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*
The order was given: leave the balcony doors open, heedless of the weather, and don't touch the knife. Don't move it, don't dust it, don't clean it — nothing. Consequences for those who disobey. The staff is perplexed, but obey the master of the house. Four days later, the maid discovers the knife completely gone. There are no traces of any other items stolen or moved throughout the room. Again, the rumor spreads anew that Ying Ko is trafficking with the otherworldy. If only they knew.
Four days turns into four weeks. It wasn't boring for the first one or two weeks. Excess nervous energy has to channeled somehow. Antiques have gone conveniently missing, either during transit or from guarded collections. One opium den-lord is found wandering about after a few days of desperate hunting by subordinates, gibbering as if taken by madness. Another king of a prostitution lilong is left to hang by his ankles upside-down from a flagpole in his night-gown after being caught hitting one of his flock — flagrante delicto indeed.
Week three, the activity seems to die down. The crime-lords know that Ying Ko is out of town — maybe this was some long-term shenanigans set up in his absence, to keep cages rattled?
Week four, it starts up again. The only pattern is that those with connections to the black market artifact trade are hit repeatedly in mysterious, hobbling ways. Hitmen go missing after being sent after a fleeting figure. The police raid a stash and conveniently leave with criminals in cuffs and goods left behind. The whispers spread like wildfire. Something's skulking about the underworld and preying on the unsuspecting.
The skulker, tonight, is taking a break. He's munching on an apple and watching the crowd flow by below. It's but a rumor that Ying Ko has returned. Ambrose is tucked beneath the eaves of a stylized pagoda rooftop, his line of sight an open view of one of the favored restaurants. He's patient. He doesn't need to sleep. He'll watch all night to see if his next target shows. If not, eh — another location to stake out on the 'morrow.
*
There he is, indeed. REturned from whatever pilgrimage had him gone, dressed in his usual impeccable linen and a new hat. Come to meet with some of his lieutenants - he does seem to believe in treating his subordinates well. He's got fingers in many pies, if no longer antiquities: drugs, guns, women, and a good deal of gambling. It's a classy place, this, if quiet and less overtly glamourous than many of the clubs others favor.
*
Ambrose allows himself a faint smooth chuckle from his perch on high after he comes to animation and sits up to attention. Yep, that's the man. He gauges the way Ying Ko walks, specifically watching the motion about the torso. Hmph — looks fine to him, though he's no holder of any doctorate.
He has not the fashion to walk into the place without being under immediate suspicion and likely frog-marched out. The young man sighs and frowns. The apple rises and falls in the shade of the overhang; the faintest gleam from its skin might be seen to the exceptionally perceptive. Ah-hah. Another man's left the the restaurant and he's definitely deep in his cups. An easy mark. In graceful silence, the brunet in his khaki fatigues drops down behind him and quick as a cat, has a hand on the man's bare arm.
"I Suggest you come with me, sir. I mean you no harm," he says, grinning widely and charming. It's the truth and reflected in the Suggestion itself. He won't harm the guy. He just wants to borrow his fancy clothes. For…a…while. Maybe return them. Maybe.
Thus, in about five minutes time, Ambrose strolls into the restaurant in linens on par with those worn by Mr. Black. The color doesn't precisely suit him and the pants are a little short, but hey, who cares. He's not swapped out from the combat boots. He lingers in plain view of the tables by the door, explaining to the staff that he's waiting for a friend, thank you for asking. He can't help the little expectant smile. Surprise, Ying Ko.
*
Kent's holding court at a corner table in the back, discussing things with three men in suits. One of whom is obviously rather thuggish, one of whom has the look of a ferret turned into a human, and one is a very grave and dignified older man, with silver hair swept back from his brow. Kent's deep in discussion with the second….only to pause and go still when he spots Ambrose. The gaze of the other three follows his, openly curious. Kent doesn't greet him, however. Merely waits to see if he approaches.
*
Upon realizing that he's been noticed, Ambrose affects a level of dramatics. He looks to each side of himself, behind him, and then back at Kent. Eyebrows rise as if he's asking whether or not he is the object of curiosity. At this distance, it's difficult to see the level of contained laughter, but do assume that he's enjoying it in a sharp way.
