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Escape from the manor-house of the Green Jade Brotherhood is all well and good and now that they're several alleyways in distance away, safety seems a guarantee — but there's still making it back to wherever Kent feels is most secure. The chance that the Brotherhood has sent out one or two of their best trackers isn't a small one.
— need to find shelter. It's not the first time that the lightly-furred jackal has volunteered that opinion, especially after having the pitch-gunk sigil scrubbed from his forehead. This mark had been keeping the kything space locked to him in both directions and the bubble of relief at recovering it was almost akin to popping a joint back into a socket. The wetted fur sticks up in spikes from Kent's efforts. His mental voice is stressed, flat with repressed emotion. He's not hobbled by his current form, but it's clear that he's uncomfortable with the entire situation. The canid stays near to Kent, never beyond reaching distance and yet never close enough to tangle legs, more than fleet of foot to keep up with the man if he chooses to run. Otherwise, his pace is sedate if not almost ferally-cautious, appropriate given his guise.
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We need to get away. I'll find us a rickshaw puller or a cab, he says, quietly. Though….if I just take that collar off of you, would you instantly turn back into a man? Fleeting down back alleyways, not the main ones where the front gates of the lane houses face, but the spaces behind. Not much there save refuse of one kind or another. Kent's doing his best to keep his powers up, reaching for seeking minds, the better to find the hunters before the hunters find them.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 7
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— do not know. — clothing. — naked in the street? — please, no. The jackal lets out a soft huff as it prances along briskly beside the man, simply another exotic pet well-trained enough to stick at his side rather than go nipping the heels of the oxs and horses or worry at the skirts of the well-to-do — or attempt to eat Fluffy, the arm-carted poodle. — don't like it. Someone watches.
And indeed, someone does — someones, rather. Maybe it's the supernatural senses posited to be claimed by animal-kind or a connection to the manor's occupants through his stay there or simply paranoia, but…there's definitely the feeling of eyes lingering on the two travelers, nonchalant as they may try to be in their attempt to find safety.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 12
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Time to try and vanish into a crowd. Fair enough. Much as I like you naked, that's a spectacle reserved for me alone. A wicked fillip of humor in that, an image of Ambrose nude, looking for where he's flung clothing, framed in the arch of the bed's doorway, all that lithe muscle on display. Ambrose will pay for his foolishness when they're safe home alone.
Then Kent's leading the way towards one of the main streets. Might be easier to mark out his pursuers, there.
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A sharp yelp-bark of sound from the small creature running beside Kent, almost a human laugh. We'll see about that. There's the wistful sense of him wanting a simple shower, to get the scent of kretek-cigarette smoke from himself. It stings the nostrils. He trusts the future-Shadow to successfully aid in their disappearing act and even as they join the small midnight crowd, he's already got the sensation that people aren't entirely aware that both man and jackal are present. Their shadows can be seen behind them, odd counterpoints to the idea that someone's simply not there, and a few people pause to stare only to dismiss them outright as fancies of a tired mind or peripheral vision flaws.
The sense of being watched begins to fade as well as swing in and out. Like tracking dogs, the noses have gone to ground rather than rely on sight alone. From two separate directions appear gentlemen wearing clothing not too different as to Kent: dark, soft, something commonly seen on those walking late at night against chill. Rest assured that they have weapons and something else aiding them in their hunt. They exchange glances before entering the thin stream of foot traffic as well.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 4
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 13
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Too many minds, perhaps. Or too much distraction For he's not doing a terribly good job of using the crowd for concealment. No leash on Ambrose. Hurrying towards the Westerners' enclave and his house in Frenchtown.
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The first gentleman, distinguished by a green jade pin on his lapel, scans the crowd even as he walks along, doing his best to remain nonchalant. Maybe it's his expression, but people look aside or make way for him. The other hangs to the left-hand side of the street, not fighting the flow of traffic in his travels. It'll be him, wearing the green dress-shirt beneath his black coat, who puts tongue behind his teeth and makes a signature whistle — no doubt a signal of successful sighting of the target.
