Summary:Ambrose updates Loki on proceedings in Patna, India. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Another evening falls upon Patna and for once, despite the chill clinging to the shadows and the subtle feeling that remains yet of uncertainty, Ambrose feels as if he can make his tea without needing to look over his shoulder. Around his neck, a long-known if recently-found weight: the golden locket containing Janaya's picture, sepia and faded more yet through time and water damage. Rather, the Jackal assumes the picture to be in this state as he hasn't opened it yet.
There are enough Pandora's Boxes unhinged and cracked as it stands. Afraid? No. Wary? Yes.
This is a soother cup of tea, smelling mostly of roses and greenery rather than the stiffer, spicier scent of Chai he'd had earlier in the day laced with cream. Sipping at it after he finishes stirring a spoon through it, the man nods contentment with its state. Walking over to one of the chairs he's set by one of the few back windows, he sits and sets aside the steaming cuppa. Closing his eyes means the brush of dark lashes to his cheeks; his brows knit in concentration even as fingertips rise to toy at the visible section of fine steel chain.
Lord Loki…? It wings off into the nebulous direction of mental direction like a flare thrown in the dark.
After the third repetition of his name, Loki's head once more appears, he'd been watching Ambrose after all, so he heard it on the first, but man…there's the forms to keep to! Still, he's LOKI, can't just appear like anyone else, nope. The head that appears does so in a burst of golden sparks, and billowing green smoke. «I AM…LOKI…THE GREAT AND POWERFUL! Who are you? Who are you?»
Yes, JUST like, with Loki's face, the Wizard of Oz when he first met Dorothy.
Again, as before, the Bane whispers of ephemeral influence from far, far beyond. Ambrose's lashes rise and he can't help the backwards jolt into the chair, fingers briefly clutching at the arms of the chair. Then comes the huff of a laugh from behind one of the hands brought briefly up before his mouth. Those dark brows quirk even as the master-thief tries desperately not to chortle at the reference made. He gets it, courtesy of his offspring's penchant for films and Kent's enjoyment of the older sagas.
I suppose you are an excellent wizard, your highness, the brunet replies in a deliberate twist of a following line from the film. I report that the locket has been found. It brings us a step ahead of those who wish me and mine family ill. A thumb hooks in the chain and lifts to pull the time-worn golden locket out from beneath his fitted thermal shirt. Light shines matte upon the locket's surface as it swings back and forth a small amount.
Reference caught, Loki drops the smoky special effects, his head floating there once more, in living color and double scale. He DID enjoy the /jump/, though, actually snickered a bit. Only a bit. And really, he's Loki, don't you want him laughing rather than glowering anyway? Cranky Loki is a bit on the scary side. Actually, pretty spectacularly scary when he gets his Raging Fire God thing on.
«Ah, too kind, Lieutenant Atherton.» Yes, of course, said 'leftenant'. Loki typically has a bit of a Brit accent, faint, but there. «Ah, excellent news, Ambrose. Have you inspected it for magical traps or tampering?»
A good point proffered by the experienced practitioner of the floating head. Ambrose's eyes divert to the locket still hanging over his thumb and his tongue tips his upper lip briefly.
…admittedly, I did not, but given I felt no immediate sensations nor did the curse warn me of anything present, I did not assume to have it checked. His cerulean-blue eyes rise to Loki's facade again. Have you the ability to look over it at this distance, your highness…? His pulse has already jumped up a few notches at the uncomfortable possibility of someone outwitting the witty Jackal.
«Well, it just occurs to me that you had to go to some extraordinary lengths to acquire it, mindspike, wishing gem, questing in a land in which the very gods are gone mad.» The head moves in a way very evocative of a shrug ere Loki continues. «Merely seems prudent.» He smiles then and will scan it as far as he /can/ from half the world away. «I am unsure, the range does interfere with a proper test, but…my cursory examination seems to support your belief of it being safe.» A nod. «So, what will you do with it now?» Asks the god of Trickery. «I don't believe you mentioned…»
Curious Loki is Curious!
Away goes the locket, tucked back beneath the thermal material of the black long-sleeved shirt, to be warmed against his skin. Truthfully, I had not considered beyond the immediate, he reveals with a hint of chagrin. It has been more…find the bedamned thing and get it before the competition. For now, I suppose, it shall be on my person. If it could be used to track me, well…for what little I know of the mystical arts and their application in regards to sympathetic signatures or prints — identification, Ambrose decides, —mine own aura is strong enough to hide it. Or, perhaps, most alike and it shall blend. No longer will the opposition be able to use it against me.
His smile is still untrue in the end. Butter wouldn't melt behind his lips and it wipes away the roguish youth from his face; now the Jackal appears his demi-immortal self, jaded and full of distrust in his longer lifespan. Of course, that now leave the opposition to consider more drastic measures, which includes not only my mate, but my children and my friends. I am ever grateful for your protection of them at the mansion, my lord.
