Summary:Tigra, ever light of foot, finds Ambrose in the Green-Wood Cemetery checking on the state of life and death there. No one scales a tree this time — a crypt instead. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Green-Wood Cemetery is generally a quiet place. Over half a million bodies interred around and, thankfully, they're all still where they should be — for the moment. This is why a certain master-thief is sedately walking the path leading towards a collection of mausoleums. The sun is out, but the shadows of the trees are still cool this early in the morning; he wears a light field jacket overtop a cotton long-sleeved shirt as it stands, fatigue-like pants tucked into worn combat boots.
The last time Tigra saw this particular demi-immortal, his hair was dark. Now, through a brutal blow against him by an enemy costing him much of his own life-force, his hair is moon-silver pale, the hue taken on by someone of northern descent. Even the light layering of scruff shines silvery.
His pupils also contain an undying red light, not too unlike the glance of a coyote crossing the road before dawn — another byproduct of the damage done. Ambrose hasn't changed otherwise, his mannerisms full of lazy caution and eyes sweeping the grounds.
Some cultures have seen cats as being guardians of the underworld, or of the dead. that may or may not be true, but Tigra doesn't feel particularly creeped out by cemetaries, perhaps for this reason. She wears, well, almost nothing, as usual. But it's not like any actual skin is exposed, so there's a little nod towards propriety and respect for the dead. It's a relaxing place for a stroll, and an interesting trip through history, and she's trying to cast her net wide for strange events.
Rather than a strange event, she finds a strange gentleman, spotting him a little ways away as she steps past a monument. The wind's brought a touch of her scent, and she's briefly puzzled by recognizing the scent, but not his appearance. tail flicking lightly in curiosity, she makes her way closer, play-stalking him and trying to stay out of sight as she closes the gap, moving as quietly as a cat. Finally she's up walking with him, as if they were both out for a stroll. She says nothing, waiting for his reaction as she admires the surroundings.
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 2
Light as cat feet can be, small or large, Tigra manages an easy approach on the gentleman-thief. With his hands squirreled away into the pockets of his coat, his mind must be only half-present. It's like as not the Bane itself, his ancient curse (and century-old psyche-buddy), which alerts him to the presence of the tigress.
A glance over after a microtell of stiffening and Ambrose literally — clears — the ground.
Bane-boosted legs launch him easily ten feet diagonally away from her in a twist of spine preternaturally graceful and he ends up scrambling up onto the roof of a nearby crypt with the fervor of a startled squirrel. "BLOODY FUCK!" comes the muffled shout even as he pokes his head back into view. "YOU — oh, fuck me, it is you." Memory manages to work in the midst of the adrenaline rush and Ambrose blows a hard sigh, squinting down at her. "Miss Tigra, yes?"
The sudden leap does cause her to tense and twitch her tail, but only a bit. She was expecting a reaction, after all, just not exactly one that…vigorous. "Heya good looking. Hi there, pretty kitty. That's the sort of greeting I'm used to getting, but 'Bloody fuck,' that's a new oen for me," she says with a grin as she steps closer to his crypt. "Tigra, that's me, guilty as charged. I remember you. Ambrose, right? You've changed your look, but not your scent," she notes.
His palm smooshes over his face and back through his hair as Tigra approaches the crypt. Another long squint and from on high, the Jackal continues squinting at her. There is, to be noted, the faintest rueful smirk on his lips now.
"Yes, Ambrose, good morn." His British accent is crisp as always. "It was an unexpected and unappreciated event, this change of appearance, but I suppose now I am, as you Americans like to say, a silver fox." His smirk deepens to flash teeth for a second. "Though I ask pardon for my language, you surprised well and good."
He does, however, take a moment to pluck his jacket up to his nose as well as his shirt. "I did shower last night," he mutters, frowning. Surely this can be sussed out as well as notes of his cologne — grey vetiver, mint, a faint undertone of metal, warm cardamom and golden sandalwood.
"Well, there certainly are worse changes of appearances one could go through," Tigra points out, knowing from personal experience. She grins a bit at the silver fox comment. She offers a graceful bow in acceptance of his apology for language, and then chuckles softly as he sniffs at his jacket. "Could've showered five minutes ago, and I'd still recognize your scent," she says, tapping the side of her nose. "It's a body chemistry thing. Everyone's a little different, and there's ways to influence it, like putting on a different shirt, but for someone like me, you're still recognizable."
"Ah. I suppose that is sensible. If I am ever lost, I suppose you might find me then," says the Jackal with a bigger smirk. "Though if you are ever involved in such a thing, there is truly something wrong in my state of existence. I mean no insult in this," he adds as he moves to crouch rather than lie flat on the crypt's top as a marksman might. In a quiet shifting of fabric, he drops down to land very nearly noiselessly on the grass and straightens, self-confidence and knowledge of poise in every line of his body.
"But what brings you here, Miss Tigra, of all places? Surely you as an Avenger have some greater affair to address…?" Oh yes, Ambrose asks this with a coy curiosity, as if the very question itself was dangerous — a known thief daring to interact with such a paragon of virtue.
the casual grace and skill that he performs with are not unnoticed by Tigra, nor unappreciated. A small smirk from her at the coyness. "Well there's big things to Avenger, and little things to Avenge, and there's always the hope of stopping something before it has to be Avengered. Prevenged, you might say." The smirk gradually fades towards some more serious, but not before she quips, "But what's wrong with just talking a walk through a scenic cemetary?" she counters. "I mean, it's not like there's disreputable characters to watch out for." And now the smirk's gone as she continues, "In truth, I suppose I'm looking for the unusual. Have you seen the news lately? Minotaurs and dark elves committing robberies and then vanishing. I don't expect any to appear here, but there's always a chance of seeing something useful in unexpected places, and since I'd already determined under my couch was perfectly safe, this seemed a reasonable place to look."
