Summary:Cain survives a brush with both Ambrose AND the ever-convivial Oliver, who fails to entice Cain to drink the Kool-Aid as well as capture Ambrose. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
  |
Early afternoon, and Cain is /loving/ it. He's sitting Indian style on the edge of Washington Street Square Park fountain. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, he's enjoying the low-50s temperature and is working his way through playing Stairway to Heaven on a 12-string acoustic, obviously an old friend. At the moment he's just playing, not singing, but the music is haunting when played right - Cain is definitely playing it right. Maybe not well enough to get a job, but for an amateur? Yeah, his fingerings are very skilled, the music evocative enough that he's even attracted a couple of people watching. His guitar case is closed, however, he's not busking…just enjoying something he loves, eyes rapt and focused on the guitar as he plays.
When does Cain notice the cooler temperature curling about his ankles? They seem to have crept up and tendriled about his legs, crisscrossed as they are on the fountain's edge. And when did the clouds appear to thicken and cut off the fall of the sunlight from on high?
Maybe it was when someone familiar appeared at the Park entrance. The heavy coat might seem over-warm for the ambient air's spring-softness, but then again, the Sergeant's cheeks still cling inwards as if he could never put on an ounce of weight again. It takes nothing from his leanly-muscled frame. How odd still, the candle's flickering flame in his vastly out-dated lantern he holds in one hand, and the official way he approaches Cain in clear view as if he didn't wish to startle the guitar player.
"Master McCormick," greets the hooded in an absolutely friendly manner, even assaying a smile, when in ear-shot. "You appear to be well. This is good."
Meanwhile, tucked behind the thick trunk of one of the few trees, Ambrose has pressed his back flat to the rugged bark. He's sucking on a canine tooth in abject irritation and trepidation both. He meant to find Cain to check on him on a suspicion.
Suspicion confirmed and damn it all: somehow, Oliver was able to trace the young man because of the Bane's touch.
Ambrose listens as hard as he can over the general low-volume hub-bub of the Park itself, still out of immediate view.
It isn't too long before he notes the fog, the chill, and then sighs very gently as he stills the strings with his palm, and looks up to the Oliver. "Hello Sergeant, I would say 'bright the day', but it seems to have clouded up a bit." The guitar's case is opened, and he puts the thing away with great care, sealing it up before uncoiling to sit with feet on the ground, and hands braced on the fountain as he leans a bit forward. "I am doing much better than the last time we spoke, yes. Got a bit of sleep, had a fantastic lunch of Shepherd's Pie and Soda Bread, and was just enjoying fresh air and a chance to play in the great outdoors."
He runs fingers through short black, hair, and then looks the man with the lantern in the eyes. Not particularly friendly, but not hostile either, his tones level. "So…what can I do for you, Sergeant? I assume this call it not merely social in nature, mm?"
Oliver nods appreciatively of the good food and rest. His smile doesn't lessen in the least; if anything, it deepens in a kindly manner. Flicker-flicker goes the candle-flame behind glass panes in the lamp.
"It is social to an extent, old chap. I will share that I too am relatively content with the nature of my current existence. I thought to confirm a time for tea? Last we spoke, there were stirrings of an offer. I presume it still stands?" He shifts in place to take weight off his bad knee.
Peering out from behind his tree, Ambrose slowly bares his teeth. How — very — dare. God, he has to stop this somehow, to warn Cain, even if the Bane is already beginning to lift its head and sniff.
Ambulatory pastry?
Cain tries very hard not to pay any heed to the flickering flame, last time he saw something like it he ended up in (another) trap ring. Which was very not cool. Eyes of deep green study the Sergeant, that warm smile faintly returned, but he's still reserved about it. After all - Oliver says he's a friend of Ambrose, and Ambrose is not a friend to Cain - there's a big lack of trust right there, and then some.
Cain digs a small leather bound notebook from his back pocket, and then checks an honest to God -handwritten- calendar. "Actually…I hove today and tomorrow off." His finger dragged over the page, and then small pen taken out. "How's 2PM tomorrow afternoon for you?" Because yes, he did indeed kinda sorta make an offer for tea and cucumber sandwiches, hell, he might put on a full fledged High Tea if he feels motivated!