Oh…but hey now. That thuggish individual. Ooh…he's been seen before — he's the one who sent the hitmen after Ambrose about five days back, when the fog and Bane-fueled bravado left them all vanished in the thick ocean-side fog of early morning. The cerulean-blue eyes narrow and now the smile is toothy before it smooths to a mask of professionalism. He approaches the table, pausing to let a waiter pass, and stops short of it, hands in the pockets of his light jacket. He sketches a short bow towards Kent in particular and greets him in unpracticed Shanghainese: "«"Ying Ko. I heard you had returned. My greetings.»"
*
"Atherton," Kent's voice is utterly neutral. "All these gentlemen speak English, I imagine we'd be more comfortable in that tongue." He doesn't provide introductions. "What do you want?"
*
"Ah, the mother-tongue. Much easier," Ambrose admits with no compunction. He's got an ear for the linguistics of the Fertile Crescent, but many aspects of the Far East escape him. "To see how you were faring. I heard you went on a quest of sorts. Very Arthurian of you. Did you find what you were searching for?" He's not being particularly cat's-paw about the wording, but there is the undertone of insinuation. Back and forth, from pad of foot to heel, he rolls, keeping his muscles loose. Never know when you might need to suddenly react.
*
He cants his head, as the other three look between them curiously. That tennis-match head-swivel. "I'm fine, thank you," he says, tone apparently careless. "Now, I'm rather busy at the moment. If you want to discuss things, I'll be at leisure later this evening." The bigger of the three is clearly looking at Kent in search of a prompt for violence.
*
"Ah, very good. What time should I drop in?" Literally. The pun is absolutely present and, again, no shame in delivery. Ambrose's gaze slides to the bruiser in his proportionally-fitted suit and can't help the slow, sly curl at the corner of his mouth. Come on, you gorilla, let's dance. Nothing like an opportunity to showcase precisely why no one can see to catch the skulking demon plaguing the black market. His eyes then slide back to Kent and the devil-come-hither smile doesn't fade an iota.
*
Lamont checks his watch, casually. "Let's say two-thirty AM," he says, before glancing back. No attempt to figure out where - he knows where Ambrose will show. At least, that's where he intends to be. The big Cro-Magnon has the look of a pit bull who's not really angry in his own right, but is perfectly prepared to go fuck things up on his owner's command.
*
"Two-thirty in the morning it is. I'll take tea in the interim," says the young man who has no idea of what a circadian rhythm comprises anymore. A nod to Kent across the distance of space and white-clothed table…and then he glances to the bruiser.
"Nice suit," he comments lightly. "I didn't know they came in that size. You must have put the clothier out of business for a week." He even dares a congenial pat-pat on the man's shoulder, knowing that he's likely kept on a tight leash. Neener-neener. Another half-grin and Ambrose turns to walk away, looking rather pleased with himself.
*
"Nah. Local circus had to give up its tent. That's why they call me Big Top," The big guy flashes a grin at that. Not even particularly threatening - it's good natured, if anything. Kent can't help but smirk, faintly, just a quirk of his lips. He offers no farewell, merely an inclination of his head.
*
"Nice to meet you, Big Top. I'll shake your hand next we meet." His gaze slides to Kent briefly and the smile is much darker yet, full of portent. After all, they are, in essence, potentially still dagger to dagger. Having nothing else to add and nothing to gain from starting a brawl in this fine establishment, Ambrose ambles his way out of the place. Off into one of the side-alleys he goes and, about five minutes later, appears again only to shimmy up a drain-pipe and to the rooftops once more. The guest awakens from his drunken stupor in a leaned sit against a rain-barrel, his clothing neatly folded in his lap, having no memory of passed time. Geez. That sake must have been strong.
The hours pass. The sun disappears beyond the continent itself and night falls. It's warm again this evening, given the summer season, and the rain has ceased to patter for the next day, it seems. He sticks the landing on the rooftop and, in a pique of whimsy, decides to next aim for the railing of the balcony itself. A quick descent from on high and balanced crouch and there he is, in his khaki pants, a white undershirt (this one not sporting any holes or blood, thank you very much), and his black headscarf about his face. At his hips, both service revolvers and in its sheath, the trench knife. He waits there almost as an owl to see if there's any movement from within the bedroom itself.
