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It's cold and clear out, with just enough of a breeze to drive many people inside to avoid the bite of wind chill. Accordingly the streets are nearly empty, and the alleys only occupied by those who've no choice but to call them home.
Dr. Paul Gallagher is a successful and prominent neurosurgeon, and accordingly has a lovely brownstone on the Upper West Side. He's known for his art collection, and somewhat less known for his interest in older, more curious items as well. For example, he has a robust selection of 18th and 19th century medical implements of all sorts. He also has small collection of Islamic pottery dating from 7th century Basra; how he came by them seems to involve being related to a British diplomat who worked in the region during the war.
It's not a difficult place to get into and out of; there are windows in the alley, and a basement level door (probably meant for coal deliveries once upon a time) which are easily accessed under cover of shadow. And as luck would have it, Dr. Gallagher and his wife have no children and have gone out of town for the month to visit family in warmer climes. Of course, there's a modest security system, and rumor has it he pays a house sitter to check in on the place regularly. Anyone paying attention will have already noted the sitter comes by twice a day, once around noon to collect the mail, and once around nine PM. After that, the unit is silent as the grave.
*
His personal favorite, silent as the grave — well, the lack of life within, not the implications of death. Having watched for the circadian rhythm of the house-minder, the Jackal knows to arrive well after nine at night. Thus, he does, dressed to burgle. Dark clothing with little to catch on surfaces in a dark, non-reflective material and equally black fatigue pants. Of course, the military boots, and those carry him in close to near-silence within the alley. A window will be easiest here. His reflection blinks back at him from the pane as he looks along it, searching for the proof of wiring in a home security system. His fringed scarf is wrapped around his face and his hair to reveal only his eyes and his sigh ghosts out.
"Drat." He's discovered the wiring and can hazard that shifting the frame itself will set off the system. So… A crinkle of three wrappers and he stuffs some bubblegum into his mouth. Chewing mightily, he then unzips his coat and digs around in an interior pocket. Out comes a particular sharp knife — illegally sharp — so sharp it just might be able divot the glass pane itself. A careful tracing about the very edge of the insert of glass to wood and then Ambrose spits the wad of bubble gum into his palm. A grimace, but then a moue of concentration and…
SQUISH — his palm against the pane and a careful outwards pull tilts the compromised glass towards him. A careful catch with fingernails and he sets the square aside. Just enough room to weasel inside. With a sharp grin and a most cautious shifting of limbs and body, he then steps into the room proper beyond the window. It appears still inside, but he pauses regardless, not looking at anything in particular, but simply listening. Sometimes, old houses have stories to tell.
*
It *is* still, for a time, and in that time Ambrose can make out the shape of a kitchen: white and black tile, antique bronze fixtures, solid gas stove and blocky white fridge. A large island makes up the center, topped with dark granite. Next to the window he's come in is the door…and now he sees something out of order: that door isn't entirely shut. It's not standing open, but a thin gap is emitting fitful light from the alley street light outside. There's no sound of an alarm, though, and closer inspection reveals the wire which should have triggered it has been coated with some sort of dark, sticky substance. There's nothing logical about this bypass; it's entirely out of order. How does random goop stop an alarm? But somehow, it has.
Upstairs, he can hear footsteps; small and light, quick like they're in a hurry. Someone else is, indeed, already here, and they're moving fast.
*
Upon the sound of the footsteps upstairs, Ambrose freezes in reaching out towards the goop on the wiring. He looks sharply towards where he best guesses the stairs might be, his brows knitted furiously. Someone's already here?
…someone's poaching on his turf?! The nerve!!! That bloody bastard!
A flash of wane light from bared teeth briefly and then he's skirting across the kitchen and attempting to make his way to the upper floor. The antiques must be up there, for why else would another prospective cat-burglar be light-footing along the boards? He does his best to be absolutely silent as he travels, his movements smooth and indicative of military training, and one hand hovering over the handle of a Webley & Scott revolver in case it comes down to a quick-draw.