Unaware of the Bane and it's Sheath are near by, never the less Cain's hackles rise a bit, and he looks around a moment before turning to Oliver. "So…2PM tomorrow then, Sergeant Wright?" Mister Wrong!
Now the Sergeant smiles all the more broadly. It brings a convivial shine to his pale hazel eyes. "My schedule is open to any enterprising attempt to pot a good cup of tea. Indeed, the second hour after noon shall work splendidly. I have found few places in this city capable of brewing a proper cup of tea, though you are one of the rare few to appear to appreciate one. We might also discuss my recent proposition as well, I should hope?"
Ambrose is pressed flat against the tree again, mouth pressed into a firmly-stressed line. Tea? Tea?! This cannot stand! The Bane agrees with a sub-sensory growl in the man's bones. From out of hiding, he steps and walks towards the pair seated by the fountain. His expression is inscrutable at first as a mask — though it isn't possible to keep irritation from making fine lines at his eyes.
"Sergeant Wright, cease and desist." His voice clips across the distance in a sharp bark. Oliver literally flinches and looks over, even backing up a half-step into a posture militantly-composed.
"Lieutenant Atherton," he greets calmly, the very paramount of poise in counter to Ambrose's chill.
"Well, though I'm a native of New York, I have a /great/ fondness for tea, and I have to agree with you, Sergeant. There's really not many places one can get a good cuppa…so…I do it myself." He really does have a solidly New York accent, Cain does. And the kid can't be old enough to drink, or maybe JUST barely, it is actually fairly remarkable he's a full EMT at such a tender age, speaks well of his discipline and brains.
A nod then. "Ah yes, you were going to show me 'the truth', mm? Well, I said I'd hear you out…and I like to think I keep my word."
And then the Jackal enters, and his dander is up it seems. Cain sighs. "Oh, lovely. Hello Lieutenant, an old friend of yours looked me up the other night and was curious as to your location." He rises. "Perhaps I should let you two sort things out, as it seems you have much to discuss?" He doesn't leave just yet, but…he does shoulder the guitar case.
"Old friend?!" Ambrose literally splutters like a cat sprayed by a water bottle. He's stopped about a dozen feet away now and his hands ball at his sides. Of course the werelight-glow of the Bane is in the back of his pupils — dander up indeed!
Oliver doesn't even react to the indignity; he does, however, look between the Jackal and Cain, now on his feet, with a marked interest. Perhaps some suspicion has just been confirmed.
The master-thief speaks on, words rimed with polite frost. "We have nothing to discuss. Sergeant Wright, I order you to stand down."
Oliver actually appears to wilt visibly. A woeful quirk appears between his dark brows, barely seen in the shadows of his hood. "I would, Lieutenant, but you and I are both no longer active in the service. You do realize that I need not follow your orders, old chap?"
A literal hiss leaves Ambrose. He quickly turns his attention to Cain and tries to speak with more aplomb to the young man. "Whatever he has offered you, it is laced with poison. Do not, Master Cain, consider a single word he says yet. He is gone mad."
Oliver just looks more hurt now. Kicked puppy.
"Does /anyone/ in your circles tell the truth, Master Atherton?" Cain seems -utterly- not surprised that Oliver and Ambrose are not actually friends, though they clearly know each other, and served together. Interesting.
Eyes of green study the Master Thief, and the Lantern Bearer, and he shakes his head.
That look from Oliver definitely does not sit well with Cain, and he closes his appointment book with the pen folded inside, before tucking it away.
"He spoke of the world being full of monsters that we cannot see, things that influence and control us from beyond the veil of sight." He looks Ambrose in his red tinted eyes. "And I know that much is true, at least in part. He offered to show me how deep the rabbit hole went, and stated he wanted to help you with your Curse, that you were old friends, and he wanted nothing but the best for you. Did he lie then?"
Ambrose visibly sucks at his canine tooth again beneath his thinned lips as he listens. Oliver is pinned with another flat look from the Jackal; the man simply straightens up again and continues his air of wounded well-meaning, which serves to incense Ambrose all the more.
