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Someone got bored. Someone decided that picking locks would be the best way to alleviate said boredom. After all, skills not honed are skills that rust. A few lock picks later, and having opened all of the possible locks in the master bedroom of the balcony'd house, he inevitably came across the diamond-studded collar. Two months time and lack of further rebuttal from the Green Jade Brotherhood has dampened his anxiety and boredom does go a long way towards smothering it yet.
Thus, upon opening the door to the bedroom, there's an unusual sight. A black-backed jackal, paled to cream and brown, lying belly-up in the middle of the floor in a pool of early-winter sunshine. We're talking full splay, with tail flat out behind and front paws tucked up like a swatted bug. An ear flicks towards the sound of the knob engaging and near-blue eyes open to observe who's walking in.
I haven't lazed in the sunshine in an eternity, he thinks in a languid, meandering manner across the mental link. And I was cold. A wiggle of the dark nose to appreciate what he can of the shifted air currents of the room and then a sigh, eyelids slipping shut again as his body slackens back against the sun-heated dark wood. This skin is warmer than my own. Mmm. Contentment rather than concern or bewilderment in his psyche. The light winks off the clear jewels about his neck.
*
Lamont is coming in with his usual business-like air, only to stop and nearly stumble on a nonexistent loose board, out of sheer surprise. Ambrose is treated to him frankly goggling like a frog for a moment, before a slow, incredulous grin curls his lips. What a novelty, he replies.
He smells of clean wool and cotton, of talc and aftershave and soap, the faint trace of sweat and the musk of his own skin. The door is closed and locked behind him, and he comes over to crouch down by the Jackal. Then, gently, he lays a hand on that fuzzy belly….and rubs it. Looking for precisely the right spot to make Ambrose pedal a paw.
*
It doesn't take long; a quarter-sized patch in the tuck of his ribs sets the back right foot to twitching…and then outright attempting to thump the air itself. Mmmm…. He indulges Kent in the charming action for a little longer before shifting in place yet again.
The small form stretches in a manner fully invested: the small toes spread out and limbs and ears tremble briefly for the extension before he then flops to one side, able to lift his head and flick his tongue out almost as if he's awakening from a nap. Impossible, of course, given his cursed state.
I find myself closer and closer to a proper cat-nap when meditating. Inasmuch as I sneered at the practice initially, I am very glad that I kept to a daily regimen. You are a masterful teacher. A compliment delivered affectionately as he sniffs at the man's hand before giving it a small lick. A pause. …I'm not sure why I did that, my apologies. Bemusement across the kything.
*
"I hope I taste good," he says, drily. Then he's giving Ambrose a thorough scritching. Ears and neck and throat. "May I pick you up? You look like you'd be fun to cuddle," He's blunt about it, at least. Ambrose as a wild creature is precious. "You know, we've never tried that thing on me. I wonder what I'd become," he muses.
Then he smiles at that comment about the meditation. "I'm glad. I find it invaluable for clearing the mind, myself. And for a different kind of rest than mere sleep."
*
What a sucker for scritchies. The skin-hunger shows, even in this guise, and the jackal extends his neck, all the better to allow those blunt nails access to the best parts. His lids grow heavy again. Meditation is indeed all of those things…excellent for clearing the mind. I didn't realize how much *clutter* occupied my own from time to time. However… and the rumble of a small stomach is heard. Those nearly-blue eyes roll to consider Kent, ears perked.
I did not have lunch and am hungry. What say you to potstickers? Those potstickers, yes, at the booth over in the marketplace. I can remain in this skin for now…unless you don’t wish it. You could even pick me up and carry me about like some spoiled little snit of a dog. Once we return, I am happy to monitor a test on yourself…if you're comfortable with it. I have thumbs. I can remove it quickly if need be. Sincere concern suffuses the kything space.
*
He can't help but laugh at that. "Do you want me to take you out as a pet? I can. It'd be funny. Shall I put a leash on you?" For a wonder, there's no kinky undertone to the question. In joking mode, more than anything else. "It might be safer if you were a human, though."
*
Upon rising to his feet, there's another series of stretches yet. Downwards-facing dog, anyone can recognize that. Large ears lay back as he elongates his back and lifts his rump and then conversely, the front and hind ends shift altitude. A forwards step and back goes one leg…and another step before the other…and then a full-body shake-out. Having shook off the lethe resting upon him (and watch those jackal hairs float merrily down through the beams of evening sunlight), he looks up at Kent.