*
Just outside the kitchen is the main hall which runs the length of the brownstone; it's shrouded in shadow, save for one or two lights left on to generally imply someone is home (even though everyone knows they're not; you can always see Mrs. Gallagher having a smoke out back in the evening, just after her husband comes home, and he's nearly always visible in the study with a glass of port and a cigar). The walls are lined with paintings in a variety of styles, most of them by European masters; there's also a nice piece of Italian sculpture on a sideboard table. At the top of the stairs sits a display cabinet, and oh, yes—there are at least two of the vases. Everything else inside is Persian or Iraqi, though it's a broad mix from several timeframes: calligraphy one a scroll, a textile piece, a necklace and bracelet set. None of it's been disturbed, though.
It's only two vases, so the others are somewhere else. One end of the hall at the top of the stairs leads into a room that's silent and dark, save for a sliver of light from a partially-shrouded window; that light exposes a huge, four-posted bed; the master bedroom, for sure. At the other end of the hall a fitful light dances about, and Ambrose can hear the tell-tale sound of a magnetic door latch on a cabinet being forced open. The person doing this pilfering is out of immediate view of the doorway, as is the cabinet they're getting into. The light illuminates in-wall bookcases and a huge mahogany desk, so this is probably the doctor's (or his wife's…?) study.
*
Up the stairs Ambrose goes, still assaying to be as silent as the dead. He's put his scarf up about his face once more, all the better to remain anonymous.
But oh, that display cabinet. Catching first his own reflection in it and pausing in reaction, a secondary glance is far longer and he quickly catalogs what he can by sight alone. His eyes then shift back to front, to where he can hear the sounds of rifling about and still see the wavering shine of what could be a flashlight. Another glance to the cabinet containing the treasures of the Middle East and then a squint back towards the other interloper on the property. Hmm.
Torn — he's torn, in more ways than one. To take as many things as he can or just abscond with the oldest piece if it can be safely managed? He's brought a knapsack beneath his coat, slung diagonally across his body as always, with not a large amount of room in it. And not only that, but to make off with his own goods scot-free, unbeknownst to this other burglar, or stake his claim on the place? He has no doubt that security will be buffed, or at least attempted to be as such, should he return to this place again in the future.
On a whim, he decides that the two vases will be coming with him — the others…well. He can be patient. He has many years yet to live. An easy turn-latch, not even locked, and he carefully unzips his coat to reveal the knapsack. Inside it, the appropriate vouchsafing materials for no more than three vases at most; two will do for now. He slips on archival gloves as fast as he can, looking repeatedly up at the pattern of glinting light in the far room, and then begins to work the first vase carefully into place within the knapsack.
*
Inside the study he can hear the cabinet which had been opened click shut, and the light approaches the study door, rapidly and with a purpose. Whatever they wanted, they have it, and here they come. Even at this range his competition moves with a rapidity and lightness which suggests whomever he's probably about to face is small and lightweight. No hulking person is about to step through that doorway.
*
God, it's a close one. Perhaps luck is on Ambrose's side, for even as he finishes tucking the second vase into its cocoon of museum-quality wrappings, he has few precious seconds to shut the glass door as fast and quietly as he can manage. The Jackal then slips aside to flatten himself against the wall next to the display case. He's banking on the height of the piece itself as well as any shadow cast. Eyes are heavily lidded, all the better to keep the nightshine-red of his pupils from giving him away like some demon skulking in wait. The intention is to see who descends the stairs before they see him…and then to make his stance aware once they're off the property, as to avoid tripping any alarms on accident. The police don't need to be involved in this one. Thieves handle things by their own set of codes, after all.