There seems to be a struggle to formulate a proper response from the brunet in his own long-coat, warm against he cold along with his fringed black scarf. "He — no. It is not all lies. You have seen things beyond human ken." Deliberately, the Bane is allowed to flare in the back of his eyes. As usual, if Cain looks back too long, his heartbeat's rhythm will be reflected in the mote of reddish light. Funnily enough, Ambrose seems to peter out after this.
"I tell no lies," Oliver offers then quietly, uncaring at how the Lieutenant hits him with a carmine-bright, gimlet squint. "I wish to help. Ambrose." His voice goes gentled with understanding. "You are too close to your curse. Even Master McCormick can see how you suffer. You are not yourself anymore. You are not the man I once called friend."
"Put your forked tongue away, Sergeant," snaps the other man sharply. "I am Lieutenant Atherton to you and nothing else."
Has anyone yet noticed how other park-goers have slowed and become rather intently focused on this little discussion…?
To Ambrose and Oliver both it would seem that Cain just…vanishes.
He vanishes, but there swirls around the two ancient ones a purple streak of lighting trails, and as it expands outwards every innocent person within a hundred yards would find themselves at the far side of the park in a disorienting blur of motion. When Cain reappears, some leaves rustle, and — yeah, it is just the three of them. Eyes of green crackle with energy, and the man's form still has sparks of violet moving up and down it as he regards the two.
"So…are you going to duke it out then? I've made sure nobody innocent gets hurt." Though poised for action, Cain is at the moment /not/ taking further action, just…watching. He does NOT look at the Bane's eyes, he learned that trick before, not going to get caught up again.
Ambrose grimaces once the brisk — brisk? Nay, supersonic — blurring begins. Oliver seems startled enough to flash the whites of his eyes and take two steps away from where Cain once stood. Once the speedster is back, the brunet with the ember-sparked pupils lets out a slow and soothing sigh.
Cain will absolutely feel, in that gut-sense of his, how the Bane watches his ambulatory-pastry-self with an avid fixation now.
"Duke it out?" Oliver has recovered his poise and tries again that easy-going paternal smile. "No, not at all. Ambrose would not injure an old friend." It might seem as mild friendly tease, but it sets the Jackal to hackling all the more. He tightly folds his arms and forces his shoulders to neutrality rather than letting them rise up around his ears. "Though I thank you, Master McCormick, for your benevolent actions."
This has Ambrose's wandering (Bane-enthused) attention jerking back to the Sergeant. The Bane flares up around him like heat rising from sandy dunes. "Master Cain, run," he manages tightly before, out of NOWHERE, something hairless and slimy sheds invisibility to slam into the man with force enough to knock the wind from him and send him tumbling end over end entangled!
Oliver watches silently, holding his lamp with its flickering, undying flame.
Run? He told the speedster to /run/, and then took a hit? Cain is not really keen on seeing anyone mauled, but he's got an idea, a rather nasty suspicion really, that Oliver is the one responsible for the monster. He's also pretty sure that that lantern is some form of focus for him. Long and the short, he picks up a rock, spins in place to build up momentum…and then whips it at the lantern at pretty close to mach one…the same sort of speed he can punch at if he goes all out.
Indeed, it would leave his hand with a small *crack* at release, moving bullet fast but almost as bulky as an old style naval carronade - only instead of 'shot', it is a one pound projectile.
Regardless, he then blurs at some five hundred miles an hour…attaining that speed in under a second. Moving at a sprint, he LEAPS the last few yards, driving his knee into the slimy thing's head if he can find one, center mass if he can't, and then runs off a bit further so as not to get et by the Bane-cloud.
If he can.
"Oh Ambrose, old chap: you remain blinded yet. Stop resisting, you will exhaust yourself further. I suppose it is my duty as your friend to bring you ho — "
Cain's rock splinters the lantern's glass and puft: out goes the flame. Oliver too disappears in mid-sentence, mid-thought, wiped away from reality as cleanly as a wet cloth over ink. It does not, however, mean the attack stops.
Snarling far deeper in his chest than a human should be able to accomplish, Ambrose grips at the limbs attempting to dig sucker-tipped digits to his person. Is there a head? He can't tell, though there is a mouth with serrated shark-like teeth, four rows deep, strung with clear slime somewhere towards the top of the skate-like body. Pustules bubble on its back. When Cain knees into the thing's center mass, it flops and coughs up a shriek — and a long, stubborn, sticky strand of goo trails after his retreat from a pustule popped. Like a giant tendril of spiderwebbing, it refuses to separate from his pants-leg or any other part of him it touches, speeds be damned.