You wished to pick me up, did you not? I won't require a leash when I'm in your arms. I can't see it being less safe there than beside you as a human being. Besides, and he glances towards the front courtyard, seen beyond the panes of the balcony doors. It is cold and wet on the ground and I have no boots in this skin. Only bare feet. A lift of a small front paw and he even assays to put both ears slightly back, looking to Kent once more in an honest attempt at puppy-dog eyes. Only Jackal-dog eyes instead.
*
Whereupon Kent gives him an immensely cynical look. But he relents, and then stoops to pick him up. Cradling him as if he were indeed some society lady's pampered pet. "Come along then, Ambrose my dear. Pot stickers for the both of us. I'll get my coat."
Down they go into the hall, greeted with widening eyes by the little maid of all work and the butler/door guardian. Kent….doesn't have a pet. "This is mine," he tells them, mildly, as if it were a matter of course. "Don't beat him or try to drive him away if you should see him in the alleys. He answers to Rose." Even as he's speaking, he sets the Jackal down to don hat and coat….then he stoops to pick up Ambrose again, mostly sheltering him under his coat.
*
Smug. That's one smug Jackal being toted past the shocked staff members of this particular abode. He waits patiently on the floor beside Kent while the man bundles up against the cold and then both ears fall back at the pronouncement of name. ?! across the kything space. No longer smug, but definitely snug as a bug in a rug, tucked away between the lining of coat and body.
You, sirrah, are a bastard-flavored bastard, comments Ambrose, looking unamused to have his masculinity so chivied. I will answer to that name when the sun falls from the sky and this earth burns to a pile of bloody dust and ash. Puh. *Rose*. The grimace is in the wrinkle of whiskers and nose.
Their travels across the few blocks between Red Light lilong and the stand are uneventful, relatively speaking — though Ambrose does find a moment to screech angrily back at a small black silky dog held by a nearby woman in the marketplace area. The dog, rather than continuing its incessant angry barking, cowers and the woman is quick to vacate the immediate area, blustering about wild animals. Now the Jackal is smug again. So smug. The potstickers are retrieved with no other interruption and back they travel to the manor. No one to inquire further about the small flower-named canine on the way upstairs and Ambrose is now chewing up a potsticker between carnassials. He works at it on the floor, trying to make the food tidbits fall on the plate set below him, and squints at the relative mess. I need to eat this as a human being, I think. Would you mind? he asks, looking to Kent. After all, the man has the thumbs and can remove the diamond-studded collar.
*
You wouldn't know. You haven't really tasted me, Now, now, of course, Kent's being cheerfully obscene. Rose. Rosebud. Rosie. Rosepetal. Rosehip. Cheerfully twitting the jackal, even as he pets his ears.
Then there's food, and back they go, greeted again by the incredulous looks of his staff. Yep. One white devil sorcerer and his fox spirit companion, clearly. Not that any dares question - the one point upon which Kent is autocratic is them keeping their collective noses out of his business.
"Very well," he says, from where he's eating at the little table and chairs. The balcony room is surprisingly roomy - room for that immense bed, the desk, a little table and chairs, and the wardrobe. "My petal," he calls him, even as he undoes the gemmed collar.
*
For a second, the jackal looks to be considering nipping at the hands that work at the leather collar.
STOP THAT YOU — His mental voice breaks to filmy static as the magic unwinds itself from around Ambrose upon the removal of the slip-collar. The mirage-mist of swirling power dissipates from around him to reveal him in a splayed sit looking briefly woozy in long-sleeved shirt and fatigue pants, barefoot. A soft groan and rub at his face and he blinks at Kent. "Bloody hell, that knocks my brain sideways harder than a full bottle of gin." A glance over at the plate of potstickers on the floor and he collects it up with a stretching reach, a sign of clean bill of health right there.
"Are you going to put it on now or finish eating first?" he asks around a cheekful of food, heedless of manners. Always classy, this one. Then a point of finger and a glower. "And no more of this 'Rose' nonsense. None of it. Not a single iteration further."
*
Kent is smirking like a villain, of course he is. "Let me finish," he says, sounding as demure as one can imagine. The collar's been set aside on the table, as he eats. Ambrose gets a demure look, from under those dark lashes. "Very well, Llew," he says, and the nickname is so very evidently a caress, even without his power.
Then, ceremoniously, he's rising and picking up the collar. Stepping away from the table, lest he turn into something huge and knock it over.
Once he's donned it, there's a rush of air - he's taking up very different space in instants, collapsing forward to all fours. A burst of panic like static in the link.