*
There's that dim lamplight spilling on to the balcony. Kent himself is at his desk, looking over a ledger. There's a lamp on the desk, a bit brighter than the usual spirit lamp. He's sober and wakeful, clad only in dress pants and the white shirt. No tie or jacket, the collar open. At the table that sits closest to the balcony door, clearly a breakfast table, there's a tray with a pitcher of what looks to be ice water and a pair of glasses.
*
Rising to his full height, Ambrose then meanders into the place like he owns it. Feed the strays and they'll just waltz into your house with no shame. Tsk, Kent. He pauses at the small table and looks up from the water to the man at his desk.
"I hope you're not too attached to those men," he says quietly. "I intend to remove them all from play within the month."
*
His lips thin out at that, displeased. "Why?" he asks, quietly. "What for? If you're trying for me, Ambrose, come at me directly and have done. Or are you some one man campaign to clean up Shanghai's underworld?" The idea just seem to bemuse him.
*
The brunet merely smiles back at Kent as mildly as he can manage after pulling aside the bottom half of his headscarf. "It takes but one misstep to bring down a dune upon an unsuspecting platoon, Mr. Black," says he with the nuance of the sage. "I don't need to stage anything exceptionally monumental — merely pull the right joints and the houses will topple. You've removed yourself from the majority of my intentions, have no fear. Your lieutenants…" And he shrugs as if to remind the crime-lord of the inability to trust anyone in the end.
His eyes travel up and down what he can see of Kent holding council behind his desk. "You seem no worse for the wear. Found your Holy Grail then…?"
*
"No," he says, quietly. "I established that I am not the bearer of that curse myself, now. I'd rather thought you might've been trying to pass it on to me. Or just spread it. You are a vampire of sorts, and vampires tend to multiply, in my experience. Leave them be, please. Good help is hard to find….and if you're not after me specifically, for the love of Christ, go bother someone else. The Russians or the Green Jade Brotherhood or even the Romanians," Stifling irritation, trying to maintain that facade of calm. "If you're not trying to drive me from here or cause my death, then don't start undercutting me. Power's a precarious balance, and the rest of the wolves won't hesitate to turn on me if they think they can chip away at me."
*
Ambrose listens, his eyes roving over the contents of the desk as he does. At one point, the smile deepens until the lamp-light thrown appears to give him faint dimples.
"You are aware that you don't have to continue on in this line of business…?" He reaches for the pitcher and presumes to pour himself a glass of water. The ice-chunks present in it make quiet muffled clinks as they pour. "Nothing keeps you from collecting your earnings and leaving it entirely. I doubt you have as deep of an investment in it as I do…" He sets aside the pitcher and takes a small sip of water even as he wanders further into the room. His pace is smooth, motions controlled, and there's no forewarning prickle of the Bane about him. Still, there's a readiness, as if he's got half a mind to throw the glass and retreat at the first sign of danger.
*
He closes the ledger, gently. It's bound in worn black leather. "You don't know," he says, and his voice is soft. "Why me?" The gray eyes are lambent in the lamplight. "What are you trying to accomplish?"
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 11
*
Now the smile comes to full bloom. His eyes fall from Kent and he wanders away a few steps, sipping at the water. Mmm, cool and clean, a moderate rarity around here and offered to few.
"There's a saying. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. We aren't friends — " and he pauses in his pacing to give Kent a significant look, complete with furrowed brows of warning — "but I do believe we may be the latter. Plus…" He can be seen to close his mouth after a second and then scratch idly along his jaw, as if the scruff is itchy.
"Whether you know it or not, you've offered something I feel inclined to pursue. It's not as if I could forget that you've done so, after all…it took four bottles of sake to blind me to it." Hey, Kent has his opium, Ambrose has his wine.
*
"It is not something you will have for long, if you persist in this course," Offered in that iron calm, but there're those subtle signs of strain in the tightness of the skin around his eyes, the furrow knitting into his brow. "Are you trying to isolate me, bring me down? I don't understand what you want from me, now. I can do my best to try and help you strengthen your will, control this curse. But I can't do it if I'm taken out by my competitors…." He licks his lips. "They didn't scruple to murder the woman who would've been the mother of my son. They won't hesitate to kill me, if they think they can." Now there's that steely glint in his gaze. "And I won't flee Shanghai. I swore I'd rule here, and I've already paid in blood to win what I have." He smiles, finally, but there's something ghastly in it, a baring of teeth like an animal. "Better to reign in hell…"
*
"…than to serve in heaven," Ambrose finishes, his voice gone subdued. His expression takes on a hangdog cast in passing as pity flashes through it. He schools himself well enough where he stands and sighs. "For a woman. It's always for a woman," and he risks a small if pained laugh. A shake of his head and he then continues.