"I said RUN, you — blathering — FUCK ME — I SAID RUN!" Ambrose gets out, leaning as far away into the grass as he can from the gaping mouth of the creature slowly descending towards him. One can tell the moment he wrenches the Bane's attention away from Cain and back to the creature: it jolts and then begins a continuous keening sound, undulating the thin edges of its frame in frenetic spasms.
"Well, fuck." Cain says when only half, or more like one third of his master plan worked out. Part One: Get rid of Oliver: Success! Part Two: Knee pustulant ick monster somewhere painful: Partial Succes! Part Three: Maintain safe distance: Failed. Oh how it failed. "Sonuvabitch has SNOT tendrils?"
You know, even an EMT has limits - he gags a little.
And then rather than try to get away immediately he runs around a lamp post, about ten times, getting the goo stuck to it…/then/ he runs directly away, and if he can…snaps free. Now, rather than continue with hand to hand, he instead harries it with thrown objects - rocks, a horseshoe, an old wine bottle, all from different vectors and at that same insane velocity.
Even if he can't break the snot…he can keep pulling back and away and throw things!
"Ohhhhhhh my bloody god!/"
This is Ambrose back-down, still pushing his ear against the grass as hard as he can manage as a gleaming stalagmite of saliva sloooooowly continues oozing down towards his face. His eyes, tightly averted but for the fierce side-glare, don't track Cain and his aid. He can tell, however, that the creature isn't immune to whatever the speedster is doing to it.
Each impact of the objects — horseshoe to thump into its central mass, rocks to pelt and dent and pop pustules, the wine bottle to shatter in shards and stick like gleaming shrapnel to the slimy surface — hurts the creature along with the Bane ravaging through whatever life-force it contains. It flinches and shimmies in agony, eyeless and mewling burbles.
That snot string? It's like an ending stretch of cheese off a slice of fresh pizza. On and on and on it stretches, extending in Cain's wake and now anchoring itself firmly in the fibers of his pants leg.
"Throw…something…heavier!" Ambrose shouts brokenly in his effort to bench-press the thing AWAY from him.
"Damn…I liked these pants." BUT…needs must. Rather than screw around, he simply takes out a small folding knife and cuts the entire pant leg free. Once free he finds some bigger rocks - fun fact - Cain can bench five hundred pounds, doesn't look that strong, does he? So…he'll start heaving bigger rocks, a couple of them over a hundred pounds each. "Right. Heavier."
Nope, not getting too close to that thing, not at all. Between bade cloud and ick-snot? NO. Damn. Way.
He is still fighting off gagging - that thing is FOUL.
Away goes the be-snotted pants leg! And maybe a few of Cain's leg hairs, but who's really counting in the grand scheme of freedom attained? The monster doesn't seem to notice it no longer has a fly on the end of its proverbial spider-webbing. The first rock to hit it sticks and sends it reeling to one side, balance drastically off. A limb menacing Ambrose pulls away to flail about in attempt to regain the ability to continue suckering down at him.
The second rock slams into the creature and sends it heavily off to one side, given the weight distribution of the burst pustules and their sticky ooze gathering objects. Ambrose executes a quick barrel-roll to one side while the thing flails and screams and reaches for him, caught on its side like a turtle nearly upsot.
The third rock stoppers up that outrageously horrifying toothy mouth and upturns it entirely. Now it flails in their general direction even as the Jackal stumbles away, staring pasty-faced and wide-eyed. He's electrified with life-force now from beyond the veils and it's not sitting very well with him.
"You should still run, you bloody idiot," he wheezes in the direction he thinks he last saw Cain.
What's a few hairs between not friends? He does find the chill less than exhilarating on his leg though. Stupid snot monster.
On the plus side he's over his urge to gag, so there's that.
Eyes of deep green study the now pinned thing, even as he sees how…out of sorts…Ambrose seems to be.
Still, that monster is pinned, not dead. "Okay." Cain says, and then blurs off trailing streamers of purple energy.