«Ah, of course. I know that feeling well.» And Loki's rich tones are eloquent of his own chagrin for past blunders it caused. «If you bring it by Cover Story, I can attempt the restore the contents. I have a number of spells for just such purposes, it is one way I preserve and acquire my stock.» Also…he's almost three thousand years old, he has acquired a LOT of stuff in that time. «Your aura should hide it well enough, especially if your 'Bane' wraps a tendril or two about the thing it should help mask it.»
Loki can sense the lie to the smile, but he lets it stand. Sometimes you just /have/ to smile to get through things. A smile (his actually genuine!) at the thanks. «I like your Vanir girl, she's got spunk. It was an genuine pleasure to assist, and really, the fight is not yet over. Have you a stratagem in mind to resolve things?»
Mira's face flashes through her father's mind in a freeze-frame of a cheeky smile, sporting his dimples and those freckles, the half-moon across her eyebrow not detracting from her inherent beauty in the least.
Spunk is something she did inherit, it appears. The mental tone is overlaid in paternal fondness. I suspect she is safe yet, along with her brother. Still…your suggestion is a good one, my lord. I shall see about curtaining the locket with the curse itself. Maybe it's something he can keep as an idle side-command in mind, like a string tied about one's finger, and the locket will remain better hidden yet…if more deeply imbued yet with the master-thief's essence.
As to restoration. Ambrose's eyes fall away from the Trickster's illusioned face. Emotions blossom in his chest: a tightness of old despair and grief paled by time, misery transmuted to acceptance, the sense of treasured memories of an abiding springtime's twitterpation still bright and brisk and achingly fresh in comparison to the abiding love he has for Kent. Perhaps, my lord, when the dust settles. We have garnered a wishing gem from the temple of the god Hanuman not so long ago. I do not think it would be as easy as wishing the madness from the city and beyond, but… A hand lifts off the arm of the chair in a graceful shrug, his eyes having risen to hold those glacier-green across from him. Their intensity makes his heart trip as it usually does. It might be as easy as such.
«Indeed, and then some.» Loki's admiration of her fire is evident. Loki's no telepath, but even he can feel the powerful investment, the strong emotional ties to the locket. «Of course, we can discuss it later when circumstances are calmer.» He is quietly thoughtful after the mention of using a wish…from Hanuman…to end the plague of madness. «Methinks there is more to it than that, Master Thief. A /monkey/ gem is not all that far from a monkey's paw, and /those/ are damned and bound to bite you in your tender bits, be wary, think well but do not OVER think, because that's how they get you coming and going.»
And, yes, that sure sounds like the voice of experience right there.
Oh, I am…already quite aware of the possibility imbued within a wishing gem. They are very literal creations. Boy howdy, is that a deep rosy-dawn blush of sheepishness in the shared mental state and the color shows on the Jackal's cheeks despite their permanently tanned state. One must be careful with one's wording. Your wisdom is valid, my lord. I prefer my tender bits without teeth marks and I suspect my comrades might as well.
He reaches for his tea now and sips at it, finding it still steaming. How fast the mind works; it makes for impossibly long seconds. Ambrose had been half-expecting it to have gone cooler.
How fares your wife then, my lord? She is well? Is there any interference within the bounds of New York to your knowledge or has my meddling garnered the majority of attention here in Patna? Smugness inks up, snide and spiteful as it might be. Yes, bring it on, bad guys.
«Wishes are venomous as the IRS and less trustworthy than the government.» Loki states firmly. «Actually, wishes are like the All-Father, irrational, prone to random flatulence, and full of spite as they violate you without so much as a reach around.» Oh. Dear. That…was not very respectful. At all.
Ahem.
«Milady wife is well, very much enjoying the provisioning of your kids, looking forward to training Mira a bit. Cookery. Still, little steps.» A shake of that huge head (No weather systems and not at all resembling Sputnik!). «No signs that I have seen as of yet, and I have been keeping an eye on your home and children.»
Ambrose nods in sympathy, what form of it he can proffer towards the wrong-doings of the All-Father whom he knows only by dubious gossip. The bluntness, of course, pings off the steadfast roots of his Victorian prudery, and while he smirks, his ears do heat a bit.
I am glad to hear your lady-wife is well. Mira will, no doubt, benefit from the study. Again, I leave the decision to her in matters. I am relieved to hear of quiet in the city, truly. And truly, the relief is a cooling wash through his body that yet leaves goosebumps of premonition in their wake. Would that we were all certain that it is free of Gurim's machinations. I…
Hesitation comes and goes. …I nearly wish that Oliver would show himself again, my erstwhile…friend. Ooh, how that word drips of distaste and disdain as well as hurt. I wish in my heart that I remain his target yet. I hazard he works quietly even as I am present here. He was always subtle, Oliver… Blunt nails scratch at the scruff along Ambrose's jawline even as he half-lids his eyes, taking on the appearance of a bored mastermind upon his plush throne.
Well, Loki's never really felt much love from his father, the one who raised him, not the one who sired him of course. As in any, really. No matter how he strived - it was always the others who got the praise. Loki was never good enough, and that rankles still. Add to that being banished several times? Yeah, he might be a little bitter. Okay…a lot.