It's a dark form sprawling on the glossy wood, all black velvet fur. For what looks up with pale, frightened eyes is a black leopard. Kent turns in a circle, heavy paws soft and soundless, nosing at his own flank. Goodness. I'm beautiful, he says, sounding utterly shocked.
*
Ambrose's chewing slows as he watches the collar rise up to his companion's neck. His mouth stills entirely as he gains a tense, watchful stance in dealing briefly with ghosting flashbacks of his own initial introduction to it. The quick lightning strike of panic is enough to have him neatly throwing aside the plate with two potstickers left on it and scrambling to his feet — as if he could reverse the shift in mid-sequence, but he's apparently going to try!
His bare feet allow him a quick stop on the dark wood flooring once it all settles. His jaw drops. "Oh…oh-ho-ho," comes the moderately nervous laugh, his expression joyously bright and incredulous. Palms held up and out towards the black leopard are knee-jerk reaction, not meant to imply true fear. "Kent…bloody hell, you're — you're a Cat Sith — one of the moor beasts." He drops slowly to one knee as to put himself at face level to the creature, now with one hand offered out towards him, palm up.
*
Kent looks himself over, carefully, eyes still huge, pupils dilated. Sniffing, then. First himself, then Ambrose, starting at that offered hand. Finally, he rasps a long pink tongue up the Jackal's arm, as if tasting his sweat.
All the while, his fur is sleeking down again, the initial fright over with. I'm just a leopard, I think, he says, musingly. That's flattering. I was afraid I'd be something absurd, like a….like a penguin. Or a pug.
*
The texture of the tongue is novel enough to leave goosebumps across his skin and the fine hair at his nape briefly prickling. That was a big tongue too and all that muscle beneath the dark fur — Ambrose is still cautious in his movements, as if not wanting to startle the shifted gentleman.
"No, not either of those for you, sirrah," the Jackal agrees, still leaving his hand out for any further consideration. "I half expected a snake of sorts, but this is…christ, you're magnificent."
*
He turns those gray eyes on Ambrose again - the copper-green shimmer of reflective retina has them gleaming like coins. There's a thoughtful thrum of sound from him, and he busies himself giving Ambrose more sniffing. You smell like you, but….more. More details. Then he looks back at himself again, before glancing up at Ambrose. Whereupon he sits down on his haunches. I am, aren't? he says, letting his eyes go squinted with pleasure.
*
"Well, I haven't yet showered today," the Jackal mutters, slightly embarrassed by any implications, meant or not. He smells of sweat and skin, the wisps of grey vetiver and cardamom, the harsher over-notes of lye soap worked into stains on his pants, and the tiniest touch of canid fur, a hangover from his recent wearing of the collar. Ambrose rallies, however, once Kent assumes the classical seated position known to all felines and looks decidedly more domestic for it. "You belong in the collection of a maharaja, «azizam»," and he laughs even as he watches the whiskers twitch in their fine movements. "Royalty, in comparison to my meager and scrawny skin. You joke about walking me along the Rue — imagine the twitter you would cause, leashed or not."
*
It's not bad. It's my nose. I can distinguish far more in terms of details, the beast muses. He curls his tail neatly around his feet, whiskers coming forward in a feline smile. Then he gets up again and stretches, fore and aft, before padding in a circle around Ambrose, bunting his muzzle against the Jackal's leg, as if he were any other housecat. I don't respond the way I usually do to your scent. I guess it's because this form has different desires….
*
"No doubt it does. It was the same for me," Ambrose explains even as he settles his palm on the black leopard's ribs. "I'm 'minded of a book, actually," murmurs the master-thief, grinning even as he begins to quote it. "'It was Bagheera the black panther, inky all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk.'" He gently brushes fingers over that singular pelt, continuing. "'Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path, for he was as cunning as Tabaqui' — that would be me, the Jackal — " the man interjects, looking smug. "— 'as bold as the wild buffalo, and reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down.'" His full palm caresses the black leopard's fur. "That last bit appears true. Does this make me your man-cub then, old ink-pelt?" Such cheek.
*
Leopards don't truly purr, they haven't the bone structure for it. But he's making a pleased thrumming noise, anyway. The quote makes his eyes go squinty and pleased again. I remember that part. I still love those books, he says, without hesitation. Yes. Yes, you are my man-cub. The idea seems to please him - Ambrose gets a nudge of his head. Sit down on the floor, please. he requests.