He doesn't go far, nope, he buys a couple gallons of petrol, and then gets a disposable lighter.
When he returns he douses the thing, and then tosses the plastic container at it too - because, why not? And then he lights the lighter and tosses it at the gasoline soaked monster. "Yippie kiy aye, motherfucker."
Yes, he totally stole John McClane's line.
"I…don't know what to make of you, Lieutenant Atherton. YOu warned me off, more than once, at some small risk to yourself."
Oh, there's Cain — and there he goes. Ambrose stares after the fading wake of violaceous streamers with a noticed fixation until the metal-on-metal screech of the trapped other-dimensional monster brings him back to its living presence. A grimace and he then throws a hand out towards it, bringing the full wrath of the Bane upon it.
Fuck the off-taste of the energy, it's still satiating the curse and removing a dangerous obstacle in his existence.
By the time Cain returns, the skate-like slimeball is on its last limbs — metaphorically, those are still twitching and flippering about. Poof: it goes up like kindling with the application of gasoline and fire in a shockingly quick chemical reaction. Whatever it is, it's extremely combustible. Ambrose retreats even farther away from it once it's alight in horror.
…is someone afraid of fire…?
He risks a glance over at Cain. The speedster won't miss how the fire's light, even during the day, catches like garnet-gemstone facets in his pupils blown-wide. It probably looks like a drug-high. Funny thing: it's kind of a drug high.
"Small risk? Bloody fucking hell, that thing — that thing is not from this world." A glance was shows it to be a cindered pile beneath heat-scorched boulders and slagged green glass. "Was," the Jackal amends more airily with shocky undertones. "But yes, I am…I am not as you think I am." Cain gets another glance brightly glowing.
…where did the crowds go? All have disappeared now, but nobody's called the cops.
Noting the reaction to fire, Cain resolves to always carry a road flare with him from now on, also…a mini-fire extinguisher. Maybe he can just scare one off with fire (Ambrose) and keep extinguishing the flame of the other (Oliver) and have a good night's rest! Ahem.
What's going to be really interesting is seeing if Oliver still shows up for tea on the morrow! Hrm…yes…definitely will have to be a full High Tea, if he does.
And then the oddity of them being alone, no cops, that gets to Cain a moment. "Lieutenant…where did all (Rum!?!?) people go?"
Working down a swallow with some effort — the ambulatory pastry is asking an extremely pertinent question by the feedback the Bane is giving him, that of nobody immediately around — and he rips his attention away from Cain with visible effort to scan the immediate surroundings.
"I've not a clue," he breathes, turning a slow and dedicated circle as he scans the entire Park. He can see the city beyond the iron fencing surrounding the place and there ARE people beyond it, walking along, as if nothing had happened. "Where is Oliver?" Now his attention turns back to Cain. With deliberation does he slide his hands away into his coat pockets. It is, in essence, like sheathing weaponry.
With Ambrose's 'weapons' sheathed, Cain approaches. "First responders should have been en route." He says with a frown. He will be avoiding the iron fencing, thanks. He does move to one of the exits to the street, specifically at a point where there are people visible. And then he extends his hand towards the boundary line, should it pass through he'll try and stop someone. "Excuse me, do you have the current time?" He'll ask.
To Ambrose. "Sergeant Wright? I shattered his lantern, cut him off mid villain rant." He says with a smug look.
It's a young woman in a fur-lined parka, skinny jeans, and oversized sneakers. She pauses at Cain's motion that easily bypasses the Park's boundary and pulls an earbud from her ear. "What? The time?" Her phone is considered. "Not much aftah two. Yer welcome," she says, continuing on, though she does take a moment to put her earbud back in and fidget with her septum piercing before walking. It means that no more than ten to fifteen minutes have passed at best in all.
Ambrose blinks to hear of what happened to the erstwhile Sergeant. "Shattered…his lantern?" he echoes almost dubiously. His gaze is fixated on Cain now and, as the speedster once saw at the Bar With No Doors, there's that element of 'come hither' to the sullen Bane-glow. "Villainous rant. Oliver would not…" His heart pangs. Hurt flickers through Ambrose's face; apparently yes, Oliver would now attempt villainous rants. Still, drawing up Victorian stoicism as a gauzy shield over the Bane's focus on Cain, he continues on, voice forced to calm. "I wonder at the lantern being his…anchor to this…this world."