"Lay out your terms then, Mister Black. I'll risk your betrayal for such a bolstering, since you now understand the nature of the power I control." He sounds so blase. Inside, he's a-tremble. It leaks into the glint of fervor found in his eyes that rest upon Kent.
*
More than he expected, that's clear. Somewhat mollified. "Cherchez la femme," he agrees, that icy anger hooded again, like a hawk's gaze. "Leave my men and my businesses be. If you feel the urge to play Robin Hood and meddle in the underworld, I can give you a list of those I'd be delighted to see troubled. Though if you stir up too much of a hornet's nest, the turmoil may take up more of my attention than you like. The more energy I have to devote to your help, the better off we will both be." He rises to get himself a glass of water, drinks deeply before continuing. "I will assisst in research, if you wish. Search for lore. God knows China is a well of occult knowledge, almost entirely untapped by Westerners. Someone will know something. And as we search, I will do my best to help you learn and keep control." He settles back in the chair at the desk, but it's turned to face Ambrose, and he gestures absentmindedly at the other chair by the little table. "Another thing we might seek is an item to help you keep it under control. An artifact or relic that, if not a cure, might be a palliative."
*
Ambrose takes a nonchalant step back as the other man leaves his desk. Lamp-light glints from the water in his glass and he remains still while Kent is nearby, as if too much movement might attract attention and a strike. A glance to the spare chair after his host is seated once more and while he looks between it and Kent in bald suspicion, his reaction is brazenly counter: he takes up the chair and walks over to plant it back facing the the desk itself, right alongside it. He sits with legs spread, all the better to rest one arm across the top line of the chair and to continue sipping at the water.
"I've come across no antique…relic, artifact, whatever you may call them, that has had any affect on the curse," he reports evenly. "If you've the books, by all means — read until your eyes cross. I can tell you that the text you seek may not exist anymore. The tombs surrounding Basra are several thousand years old." Ambrose has yet to discover that magic protects itself, including those rare tomes that live beyond normal lifespans. "Still, Robin Hood? You flatter me." Another crooked grin flickers. "I can't predict where the dominoes fall. I can only tip them." He lifts the fingers laid across the back of the chair in a little, barely-apologetic shrug.
*
Lamont gives him that dry look, inadvertantly school-masterish. "You haven't delved into Chinese lore. This is the oldest continuous society in humanity's history. And it can't hurt us to try. But….you can control it. That we can definitely achieve. And even if we can't find something that acts directly to counter it, we can very definitely find something to bolster your will."
Deliberately, lest it be the kind of sudden motion that provokes, he lifts his beringed hand, displaying the dark gem with its glints of scarlet and purple and orange fire. "You've already found one. There must be more."
AT that last, he pulls a face. "Then I urge you to restrain yourself. Chaos in the underworld is at cross purposes to what you seem to want."
*
That dry look is almost countered with an eye roll. Almost. The slow and unimpressed rise of brows must stand in. He sips at his water before setting the glass aside on the desk. He's relaxed enough to re-settle himself in the chair, at least until he sees the motion of the hand sporting the dark-fire gemstone.
Ambrose freezes up, deliberately pulling his eyes from it and sliding it elsewhere, so that only his peripheral vision marks where it exists. Like a sullen dog recognizing the crop, he works his jaw back and forth and replies lowly, "Chaos has its uses. It resets the board. Can't you put that away?!" He asks in sudden upsweep, his own pride rankling. His gaze slides and he gives Kent his best side-glare, face still averted to some degree.
*
"Of course," Kent replies, mildly, and he draws his hand back to his lap, out of sight beneath the desk. "It does. But not now. Don't stir things up merely to cause trouble, please. As I said, I can advise you on where to strike, if you absolutely must. The better to give us both breathing room - for I don't want the board reset. I'm well into my game, to continue that metaphor."