Ambrose twists his lips as if trying not to snort-laugh. Prevenged, indeed. His pale brows lift almost innocently at the idea of disreputable characters about, though he just as quickly looks around at the comment, adrenaline still bringing his heart rate to above an average pace.
Tigra's question brings him to give her a considering reply, its cadence deliberate as he holds her gaze. "Your news is not new, though you mention Elves and it brings me to wonder if you have seen as I have seen. I am present here to be certain that the dead remain as such." Another scan of the cemetery is required, nervy as he is. "Not that I could do much about it if I were to come across a bevy of the undead bastards, but I could at least sound the alarm." Back to Tigra, he looks. "Do you, perchance, speak of the Hunt?"
Emphasis on the word capitalizes it and it's spoken more softly, as if to risk summoning it otherwise.
An idle rolling of her shoulders, then rolling of her head about to stretch her neck, as Tigra indulges in, well, being a cat. At the talk of the dead rising, she can't help but take a look around. Nope, no dead people visible above ground at the moment. Oh, wait, what abou—oh, no. Statue of a politician. Brain dead, not actual dead. "Is that something that happens frequently, in your experience?" she asks about the dead rising. She considers his question for a moment. "Do you mean the Wild Hunt? because if you do, I don't know. I've helped out with some of the incursions but I'm not involved in the investigating. That said, we did fight firbolg on one occassion, so an unseelie connection's hardly a stretch."
"Oh bloody hell. Yes, this is undoubtedly Unseelie." Ambrose lifts one corner of his lips in a controlled snarl, flashing a canine tooth a hair too sharp as his nose wrinkles. Just as quickly, he slips back into Normal Human Facade.
"If this is the case, I counsel you to be very wary, Miss Tigra. Even if this has no connections to the Hunt, the Fae are uncanny sons of curs. I once encountered the Hunt when I was younger and hallowed ground is all that spared my hide. They are virulently persistent if their prey evades them. Perhaps think of arming yourself with a weapon involving cold iron," he suggests.
"I'll have to talk to the people who are actually in charge of the investigation, see what they know and if they're aware of that risk or not. Considering who they are, I suspect they are, but cant' hurt to be sure." She grins wryly, without much humor. "It's not often that I need something mroe than just my fists and claws, but I know with these…people, the rules are different. I'll see what I can find." Cold iron press on fingernails? Nah.
Ambrose nods, his Bane-bright eyes still rested upon the tigress. "It is a wisdom, I assure you…though, I profess, now I am curious." A subtle tilt of his head is almost canid and meant to be unconsciously charming alongside the faint, almost secretive smile. "Who is in charge of this investigation? I have many connections, you see, amongst the lesser-known and magically-inclined within the city. It comes with the territory," he says with a shrug of one shoulder.
Conversation at a distance briefly rises and falls, making the master-thief quickly look over, stance gone readied — but it's just a pair of joggers taking advantage of the quiet of the cemetery. Back to Tigra, his attention returns.
The tilt of the head is noticed, and the question draws a raised eyebrow from the tigresses. She starts to answer, but then the joggers are noticed and she looks their way as well, before turning back to Ambrose. "I don't want to talk out of school," she says. "Ultimately, it's a WAND operation. As far as who's in charge, I dont' know if that's something I should share or not," she says with at least an attempt to look apologetic. Well, more like the thought she ought to try to look apologetic.
Drawn-out, his thoughtful hum: "Mmm…hmm." Ambrose does flick his brows, his smile deepening. "Ah, well, I cannot know everything, it appears…though WAND, yes, I am aware of them. They like to meddle," he notes more dryly, his smile fading a touch.
Spoken like someone who disapproves of those meddling agents!
"Regardless, I would presume they have some knowledge and wisdom of the Fae. Elsewise, they would not exist themselves — the Fae would make certain of it. You are also certain you have seen nothing of note here, in this cemetery?" Lifting a hand from one pocket, he circles a finger to indicate their surroundings.
A soft, throaty chuckle from Tigra. "Meddlers. What pests, right?" she asks with a toothy grin. A look around the cemetary again as she grows mroe focused. She takes her time to look around, turning slowly. "Other than you and I, I've only seen the joggers here. If there's anything out of place, I'ma fraid I've missed it." If only Obvious Clues had detectable scents.
"I doubt you missed a thing, what with the acuity of your senses." Again, Ambrose glances around the place, now only hearing the muffled hubbub of the city and a bird high in one of the trees. "My own senses tell me of nothing, which is a grand thing. It means I might enjoy my walk without issue of the undead."
Tigra is then given a respectful nod of head and a gleaming, dimpled grin — yes, it's a deliberate move to further build positive associations. Please, Avenger, think kindly of the master-thief, don't worry one little bit about what he's been up to lately. "I am unfortunately on a schedule and must make quick this walk-about. It was good to see you again, Miss Tigra. Be well until I see you again…and remember: cold iron."