drawn by the flit of a spiderweb's strand across the tip of his nose.
Ever seen a Jackal levitate?
Now Loki has.
A disembodied head complete with draconian helm is more than enough to make Ambrose launch himself up into the air in a backwards retreat of an arc at least six feet high. Dust is kicked off in the wake of his boots and to an experienced eye, the entire move is a thing of utmost grace — of a man aware of his own physical abilities to the tips of fingers and toes — a move more commonly seen in a mongoose avoiding a cobra's strike: his spine twists through the curvature of flight so that he lands on the opposite side of the chimney, having cleared it by the hem of his coat brushing over the out-spout's mouth. He rolls through his shoulder and as he comes up, two blades are in hand. One gleams black, a modern trench-knife, and the other shines silver, a kris blade with waved design, both honed to edges sharper than regret.
He stares, and he pants, pupils gone nightshine-red, and then he huffs a hard sigh as his defensive posture collapses. The Bane in a hurricane of shredded liquid garnet-red magic is carefully pulled back beneath his skin. Good…fucking bloody hell, for the love of all of the gods… A swallow. …and no, your highness, I did not count her as a lover. I preferred my life over her delights.
That head? LAUGHING! Not even maliciously, he's just really enjoying a -perfect- prank. «Oh, oh…oh, that was TOO bloody incredible!» Loki has to wipe his eyes, and then chuckles a bit more. «No, for the love of /this/ god, but we were going to discuss that at a later -date-.»
The head is also fairly large, about the size of a man's chest and torso. «And my my MY you are a -nimble- fellow, Ambrose. And a knife fighter, perhaps we'll spar some, your daughter seemed to think she had nothing to learn about such things, Mira definitely does not lack for confidence.»
Another chuckle then at the last bit. «Oh, well, I can think of far worse ways to go than fucked to death.» Loki's disembodied head says with a smirk writ large.
Straightening in place, the sense of hackles being flattened continues as Ambrose further composes himself. The black-metal trench-knife is slipped away underneath his coat at his waist and the silvery kris knife disappears like a magic trick away into one of his sleeves. Again, fingers of one hand thread back through his hair and leave portions of it looking decidedly bed-head-ish.
Innnnnndeed, there are less pleasant ways to leave this green earth. Again, his cheeks heat at the curl of the Trickster's smirk, though he returns it at a lesser intensity. No reason in getting offended at being startled; Ambrose knows he's set to spring like a mouse-trap after a long life of avoiding danger. I thank you for the compliment, your highness, and…do let us come to sparring soon, yes. I would delight in the chance to show you that certain Midgardians are perhaps more dangerous than you think. Now his smirk is full of challenge and self-confidence.
See where Mira gets it from now? And, yes, below, Kent might be facepalming in his sleep.
«Had you not cautioned me about the area you're in I'd come right now.» Loki promises with a purr to his voice. «There are very VERY few who can rival the Lord of Lies with daggers. Fewer still who can best him. Your offer and challenge are both accepted, Master Thief, I look forward to testing our mettle one against the other.» A saucy air to the man's grin. «Perhaps we'll even find something of interest to wager.»
Eyes the exact green of a glacier's heart are anything but cold at the prospect of a rousing good knife fight. Which might warn how long it has been since Loki has faced a challenger worthy of him.
Oh? A wager? I daresay I would be intrigued to see what you would offer, your highness. You have such a plethora of possibilities at hand… Even in the face of the Trickster God's own certainty, Ambrose continues to wear that insouciant grin. It used to drive Kent absolutely insane that century ago; generally, the Jackal wore it when planning something of great dare or foolhardiness.
He crosses his arms and lifts his chin. Go on then: what do you wager of our future bout? Eyes as blue and deep as cenotes keenly consider the illusionary head, still with the candleflame's mote of the Bane ruddy in depths of pupils.
«A wager.» Loki answers with a delighted grin. «We could double down on your favor if you lose, or you can claim one in turn from me if you win?» Okay, that's a pretty rich bet, that's some serious stakes. «Alternatively we can wager for items of value - I'd be willing to forfeit The Birds of America, indeed, if you best me two times out of three I'll even grant you the nicer copy in the back I was holding for my own use. Of course, you'd have to decide what to match against it.»
Loki looks thoughtful. «Either way, dinner and dancing, that's a given.» This with a delighted curve of expressive lips and mirth filled eyes.
Those expressive eyebrows lift. Dinner and dancing, is it? Well then, and Ambrose's smirk softens into something dimpled and smug. It has been some time since I have exercised courtly mastery, but no time like the present for such an endeavor. I do not think I have anything that might be of comparable value to the book in question, but yes, why not — if I lose, another favor to you. Should I win, a favor of my own to claim. This seems fair.
The silvery kris appears with a practiced pluck from his sleeve and the Jackal looks it over nonchalantly. Daggers, you say? Or other weaponry?
«Ooh…here's a thought.» And then Loki says nothing more, just -smirks-. «Agreed double the favors owed, or I owe YOU one.» Loki grins, KNOWING that that the unmentioned thought is going to niggle at Ambrose, that it will bug him, because the Bane's sheath is beset by one terrible terrible thing - curiousity.
Loki laughs softly. «Daggers, yes. They're your favored weapon, are they not? By all means, let us fight with your best weapon, test our skills against each other. Unless you prefer something else, of course?»
Ambrose narrows his eyes even as he keeps that coy little smirk on his face. Oh-ho: a thought unsaid?
…drat.
He toys with the kris dagger by rolling it between and across fingers, his other arm now crossed his ribs to tuck hand beneath his armpit. They are antiquated weaponry and I have a preference for my revolvers, but we agreed to daggers. Let it be as such, our bout. If I learn anything new, it may be passed on to Kazimira in turn, for the betterment of us both.
Still, yes, the master-thief is curious as all hell about the thought left hanging in the wind like the last leaf on an autumn tree. It can be felt as his slitted attention still lingering on the illusory projection.
«Oh, revolvers, not very personal, though. Further - we let your daughter be the judge, yes? Kazmira is skilled enow to appreciate the nuances of our contest, would you not agree? Either she or Sigyn, you may choose, or both.» Loki smiles then and Ambrose and the Bane will surely get the feeling Loki is well aware that his unvoiced thought is worming its way into Ambrose. «So…forgive me, Master Thief, but I have matters elsewhere demanding my attention. I shall reach out to you again very soon, and should you need me, I will be listening should you say my name three times without pause, I will hear it.» Loki's floating illusory head fades, though his mind presence lingers. «Be you well, Ambrose Atherton, and my regards to your mate.»