*
"It'd be a shame to set your pieces to shambles," the young man retorts tartly. He's not entirely kind in his agreement, still inclined to sulk to some degree. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with my time while you decide what prey to set me to stoop?"
Ambrose turns his face fully back towards Kent now, its cast almost mutinous. "I refuse to take orders, I'll have you know that now. You may advise, fine. I may find your counsel of interest. But you are not my captain. No one's giving me orders," he repeats firmly.
*
"I have no idea," Kent says, with some asperity, brows canted. "I don't know what you do to keep body and soul together. I'm not trying to give you orders. I am making suggestions and requests. I've said I'll help you, if it can be done. I'm asking that you not tip what I've built into chaos, is all. *Asking*." He rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand, closes his eyes. "What makes you think that returning artifacts will break this curse?"
*
"And I'm telling you that you may advise me, Black. If it in my favor to let sleeping dogs lie until further notice, then so be it." He falls into silence and his eyes rove away again. They comb over the room and find it as spartan as last he saw it, when he dropped in to fetch the knife shined to winking cleanliness.
"It makes sense," he offers up, gone subdued once more. "Take the item, get cursed. Return the item, it should be removed from you. Tit-for-tat. Why waste ammunition when the power could be given back and the trap reset for the next idiot who tries it?"
*
The bed is that elaborate, cavelike monstrosity - there are painted panels within it, depicting scenes of nature meant to ensure marital harmony. Even the 'windows' of translucent silk are painted. But the rest of the room is plain - a dresser of dark lacquer, the desk, bookshelves on one wall crammed with an assortment of books in many languages. But very little decoration, in and of itself. Little personal clutter, beyond the books. The stains are gone, the dark wood of the floor glossy and shining.
Indeed, Kent himself dresses plainly, save for that one jewel. He nods somberly at that reply, lets out a breath. "Now. What else may I do for you tonight?"
*
Ambrose pulls his mouth to one side and looks up from the desk to Kent's face. He almost appears the chastised student across from the other man as his chain remains tucked.
"…show me again how it works? With muting the curse? I understand if you refuse. My actions were…not honorable last we encountered one another. I acknowledge this." He doesn't like to say it, but it's leaving his lips regardless.
*
Honor, honor, honor. Chirp chirp chirp. Like a canary in a cage. "It will not make you sick?" There's that note in his voice that almost passes for gentleness. The closest thing he can manage.
But already he's getting up, moving his chair from behind the desk so he'll be sitting by Ambrose, without the furniture between them. "You took my life and you gave it back, and I don't pretend to understand it." There's that air of resignation. He doesn't seem angry or even particularly pained by the memory. As if it were something that'd happened to someone else.
*
"I won't get sick. Last time…" He falls silent. His eyes slide away. "I don't pretend to understand either." If anything, he deliberately echoes the other man because the mental stance is similar. He reacted by disappearing into the bottle while Kent retreated into an opiate haze.
"I presumed you wanted your life back. Was I wrong?" Ambrose asks this almost flippantly as cover for his own insecurity after he scoots his own chair away about half a foot from the approach. He's still the street-savvy and leery roof-runner in the end, very ready to dart away at any second.
*
The look he gets is disbelieving. But Kent apparently decides not to press the issue. "No," he says, on a sigh. Then he holds out his hand, the one not wearing the ring. To be taken, when Ambrose feels up to it.
*
"Good." Ridiculous, is implied by the undertones of Ambrose's short reply. He looks at the hand like a child would a spoonful of bitter medicine, knowing full well that there's no harm intended, and finally sniffs. He reaches out his own hand and rests it palm-to-palm with Kent's hand.
The Bane immediately begins tickling at the other man's skin. Squinting, the young man attempts to pull it back and away from his own limb. It's like peeling back gum from one's sole, sticky and resistant and far too inclined to begin to numb the Shadow's fingertips to begin.
*
It feels so very strange, because it's already intimacy, of a sort. Feeling that touch, mind to mind - Kent having to restrain himself. It's not an attack, not raw force or precision damage. But that sensation of insinuating strength and support in, like a soldier carrying his wounded comrade by the expedient of draping an arm over his shoulder.