*
The other figure hasn't, it seems, noticed Ambrose's quick dive to one side of the cabinet, since they don't pause on their way out of the study or down the stairs, which gives him ample time to view them. The light source is an antique lamp, and the fitful nature of its glow is because it's a tiny wick in a frosted glass enclosure, with a painted ceramic base. The bearer is a woman of middling height and rickety stature, and if not for how youthful her skin and hair appearhe can see, when the lamplight flashes on them, that her hair is lustrous and her skin smooth and wrinkle-free, unnaturally soshe might be assumed to be very old. Her features are severe in the extreme, with deep set eyes and a short, sharp, upturned nose and jutting chin, ghastly pale skin, and iron gray and pearly white hair. She's wearing a heavy trench coat in dark brown, and under that a gray wool skirt and a black, flowing blouse, which sets off the small skull on a leather cord at her throat quite well: a bird skull, of some sort, with a short, curved bill in black.
She sweeps down the stairs like she's a queen on a mission; maybe the sticky goo's effectiveness isn't permanent. She has an oilcloth sack in one hand that's bulging in odd ways, suggesting at least one large, smooth-sided item inside, and several smaller, longer pieces.
*
Worse than simple interest: he's vastly intrigued. What on earth is a woman doing burglaring this place? She's got the appearance of someone with singular habits to boot, and as such, Ambrose waits until he can hears the other interloper gain a distance on the base floor before stepping forth from his hiding place. Then he endeavors to be her shadow as he too descends down the stairs after zipping up his coat, all the better to hide his own ill-gotten goods away from immediate sight. The man descends cautiously and then, once he's absolutely certain she's not present inside the house proper, he quickly darts to the window through which he entered. Never mind returning the pane of glass, it wouldn't sit flush anymore and that bubblegum has hardened on it, almost insult to injury.
Once out in the alleyway, and at what he feels to be a safe distance, he stands tall. In a readied and semi-rotated stance, he calls out softly, "Find what you were looking for, little bird?" He makes no effort to hide his accent nor the fact that he's annoyed at her presence by his tone.
*
The woman, meanwhile, passes through the kitchen, unaware of Ambrose behind her; she pauses only to squint at the goo on the wire and sniff in approval of its performance before passing through the door and shutting it behind her. She's a good dozen feet or more down the alley before Ambrose comes out through the window, and if not for his voice might not have even noticed him. She freezes when she hears him, though, going rigid.
She turns, and—she doesn't actually look panicked. Stunned, yes, and trembling. But not with fear. She surveys him. "What business is it of yours?" Her mouth curls in a sneer. "Mongrel."
*
The cold smile returned to her can't be seen but for in Ambrose's eyes, given the wrapping of his scarf. It muffles his voice, but only barely, being light-weight in nature despite its weaving.
"What you've found isn't my business, m'lady," he replies, turning the title of respect into a verbal slap of glove. "Where you've trespassed is. I will ask you this once not to visit this abode again. As the Americans say…get off my turf." He shifts weight in place to stay loose in the chill air of the evening, but doesn't go for any weaponry. What he does do is tilt his head just enough that the backwash of glow from a nearby streetlight winks from his pupils in that eerie red.
*
The woman goes still when she sees his eyes gleam like that. Unnervingly, impossibly still. "Oh, what's this?" she whispers. Something sickly gray flickers in her green gaze, like her lamp has flared (except it's done no such thing). Her eyes widen further, and her rigid tension morphs into fluid-limbed, heady joy.
"Mmmmm, my goodness," she says. "Just look at *you*." She shakes something down from the arm of her coat into her hand, tucks it back along her wrist. Ambrose can see she's holding a silvery handle; the rest of whatever it is remains hidden by the sleeve of her blouse. Her voice changes. "You're a pretty boy, aren't you." No one should have a voice like that, a croon overlaid with a soft gurgle. There's an oppressive sense of something building around her, some well of power she's spinning up for use; it makes the air in the alley heavy and thick.
*
…what's this indeed. Ambrose feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the freakish shift not only in eye color in her, but in her mannerisms. No one shifts tacts from teeth-baring territoriality to invitational sweetness without venom laced in their intent. He licks his lips behind the scarf. Uh oh. He can almost taste what could be the static of a summer storm on his next breath.