The jackal hangs close to Kent, hating every second of being seen as such in the flow of people. Of course they stare at the sight of an unleashed wild animal doing a man's bidding — how well-trained he is, come the whispers, drawing invariably more attention yet. His ears perk at the sound of the odd tune and he lifts his lips, glancing up to Kent. — company. The bright and sharp flick of fear is clearly projected.
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The crowd is no longer shelter. It's a liability. We'll have to run. Get out of this crowd, so I can fight them without killing civilians. Do they know who the human component of the pair is? Surely they must. For who else would dare beard the Brotherhood in its den in search of a lost Jackal. But….they don't know what he can do, gods willing. Abruptly, Kent's darting down a side alleyway.
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Just as quickly, the jackal is beside him, a blur of creamy fur and legs. One person is jostled and lets out a shout, but they disappear rather quickly considering the amount of human being present on the street. The two gentlemen, Pin and Button-Down, then breaks into a sprint as well, attempting to reach the general area where Button-Down last saw the dark-clothed man and the errant wild animal tamed to his side. There's another faint sense of searching, this one likely recognized (perhaps harrowingly) as terribly similar to Kent's own mental hunting habits. Who's being tracked in reality? The man they know as Black? …or the canine at his side?
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 7
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 17
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 8
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It's not his accustomed precision….but then, this isn't being conducted while his body lies languid on cool silk. With the distraction of running and dodging, it's a broader sideswipe than he'd want, like a cat clawing an attacking dog. No touching him mentally.
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 8
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 15
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This side-alley opens up onto a quieter side-street and will allow another route of escape. The jackal risks a look over his shoulder at the entrance and sees the appearance of not one man, but two, and lets out a high-pitched snarl. He stutters in pace, watching to see if they'll dare to continue down the narrow path when a wild animal is definitely threatening them.
Pin pauses, but only because his companion lets out a blood-curdling yell and clutches at his skull, his eyes gone wide and momentarily vacant. Button-Down is now sporting a massive migraine and whatever mental senses he was using are crippled. He slumps to one side of the alley, his face scrunched in agony. This leaves Pin to draw a small side-arm and continue his loping approach. The jackal then turns on a dime and makes to bull-rush down the alley towards the man, letting out a frightening screech of rage and showcasing all of the teeth in his mouth. He's a blur, quick to dodge and happy to harry, if it'll allow Kent another moment to strike on his own terms. Pin raises the weapon and goes to pull the trigger, apparently not frightened enough by the approach of the wild animal.
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Oh, no. No one hurts his boy. Even if his boy is furry and screams like an infant banshee. Kent yanks a pistol out of his coat, and now he's firing at Pin. So much for doing this quick and clean, no blood shed.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 3
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 3
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 4
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With his attention all upon the furious missile of screeching fury rapidly approaching him, Pin has no chance against Kent's drawn pistol. His own gun fires at the jackal, but by that point, there's only the graze of the shot along the creature's back. Loose hairs whuft in the air of his passing as he sinks teeth into the man's pants-leg and holds tightly. His own centrifugal force spins Pin violently into a state of off-balance. The man lets out a cry of shock as the return fire embeds itself firmly into the muscle of his thigh. A hit, but not a disabling one. Now Pin is swinging madly at the canine's hampering hang on his good leg. Not a good time for this guy. Button-Down, still near the alley's entrance, is still reeling from the counter-swat of his own mental efforts.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 9
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 5
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More than a little arrogance in him trying to shoot Pin while Pin's engaged in dancing with the furball. But Kent takes aim again, since the other man is currently occupied with that migraine. This time, the bullet lodges square in center mass - taking out one of the main arteries. He'll bleed out in moments if he doesn't get help.