*
The Jackal glances his palm over the dark rounded skull between those small, sleek ears and then makes his way to completely sitting on the floor, legs criss-crossed. It puts him at easy eye level with the black leopard and he smiles, expression going fond. "You should move about, see how it feels within the skin. I bet you're the more accomplished climber between the two of us — more powerful as well." His oceanic eyes survey the wildcat's form. "Such muscle. I would put money down on you against even the most heavily armed of us here in the city, given the element of surprise."
*
This time he reaches a paw forward, taps Ambrose's thigh with it, lightly. Just to see. Then he leans in to touch noses, gravely, before leaping away suddenly. Even with his weight, his landing is nearly soundless. This body is restless, he says. It doesn't like being inside. His fur fluffs out, eyes widening. I bet you're right. The collar is stardust glitter against that midnight fur.
*
While Ambrose bites his lip against a laugh at the light tap, it's the lean-in that has him almost crossing his eyes. With dark brows high, he holds still until he feels the cool skin of the leopard's nose touch his own. A small snort of a retained snicker, almost boyish, and then he rests weight back on the palms of his hands to watch the large cat cavort.
"Would you care to run the rooftops, «azizam»? It may be risky given the novelty of your skin, but…on the other hand, it may assuage this restlessness you feel. Or a walk about the city?" He glances over. By now, the sun has set and the relative chill of the night is descending. A black leopard will be hard to spot now, one way or another. "I would not leash you unless you request it. There's a certain…delight I take in being seen as a tamer of wild things." He grins again, entirely boyish now. It takes worries from his face and twinkles in his eyes.
*
The leopard circles the room at that swinging pace. Let us go out, he agrees. I think it best to walk, this time. I don't know this body well enough to chance climbing the roof in it. We shall go out the back alley. Staff should be in bed. And if not, well…..they already know I'm a witch. He smiles, exposing those immense ivory fangs.
*
The man's lizard-brain does cringe at the sight of the fangs. "My, what teeth you have," he murmurs with a wry smile even as he gets to his feet. "Of course, «azizam», I shall escort you and soak in the laud that we receive…if you don't scare someone witless first," he adds with a cold laugh. Gotta find amusement somewhere. He collects his coat and then sits to lace up his boots. Glancing up at Kent, he asks, "Where would you like to walk? Does your skin tell you of an inclination?"
*
Kent pats the door with a paw, fumbling at the doorknob. There's a chuff of irritation. Not having thumbs….no wonder you were frustrated he says, giving the human a glance over his shoulder. I could make them see something different, or not see me at all, or not be sure what they see. A park. Let's go to a park.
*
Ambrose does not laugh at the comment about thumbs, even if he wants to, because that was a problem all too real for him not far back in his life. He walks over and opens the door, pauses to allow the large cat to precede him into the hallway. "Can you do this? Or does your skin keep you from doing so?" By his tone, he's genuinely curious, given he couldn't access the curse's powers at all — as if it had forgotten entirely to exist given he was no longer human.
They make their way downstairs and Kent is correct, given he knows his household so well. Everyone's asleep and their entrance into the back alley of the manor is unremarked upon. Out of habit, the Jackal scans his immediate surroundings and then looks to the black leopard with a small shrug. Lead on, he thinks towards him along the mental link.
*
|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 15
*
|ROLL| Steve Rogers +rolls 1d20 for: 8
*
That's a good question, isn't it. For once they're out into the alley proper….and this one is narrow and fetid, unlike the broader ones that the stone gates of the houses face out into, he vanishes. Just blinks out in that way he has, gone between one footfall and the next. Ambrose is alone in the alley, save for the rustle of paper, and the scratching of a rat.
It's the latter that makes him break cover. For in another breath, he's back again, pouncing on it and breaking its back with a paw. Bending his head to pick it up, though just as the tips of his fangs touch it, he remembers himself, and pulls back in disgust. Ugh! I wanted to taste it. He shivers all over, down to the tip of his tail.
*
"…Kent?" The hesitant query might seem extremely loud in the alley. Ambrose carefully looks around him once again, attempting to sharpen his senses and even to track the black leopard by the connection of kything — a useless attempt, given he's no prowess in the concept. He remains where he is by the closed back door, quietly praying that he's not about to get sacked by some creature weighing a goodly number of stones, when he sees a blur of dark movement in his side-vision.