Cain just /stares/ at Ambrose. "Are you saying we've come unstuck?" Again. One nice thing about being a paramedic, it does train one to deal with the unexpected. Chewing on his lower lip, Cain's eyes widen suddenly. "Or do you think…the /people/ were unstuck?" Which would REALLY suck.
"I…could find the ley line here…see if I can see anything between the realms mortal and faerie…but I'm not a mage, my powers are…speed, not sorcery."
Cain mutters very darkly indeed, and then looks to Ambrose. "Are you quite well? You look high as a kite, was snot monster that tasty?" UGh, now he want to gag again. "Be thankful you don't see as I do…" He shudders. "…be *very* thankful."
"Be thankful you do not see as I do," the Jackal replies in that even tone forced flatter than a sheet of paper. Cain still remains his singular point of attention as he breathes at a set rhythm, soothing the roil of the Bane just beneath his skin. Each tendril reached out towards Cain is swatted mentally back into the seething mass of starving curse beneath his skin.
Another scan of the Park still shows nothing out of ordinary to his own vision or senses. "We are as we are, Master Cain. We are not in another reality or realm, I do not think. You heard the lass. It is not long after two in the afternoon. Little time has passed."
He seems to then come to some conclusion that summons up the first inklings of nausea in the pinch of his lips. "…I doubt the people were unstuck. Did you note their presence after you rid Sergeant Wright of his lantern…?"
Cain looks off the way he took the innocents, and then looks to Ambrose. "Can you control your Other Half." He almost said 'Better', but that was too rude, especially when Ambrose seems to be trying so hard here. If he gets an affirmative, he'll zip to the man, and pick him up, and then *blip* they're on the other side of the park, where he dropped the people off.
Moving that fast? NOT a comfortable thing for most, too fast for their reaction times to be worth spit.
What they find there is probably going to be upsetting, isn't it?
Ambrose frowns in affront. Mostly affront. A little guilt. "Of course I can control it, how else would I manage to exist in this cityYYY — "
Zoom. The whole world blurs around him in the blink of an eye and then comes to a jarring halt.
" — YYYYYYYYYYYY — " The man only stops when he realizes that he can see straight again and immediately flails his way out of Cain's hold. Stumbling away, he gives the EMT a long, wide-eyed look, slowly breathing out, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck….!" as he does. His knees? They give out and he plops down onto his keister, hand to his brow. As he does so, it might be noticed that the immediate vicinity of where the people once stood is surprisingly devoid of proof of their existence but for wee pufts of black, like…
…candle ash?
Hunkering down by some of the ash, fingering it. "Like a candle…" He looks to the somewhat disgruntled Master Thief, and then blinks. "Oh, sorry. More warning if there's a next time, I promise. Also, good advice, when I run with you, closing your eyes is generally best."
And then he's right next to Ambrose. "So…I seem to recall Oliver having some guys with him when he visited last, and they all had candles, and when he vanished they did too…you don't suppose that /everyone/ here was one of his goons, do you?"
A sigh. "The alternative - I broke it so bad that all those people were sucked into some other reality."
Which makes him shiver, arms about his chest. "I think I prefer the former not the latter. Thoughts on the matter?" After all, Ollie is /his/ friend, or was.
A blink and Cain, once feet away, is now beside the man still seated on the concrete. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat in what could be agreement, but also potentially distress. Eyes are screwed tightly shut against what must be motion sickness.
"'s'entirely possible," Ambrose slurs with most of his poise still shaken and stirred. Regathering his speech faculties takes a second. "I did not hear anyone scream. They could have been acolytes to the ruddy fucking tosser." Temper flares like lurid light through a crackled shell and Cain won't miss the brush of the Bane towards him as control slips and then regained with a clutched mental fist.
"Oliver has gone mad," the Jackal breathes before he inhales sharply. The next sigh shudders out before he clears his throat, eyes still held closed. "He spreads his 'truths' and takes the unknowing with his bait. I asked you long ago of whether or not you knew of cults, Master Cain, and of followers like wolves." A hard swallow. "There was a reason for it."