«Sigyn rather liked her too, Lieutenant. You are right to be proud of her, and to lament the years you never got to share.» Loki sighs, and then the head illusion morphs into a 1:1 scale him, and he settles onto a huge throne like chair that appears to be made of stone. He's in his wargear, and holding a flagon of wine at a dangerous angle. «Remember, Ambrose Atherton, Lieutenant of Old, Master Thief, Lena's Warder, Sire of Mira and Sterling, Mated to Kent…when the battle lines are drawn, Loki Laufeyson would stand at your side, if you'll have him.»
Indeed, my lord. That I was unable to rear her is both a disappointment and delight both. The flicker of changing nappies comes alongside a faint smile. Kent knows well how the master-thief quietly grieves for a childhood lost; an adulthood found is of great wonder and treasure to him.
The sudden shift in appearance has him sitting up tall in his own chair again. Lips part in surprise as he watches the reformation of Loki's form into one of impressive visual grandeur. Swallowing carefully, he then nods deeply. I accept your offer, Lord Loki, with great humility in mind. Loki will no doubt sense the riffling of the Bane beneath the Jackal's skin as he touches upon a very lesser-used and even lesser-known aspect of the curse.
In a fluid up-rush of what must be a twisting of very reality around Ambrose, his own guise changes. Chestnut-brown hair goes starkly if sleekly silver, the hue of someone of great age. When he lifts his face, he looks upon the Trickster God with brows and scruff equally argent, eyes with dark weariness permanently tattooed beneath them, and pupils as brightly gleaming-red as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi once stared down the cobras both. Beneath his skin, subdermally, every vein and artery threading through him pulses in time with his heart in a far more tender hue of crimson. I know well my powers, but you are a god. I would have you at my side should need come of it. At his neck, wrists, and head, thin bands of a lustrous black metal that seem embedded to his skin without pain; the pair about his ankles remain hidden and the bands remain shackles for their presence. Prince of Eternal Thirst indeed.
«Oh, a pity, I've liked being a father at times. Not always my own kids of course, but it is fun…even the nappies, until it isn't.» Loki laughs softly. «I think you might have a point, though.» Seated on his throne, the very image of ennui, Loki inclines his head to the sudden respect.
«Then gladly do I promise my aid, Ambrose Atherton.»
His gaze sharpens, the sense of the illusion fading until it seems as real as the room they stand in. He watches the transformation, and then smiles. «Most intriguing. You are even able to hide this from /me/, it is no illusion, it is something else, something stronger, but also not a true shifting of shape…which also I would have likely noticed.»
Interest piqued, the illusory Loki rises and moves close to study, noting every detail, especially the bands of embedded darkness are studied.
With what must be a form of self-consciousness, Ambrose also slowly rises, his posture neutral and non-threatening in front of the God of Lies. His gem-bright eyes still watch the approach and nearness of the mage, for the if there is one thing he can predict, it is that Loki is unpredictable even in his kindness.
I know not if it is a form of magic or elsewise, your highness. Even Kent does not know in his vast wisdom. All I know is that, perhaps, the curse itself provides a veil of normalcy in protection for both itself and myself. What you see is not how I once was. What you see is how I am. I am it and it is me. Within the shared mental space, Ambrose's voice has undertones of a parched throat, raspy and dry, and the echoes of a dark tomb, echoing with a minute delay. I do not hide this. Rather, the curse itself does. How else to blend in with humanity…?
Oh, to be certain, the Bane can feel Loki studying it, trying to figure out what makes it tick - that has to be -extremely- unnerving. Loki is kind about as often as he is cruel, though to be fair there's very few people he genuinely likes, fewer still he loves. Still, he is /masterful/ at portraying any emotion, or lack of under the sun. «The air itself bends, the universe itself shudders at the touch of your curse.» Loki looks sharply then at the last. «Of course, to walk amongst the sheep in their own guise.» His smile returns. «I know nothing of such things, of course.»
The Jackal's smile to follow, sly and no doubt emboldened by the Bane's own vague interest in the keen green eyes attempting to suss it out, might be uncomfortable to see for anyone less knowing and of great age than Loki himself. The dimples become weaponized and how Ambrose lids his eyes is decidedly predatory for a split second. Even if the curse's host wouldn't lift a finger against the Trickster God, the curse itself is far less discerning. It has tasted Aesir life-force before and found it like sipping starlit champagne.
Still, again with that fluid shrug of power, the master-thief's previous and far more mundane appearance returns. He blinks a few times and now it takes an odd angle of light to make those dark pupils flash with nightshine.
Of course. A coy agreement. I believe I blend in quite well. No wonder Kent sighs at the Jackal's hubris sometimes. But I am due to speak with Astryd and Fenris of mounting a final push to make use of the wishing gem. I shall bring your greetings and wisdom in my wake, especially as to the gem. Wish me luck, your highness.
And with that, Ambrose pulls away from the mental connection with practiced care as he has done countless times in commune with the Hound. It leaves him alone in the sitting room with his still-steaming cup of tea to be sipped at as he broods — not as well as Loki might, of course.