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 10
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 9
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The jackal flinches back at the wild swing of the butt of Pin's gun and dances away with the grace known to the species, his lips still pulled back in a rictus of rage. The sharp retort of Kent's pistol and consequent garbled sound of agony spells the end of Pin. The man collapses to his knees and stares blankly at the snarling animal before then falling to a limp bundle in the middle of the alley.
On the far end of the alley, towards the entrance, Button-Down has gathered his wits and raises his own gun to aim straight down the way. The jackal lets out a yelp and dances away as he feels the next shot whizz along the crests of his shoulders, still sending up hairs into the air. Then he's back to menacing the distant figure as dangerously as he can manage. All 21 pounds of him.
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|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 9
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|ROLL| Rosemarie +rolls 1d20 for: 3
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Still not Kent's best evening. Especially when it comes to getting into a firefight with the goons of the Brotherhood. But he manages to land another one on Button-down, another hit in the main mass of the body. No trick shooting, not this time. Jackal Ambrose….thank God he's not hit. Kent spares him a frantic glance.
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Button-Down collapses again to one side of the alleyway, clutching an arm around his torso even as he lets out a rusty gasp of air. The jackal isn't hurt as well, somehow…magically? Luckily? Regardless, he keeps up his stance, bristled from ears to tail, his black lips pulled back and all teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. The high-pitched wail-snarl carries down the alley. Have no doubt at this point that someone's heard the shots and the foot-cops are on their way. Already, someone's paused, a silhouette in the far entrance, and the shout goes up, "Hey!"
It's enough to bring the jackal out of his state and he perks ears before turning on a dime and taking up a rolicking pace past Kent. — need to go NOW!
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No argument there. At the moment, he's still a man concealed in coat and hat and scarf, ethnicity and features hard to make out. Agreed, he says, drily. And then he's running, too, rather than insisting on staying to finish it off. Out for the other end of the alleyway, surprisingly fleet of foot, considering he's an opiomane.
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The alleyway and its disastrous results are left for the general public and the foot-police. Not seconds after the pair disappear onto the small side street and deeper yet still into the city, heading towards the Westerners' enclave and the house owned in Frenchtown, the first of the cops arrive. Of course there are gawkers, but the officials are quick to push back for space in order to process the scene and ask questions. The answers are varied and frustratingly misleading, thanks to the efforts of both sides to remain anonymous.
The jackal slows in his sprint in order to fall back beside Kent. — close? he inquires, tongue lolling out to one side as he glances up at the man in the scarf and hat. Not long at all, it appears, given their adrenaline-bolstered pace.
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Back to the house in Frenchtown, in the relative safety of foreign concession. He enters the back way, waves off the attention of a tall Russian who is his butler…concealing the jackal with the hem of his coat and the powers of his mind. And then they're safe in the airy, whitewashed room that is Kent's bedroom here. Untinged by any memories of passion….but with another version of that melange of opium smoke and incense. He keeps a set here, too. And to a jackal's sensitive nose, the bittersweetness of the resin in its jar is rich and teasing.
Kent's turning away to hang up his coat, after setting his pistols down on the desk, and then settling down on the bed - shaking with reaction.
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Sticking close to Kent, the pale creature is very careful not to draw any unnecessary attention to himself. He watches the butler from behind the man of the manor and once he's certain he's not been seen, he follows alongside and into the bedroom. Upon entering, he sneezes once violently at the scent of opium in the air and licks at his lips almost in brief nausea.
For a short period of time, until Kent sits, he's a furry statue in the center of the room — hyper-alert to the sounds of this residence, not knowing it nearly as well as the house in the Red Light lilong. Then, with light steps, bip-bip-bip, he comes over and leaps up onto the bed. With insistence, he sticks his nose under any arm in the way and then makes to put himself on Kent's lap. Reassurance is offered as well as wanted in its way; the small frame begins to tremble in turn, ears laid back nearly flat to his skull as he leans his negligible weight against the man's chest.
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