Cain offers Ambrose a hand up, and then steps back when that and his distress and anger allows the Bane to make an overture — which is then immediately rebuffed. "They were just…/looking/, like they were devoid of will, creepy as fuck." Cain states - from a safe distance and then ads, with wry tones. "You sure he's not a bounder or a cad?"
His smile fades at the last bit, and he nods slowly. "I remember you asking." Softly spoken. "Perhaps…/maybe/, I misjudged your intentions." He looks quizzically though. "Do you /want/ to be rid of the curse?"
"I am gentleman enough to stop at 'tosser'," mumbles the master-thief. "And if the populace appeared to be patiently spellbound, there is a good chance they were acolytes awaiting a command. You did well moving them, Master Cain."
The EMT's question has the tic of Jackal-tongue circling his own canine tooth behind his pinched lips. "I do not wish to die, no." His voice is almost metallically-flat as he finally tries opening his eyes and squinting up at Cain. Behold, the faint carmine glitter of the Bane still patiently interested.
"I'm not." Cain mutters. "Not about this. That guy's dangerous."
A pause. "You are too, but you're…you ARE *trying* to do better." A sigh about the acolytes. "I think it turned out surprisingly well when I truncated his villain monologue that they went with. That…was a lot of potential badness, I moved twenty-three people, Ambrose."
He sighs at the reveal about it killing him if removed. "No recourse but to stay the course, mm?" A sigh, he meets that red stare but doesn't let himself get snared again, he learned that lesson, but the look he gives /the Bane/ is not friendly. A shift to look at Ambrose's eyebrows. "Come on, how about a cuppa?"
Flaring his hand off of his temple, Ambrose closes his eyes and swallows hard again. "Allow me…another minute, please, I do not trust my innards." As in: he will puke it moved again at the moment. Revealing this seems to be painful in itself; weakness before anyone but known allies and family is something anathema to the master-thief. Shifting in place, he slowly stretches out one booted foot and leaves the other boot tucked under his knee, back hunched an amount.
"I will need to report those twenty-three…" comes the groan. "And his attempt. Bloody god, he almost had me that time." Rubbing a hand down his face, he then peers up at Cain. "You offer me tea, sirrah. Forgive my suspicions, but why? Why in the face of all you have observed would you invite myself into your home?"
"Of course. Sorry, didn't know you were so motion sensitive, good thing that wasn't through a ley-line, I can hit around mach sixish in a strong ley line. Only about two-thirds of mach normally." ONLY about five HUNDRED miles an hour? Sheesh. How does he even SEE, let alone react at those speeds?
Cain waits, patiently, and then sighs. "Sorry man, I didn't get more than cursory glances, but…I can probably sketch them with a fair degree of accuracy if that would be of use." A cant headed look. "Report to…who? And why? You risked yourself, a lot, for me. You didn't have to. You broke cover, and fell into what was clearly a trap *aimed at you*. YOU aren't the villain, you have issues, and I'm not sure I can trust you, but I /think/ I can trust you don't mean me any harm, the curse…not so much, but YOU."
"Yes…never trust the curse." His agreement comes with an exhausted undertone of sighing acceptance of this state of reality. Sinuously, the very magical influence in question curls around beneath his skin, tongue flickering yet at Cain. Ambrose looks away deliberately. "I would not harm you, no. You are an innocent in this. My trials are mine own as I can manage, but this is an issue spilling over as an un-watched pot. Never mind whom I must report to — trust me that should they require your presence, they will find you and you will be summoned. They will polite about it…depending on who has eaten," he mutters, still taking a moment to rub at one temple.
Like a newborn fawn finding its legs, carefully, the man makes his way to his feet. Balance sways and so does he, but only brief. A hand palm-out towards Cain prompt him to NOT intervene. "I am fine," he breathes before straightening his back completely. "Now then." A swallow and he attempts to give Cain a more jaunty composed look complete with smirk. It…mostly works, given he still appears more than a little tweaked out on the other-dimensional creature's life-force. "Have you a ginger tea, perhaps?"
A sneer. "Are you *serious*? Did you want green, black, oolong or rooibos?" Yes, apparently Cain /does/ like him some teas, thank you very much.