He clears the gravel beneath his boots by at least two feet in silent, startled reaction, as nervy as an alley cat while outside the house proper. Clapping a hand over his mouth in shock and then to attempt to block up near-hysterical laughter does not work. "Oh - oh - bloody hell, you wanted to eat that?! I never had the inclination in my skin, good lord!!!" He isn't doubled-over, but he does continue to stifle his cackling behind his palm. It was also that all-over full-body shimmy that tickled him so.
*
He grunts in disgust, bats it away from himself with a paw….and of course, instinct dictates that a rat must be played with. So he finds himself doing it again, like a child playing handball, before human control reasserts itself again.
Disgusted with himself, he stalks stiff-legged back to Ambrose, the line of fur down his spine bristling. It smells. And I still wanted it, he allows, grumpily. But I guess my power still works because it's not a magic imposed on me from outside like your curse, it's part of my blood. I'm a witch no matter what shape I wear.
*
Rolling his eyes to the heavens as if to pray for sanity and self-control, Ambrose clears his throat as the black leopard makes his way back over to him. He offers out a hand in succor to be bumped against or to rub gently with fingerpads at sensitive skull. "That does make unfortunate sense," he murmurs, then stooping in order to nuzzle his nose against the leopard's ear — or rather, in it. Nuzzle-nuzzle-nuzzle, unable to help himself further. This giant black kitty, oh my. "Should we avoid walking through the sector of the marketplace devoted to live goods? I can see a chicken being particularly difficult for you to ignore," he teases lightly.
*
He nuzzles back, whiskers tickling. Please he says, with dignity. It would…. Kent as a panther is content to pad alongside Ambrose, soundless as smoke on the stone of the alley. Then they're out onto a broader thoroughfare, heading towards the International Settlement. Josephine Baker and her pet panther, indeed. Occasionally brushing his shoulder blade against Ambrose's leg, like a dog seeking comfort from its master.
*
"I shall endeavor to not squawk and flap about mindlessly while in your presence," replies Ambrose aloud with equal dignity and tease. Their travels out along the wide street are uninterrupted until people begin realizing what travels alongside the master-thief — then comes the twittering. He leaves a hand down near to the rolling shoulders, continually glancing fingertips from the sleek fur even as it bumps against his own leg lightly. Eventually, someone's brave enough to step forth from a throng of folks gathered around a stall: a gentleman in an evening suit with a spectacular blond handlebar mustache and thick Germanic accent.
"Excuse me, sir, but that creature is magnificent and so very vell-trained. I vill pay you a king's ransom for it." Ambrose slows in his walk briefly to give the man a dubious frown. "Ask vhat you vill, I would haf it for my household!"
"You cannot give me his worth even if you had several life-times to attempt it, sirrah. No," he replies firmly, jaw set.
*
As Ambrose pauses, the panther sits down at his side, neat as a dog trained to heel. He examines the German with his head tilted to one side. Then he glances up at Ambrose. You should sell me. Take the money. And then I can escape. I've heard stories of Indians with trained ponies who did the same to foolish Americans, he offers, the tip of his tail twitching. Or we could be a circus act. Though what's left of the Brotherhood might swiftly realize who and what we were. His mental voice is rich with amusement.
*
KENT. The sharp remonstration flies across the kything even as Ambrose's face twitches in repressed reaction, torn between equal amusement and lack of approval as is. Bubbles of disbelieving mental laughter pop in the mental link. No doubt the German man sees the twitch, for his frown deepens.
"No? I cannot offer you anyzing for him? I am very vell-off, as you can see," and he lifts his arms beside his person as if to demonstrate. "You appear as if you could use some money."
Um, ow. Not the correct tack to take. The Jackal squints at the man. "No…thank…you," he enunciates with painfully-insulting slowness, as if speaking to a dunce. You, jumping through hoops of fire? Perish the thought, «azizam». …though if you're serious, we shall speak. More sniggering in the link. A frilled bow about your neck, I think. Mustn't scare the women and children. God, it's hard to keep a straight face and glare down this guy when this is the topic of unheard conversation.
*
The panther's eyes are all but closed in mirth and he chuffs in laughter. It fizzes along the link, bright and amused. Maybe I should spray him he muses. That'd get him to stop. Though this is pretty funny. You're right. A jester's ruff, with bells. Like a dog in a dog and pony show, he says, with the accompanying mental image.
*
The German seems utterly flustered when Ambrose seems to break into a sudden coughing fit, but not before he snorts at the image. Coughing loudly into his fist, the Jackal holds up a finger to keep the man nearby.
By all means, piss on his pants. I shall treasure your ribald actions and remind you of it regularly as an option in dealing with insistent idiots, he thinks back even as he clears his throat and grimaces at the German. "So sorry, a tickle."