Delicate, even, but still unnerving, for it's closer than lying skin to skin, in its way. Let me help comes that whisper. Lean on me.
*
Instead of going bolt-still like he did the first time, or barely avoiding the pull-back as if burned, Ambrose closes his hand carefully. His outer fingers wrap while the pointer and middle align along the length of Kent's wrist, atop his pulse.
With eyes heavily lidded and gone distant as he tries to figure out precisely what is being done, the responses from his end of the link are jumbled like bags of rocks, as muddled as those thrown back by the apprentices of the Arts. Fear is present, held in tenuous check by the quivering elation — skin touching skin without damage being done. Again, the upwelling of purer and stronger emotions yet. Self-castigation is caustic, resentment is bitter, and through it, the whisper pale ribbon of hope for something…good to happen — something genuinely good, for the first time in a very long time.
I don't — lean? Blips of cognizant communication pop. Lean. How — can't lean, the mind, not physical — lean on hand? It's more his thought stream crossing in and out. The pressure increases faintly on Kent's hand.
*
How to show this one what he means. It comes as sensation, almost the physical pressure of support. As if they were leaning back to back, keeping each other upright. Breathe he says. Slow your breath. Concentrate on that. Listen to it. That's the touchstone. Focus on it. Center on it
There's that sense of calm, cool darkness, like a lake at night, with only the faintest hint of that smokey bittersweetness. All of his own turmoil is held carefully away, compartmented like caged beasts.
*
Ambrose knows what his eyes can see: the lamp-light gilding the lines of digits and roundings of knuckles — the crisp white of fine linen atop the gloss of the desk — the physical form of the man sitting not behind him, but beside him — and yet, his senses tell him that the phantom press of spine against his own is present. He straightens in his seat slowly almost to test what his mind is telling him. It scatters his thoughts like dandelion pufflets to the wind and breaks concentration.
Breathing does not equal leaning, what — Hermetic nonsense — feel on back though — trying. From dismissive disbelief to consideration to concentration, he flows like a fingerling through the swift shallows of a stream. The Bane has fully retreated from nibbling at the other man's fingertips at this point almost as if soothed into resting at its host's feet. Ambrose fully closes off the view of the room around him and breathes only through his nose. In…and out. In…and out. Cooler, the air rushing into him, warmer, the air leaving. The room around him retreats.
Like as not, Kent can tell when the razzle-dazzle of a mind so very trained to jump into adrenaline-fueled cogitation begins to slow. //Breathing — it's at rest — // He means the Bane; there's some attempt of his mind to conceptualize it, but it's unclear and full of bits and pieces plucked from abstraction. He's metaphorically stepped into that cool pool up to his ankles, his wavering outline cast against the faint reflection of stars.
*
He can feel Kent's pulse beneath his fingers, slow and calm. Concentrate on your breath. Feel what you feel. Support, that the body keeps trying to translate into physical sensation. I feel it. Rest. Imagine it as a weight you can put down. Remarkably contained, this one. Used to having control of his thoughts - they're ordered, precise. But then, he's used to a psychic's etiquette.
*
The rhythm at the whorls of his fingertips is something he has half of his attention on, seeing as it is foreign and yet known on an instinctive level on par with a newborn. The other half is devoted to the meditative attention to his own breathing pattern. It's slowed noticeably and yet lacks the deepness that precedes sleep itself. Stress at the corners of Ambrose's eyes and mouth lessens and nearly disappears as the seconds flow onwards in a continuous stream.
Put down? — can't put an idea down — curse an idea? Think like guru — shove? His brows begin to knit above his closed eyes and along the mental link, a moth-wing's frisson of stress appears again.
*
Feel The voice is toneless. There's that release of pressure, of Kent's strength flowing along the link. You know how it feels to control it. Think about it. Don't try to force it. You know how. Just like you know how to walk and stand and breathe.
*
Uncertainty spreads into the faint vibration of worry like a leaking pipe would slowly flood. Along the link comes the sense of a query — like this? — and then…flashes of brilliant imagery, stuttered like a skipping movie reel. A falcon on a wrist, hooded and jessed — a gloved hand rubbing knuckles down the natural flow of breast-feathers — the bird itself distorts like a painting in the rain, overlays in red, glows and melts — the hand continues to pet; beneath it all, the musical and nonsensical shushing that a handler might do. The bird regathers itself and stops its fussing.
As it does, Ambrose can feel his skeleton, in totality, seem to receive a coating. Like blood pulling from the face, the Bane retreats inwards, to the marrow and deeper still, until his skin is missing the well-known sub-dermal tingling of attentive apprehension. Just skin now. He inhales harder once…and harder yet as another tidal crest of emotion swamps the link — terrified relief.
*
There's the sense of a smile at that imagery - something that might almost be kindness. A little bemusement at the back of it - to start teaching now, to such a pupil, when he's relatively young and untutored himself, as warlocks go. That's one way to think of it. If that's how it feels to you. And then as emotion starts to ramp up, that offering of calm. As if relief and terror were waves…..but too small to swamp the vast, smooth expanse of sand. No drowning. No loss. Let it be. Keep breathing. Don't fight yourself And there's a clear image in return - the hawk bating off the fist, dangling and flapping from the jesses.
*
Turns out that the two men share an upper-crust Englishman's hobby, or did, at one time their past. The Jackal drew from fond memories of free time in Basra, both before and after his time in the Army. Ah, but to throw a saker falcon into the peerless blue above the red-orange dunes again.
The imagery flashes yet again. Carefully, the hawk is maneuvered back onto the wrist. Ambrose licks at his lips even as he inhales again slowly. Shush-shush, comes across the kything. Shush-shush… To himself, of course, but it resonates gently nonetheless.
At his ankles, the reflecting pool slowly begins to attain its mirror-like state. The stars begin to reappear as he returns to the cycling of breathing in an attempt at meditative peace. Carefully, he allow himself to consider the fact that a desperate hunger is being fulfilled, like a bowl filling drop by precious drop.
*
Approval. But it's all gentle, surprisingly so. Noneof that coldness or cruelty from him. There is a human in there, behind that facade.
There, you see. Other than that, he's content to let Ambrose rest for now. This will be a war of attrition, the winning of that control. Only peace from him - neither anger nor greed nor impatience. As if they could stay there all night. Perhaps it won't be as hardas he'd feared.
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 14
*
Trying — will get better. Whether he meant it or not, the thought slips through, fairly certain by its solidity. A ripple of ?! is followed by the flush of embarrassment that floods across the surface of the reflection pool. The color fades out into ink and argence and he inhales once deeply before extending the sigh out over several seconds. Fingertips at Kent's wrist dig lightly as if reminding himself of the rhythm there — funny thing…it's nearly in time with his own heartbeat. The simple holiness of human contact will always out.
*
Yes he says, simply. Passive, merely observing, save for that steady flow down the link. In the 'distance', so to speak, a wisp of wistfulness like mist. Memory of someone gone. But then it's faded again, and there's only that pleased calm on offer. Physically, he's still as well. Enjoying that relief, if at least a little.
The better Ambrose feels about this, the better it will be for both of them.
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 12
*
Drip, drip, drip — the demitasse of his soul continues to fill, little by little. Ambrose's entire body can be seen to settle in the chair, almost as how the mesmerized remain upright but still asleep. His half of the mental link goes quiet, with little blips here and there. Across the mental link comes a lazy inquiry pertaining to the wisp, almost as if he'd asked after it over a highball glass of whiskey in a warm, dark room, content to get an answer either fully, partly, or a polite dismissal entirely.
*
It's a dismissal, but a gentle one. The magician's content to be a mirror to Ambrose's mental state, holding them both in that link. Rest is the urge. Learn this feeling well. In time you won't need me to reach this state.
*
Tomfool — can't sleep, comes the response, frosted in faint warm amusement, like a drizzle of cream over pastry. Can't dream — daydream maybe — hard to — sake — dishwater drink. His nose doesn't wrinkle, but along the link, mild disgust is easy enough to suss out.
Truly? This is hope again, frail and thin like spun-sugar.
*
I know. I'm not trying to put you to sleep, but if you like I can do that directly later. But rest in this. This calm. This peace. Amusement there. Apparently he shares that opinion of sake. Yes. You're doing this. I'm just showing you how.