"You are mad…all of you Englishmen are mad," the man mutters even as he continues to glower. "Perhaps I should report you instead, hmm? The authorities vould not approve of your ownership of this animal."
*
He can't help but glare at the German, then. But Kent's still behaving. No acting like the dangerous creature he really is. His ears prick forward, and his pupils dilate, again. I'll be good he says. Much as I want to scare him. In fact…. He rolls on to his back, absurdly like a pet kitten, gives the German a doe-eyed look. I'm so cute.
*
You are impossible, flies back the thought. Best be prepared to scarper. Ambrose thinks he has an idea of what's about to occur. He glances down at the leopard gone belly-up and back to the German, gesturing with a hand towards Kent. "This creature? Report him? He's naught but a kitten in disguise. I know you're jealous, sirrah, but you're welcome to pet him if you choose."
The German is dubious, but those are very large eyes in that face. Neonate physiology is always a deal-maker. Muttering gruffly to himself about idiotic Englishmen and ridiculousness, he then stoops and reaches out a hand to pet that belly.
*
Wonderfully, the beast permits it. Docile as a lamb, until he's had enough. And even then, he simply lays a paw on the German's arm, and pushes gently. No more, please. // Yes, dear,// he says, mental voice syrupy sweet.
*
From on high, Ambrose then gives his lover a disbelieving squint. I can't believe you. Is he disappointed at the lack of response? Or relieved? Like as not, the inability to decide can be noted in the kythed link.
The German, however, continues petting the downy underside of the leopard, heedless of the large paw on his arm. Perhaps he's thinking of the leopard as a dog wherein the weight of paw is encouragement to continue. This one would be an unwise cat owner. "He is charming. You are absolutely certain?" he asks one last time, glancing up at Ambrose.
"Yes," comes the utterly flat reply.
*
…..this actually feels rather good Kent allows, shamefaced. Not that it shows up as more than his ears going back. Ambrose can mock him later, and surely will. But….pettings. Satisfied, he finally rolls over to lie like a sphinx by Ambrose's feet. Maybe I'd make a good pet. I'm certainly *your* good pet.
*
Yes, my darling puss. I'll fetch you a saucer of milk for your good behavior once we've returned home. Sickeningly-sweet, it flies back to Kent even as Ambrose eyes the German. The man stands up and sighs.
"Vell…if you change your mind, I am Heinric Gunderwald. You may ask for me anyvere vithin the International Settlement." The Jackal nods to him and then makes to walk on.
"A good night to you," he says by way of dismissal of the man and his money. He's watched by Gunderwald, but not for long. The man's wife is hollering at him about purchasing a length of silk and she needs not only his opinion, but his purse. Mostly his purse.
…wait, what purse? The man pauses and looks around him — but someone's already halfway down the block at a brisk pace, sniggering madly.
*
And Kent is padding beside him. I don't think you have a saucer's worth in you, he retorts, cheerfully obscene. But we can try later, if you wish. Always with the last word, of course.
*
"KENT." This time, the name is aloud even as Ambrose's cheeks heat in the near darkness of the street between overhanging lamps. Still, he laughs wryly. "Later," he allows evenly, studiously attempting the calm tone. Behind them, that Gunderwald is railing about scruffy street thieves and having lost several hundred dollars to grubby hands! He's drawn all attention now in his temper-tantrum, allowing the Jackal and his leopard companion to depart from the immediate area relatively unhassled. Of course the whispers and side-comments still abound — a tamed leopard, of all things!
The silk-lined purse, a thing in navy-blue with the man's personal crest stitched onto it, is tossed by and caught in one hand again by the master-thief. "Presumptuous bastard. As if I'd part from you, even if you were an annoying housecat. Enough for many more potstickers here, I'd think," he comments, allowing himself a purring laugh of satisfaction. "Where else would you like to go, puss?"
*
Still the park. I want to roll on grass, maybe climb some trees. Kent's voice is thoughtful, as he paces by Ambrose. He glances up. Sounds like enough money I can't justify claiming you as my kept man. he teases. Independent entirely on your own.
*
You never could claim me as kept, «azizam», the Jackal replies even as he slips the purse away into an interior pocket of his coat. Remember that I've my own funds…and you've no idea how much I've allocated over the years or where to find it — and you've still not gotten me into one of those dratted suits. A riffle of laughter across the kythed link. But, to the park, yes. You'll be able to climb one of the cherry trees with ease, I think.