*
Mayhaps — practice — please no. The last inflection comes with that dagger-flash of feral distrust. No sleep. His fingers flinch into Kent's wrist and then relax again, slightly disengaging from the palm-to-palm contact. It seems enough to jolt Ambrose in his starry pool. Reflections ripple.
Slowly, the young man opens his eyes. At first, the lamp-light seems blindingly-bright, but it's simply the need for pupils blown wide to adjust and takes little time. It's not the blinding shift into daylight by any means. He blinks again in sloth, content at least to remain relaxed throughout his body. The fine lines of anxiety are minimal still and expression softened as if he's only just woken up from a nap, still muzzy. When Kent makes eye contact again, he'll be able to pick out the dubious shadings. The last distinguishable thing across the bond, an innocent's Why…?
*
He doesn't break the link suddenly. But eases back from it, only slowly withdrawing his hand. It took more strength than he realized, perhaps, for Kent is clearly wearied. But then, it's also the wee hours of the night, after a long day of business. No wonder he doesn't rise before noon.
He replies in speech, as he rubs his own eyes. "I won't make you sleep. I thought it might be a relief, if you can't…" Then he's reaching for a glass of water and drinking. "Why? Why what? Why am I teaching you this?"
*
The Jackal answers firstly, "It's not. At this point, sleep is unnatural to me. I might miss dreaming, but not enough that it requires me to submit." That word choice is deliberate. He can feel the Bane stretch, like a cat would after napping in a pool of sunshine, and then rise up into the familiar sub-dermal placement once more. He sighs, eyes averted to his own hand. He flexes it and makes a fist, knuckles whitening, before setting it down on the desk.
"…did I ask that aloud?" He grimaces. "Must have…must have slipped my mind. Or tongue. Either, it seems…" he says, deeply pensive. New. Weird. Gratifying. Terrifying. All of it. "Nothing," he finally decides, falling back on old and distrustful habits. He deliberately doesn't meet Kent's grey gaze.
*
He searches for the words, grave and deliberate. It makes that face, still mostly smooth, look older. "Strange," he supplies. "Strange. More so because of our bad blood. But if this seems….too good to be true, consider the power you hold over me," There's no bitterness, no anger, just that cool matter of factness.
"The stronger you are, the better off we all are, considering what you can do. And I would not have an implacable immortal as a foe who wants to drag me down slowly." His lips purse in one of those wry smiles. "As one of my American friends loves to say, 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em'."
*
He nods agreement to Kent's assessment of word choices, setting his dark hair to shifting. He still continues looking down at his knuckles and it's clear that he's listening.
The expression is enough to bring Ambrose to consider the other man with a subtle turn of his head, through the fall of his bangs that still half-hide his face. He returns the smile in a far more barren facet.
"Careful now. If you convince me that I hold this power, it might go to my head. Robin Hood never turned into a tyrant. God only knows what would have happened to Sherwood Forest." There's the sound of him sucking his teeth for a second as he looks at his hand again. "I paid attention. I can't predict how I'll do, but I'll work at it…for everyone's sake. Don't need sleep, after all. I can sit for hours…"
*
"Then you have time for practice," Kent replies, serenely. "Excellent." Then he takes a deep breath, and stifles a yawn. "Now," he says, blinking. "It is late, and I should sleep before dawn. If you wish, I'll be done around 3 am tomorrow night, and I can come here. I'd prefer to keep meeting you here, since this is the least known of my residences, with staff I trust to be most discreet."
*
The chair makes a slight sound as Ambrose rises and steps back, leaving the seat where it is tucked back against the desk.
"Yes…wouldn't do to be seen interacting with the vengeful ghost of the Shanghai underworld, would it? The other crime-lords might get suspicious," he jokes darkly, flashing a brittle smile. "If I'm not otherwise occupied, I will be here at 3am. I will not have practiced — meditated…?" He half-corrects himself as he walks with lanky steps across the bedroom and to the balcony. "Too much to think about…" It's just loud enough for Kent to hear him say this. He takes a moment to re-wrap the headscarf about himself, hiding away the dark hair and sun-kissed skin. Before he tucks the length across his lower face, he glances over his shoulder at the other man.
Shadow-darkened blues fall to Kent's hands and back to his face again. A little smile, only that barely engages the lips, and then he nods. "Good night." On that fairly civil note, he's then out and away as quickly and silently as an alley cat.
*