The first back-step shuffs the sole of his boot along the alleyway's ground and betrays him even before he replies shortly, "I don't bloody think so!!!" With the rush of adrenaline and his heart hammering against his ribs, the Jackal makes an about-face and attempts to bolt out of the narrow space as fast as his legs can carry him. Abort! Abort! Magic, abort! Supernatural, flee!
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 5
*
The storm-like weight in the alley redoubles, and it's more than just fear that makes the hair stand on the back of Ambrose's neck. There's a strain in the air, a sudden pop, and he feels something swipe and just miss his arm. She's there—right behind him. A couple of feet at most. Her hair is frizzing a little from however she closed that distance, and her skin has a chalkier cast now. The lamp is back in the alley, sitting placidly on the ground with the oilcloth bag. The woman is giving chase, moving in an ambling, wobbling gait that somehow manages to keep pace with him.
"Now now," she sing-songs at him. "We were just getting acquainted, pretty boy." Her voice isn't loud enough to carry, not that there's anyone around to hear her.
*
If it were possible to have every single hair on his body rise on end as his brain calculates the possibilities of what just caused the sudden sensation of near-collision, Ambrose would be privy to it. He's no stranger to the swing of a knife after all his years abroad and by her proximity, he hazards that's what he's dealing with. How she closed distance that quickly, however — and to hear that sickeningly-sweet voice right behind him?!
The alleyway seems to stretch on forever for how he attempts to slip into another gear of speed yet. Bootsteps pound a rapid tattoo and he churns his arms, the sharp hint of a whine heard on the end of each hard panting breath.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 2
*
The woman growls, thin and harsh, and Ambrose feels another swipe go wide. They're out onto the road now, under the harsh streetlights, and not one block away looms the trees of Central Park. Of course Dr. Gallagher would have a spot so close to the premiere stretch of wilderness in the city.
No one's skulking on this immediate block, though; the cops are paid well to make sure the rich people don't encounter anyone loitering around their homes.
"I just want to be friends," the woman insists. Ambrose can feel that same weight begin to build up, even as she works to prevent him putting too much space between them.
*
As he breaks cover and they appear beneath the cones of light shining down, they'd probably be a sight for any beat-cop bored out of his gourd. A tall, agile man streaming a black scarf behind him, running hellbent away from a thin woman brandishing a scalpel. A lover's quarrel, however, this is not.
The rebuilding of what his mind construes to be some manipulation of barometric pressure is enough to make him grit teeth. There's a way to stop this mad-woman from completing her sorcery — and that's a gun. On a forwards step, he spins on the pad of his boot and draws one of the Webley & Scott revolvers. Decades of practice make the motion fairly fluid and his arm extends as he chances the degree of his near mid-air spin in order to pull trigger just as the barrel aligns with the lean, mean, blade-toting machine that is this murderous harridan! It commits him to the motion and the rotation to follow.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 14
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 4
*
The pressure doesn't build to the same height this time, out of necessity; as Ambrose fires, the woman jerks to one side, almost like she's used the same spell to a simpler end, shifting herself a couple of feet. The shot doesn't land, striking the pavement with a ping of shattered concrete.
And now, she's in range. She doesn't stab, or even try to make what would maybe be an obvious play for something sensitive like the backs of his knees or his neck. No, all she does, is aim a solid slice for his arm—it might also get him in the back, as he's turning, but his clothing is thicker there, and what she needs is a good cut.
*
The counter-extension of the unarmed hand is necessary to retain his balance, even in mid-air and as he's descending. The resulting landing is solid; the scuff of boots scrabbling on cement to take off is close, but simply not enough. The Jackal misjudges his odds.
Quick, almost numb enough to be interpreted as cold — that's how the initial sensations bombard him from the scalpel slitting both coat and undershirt to score. A tingling and sticky reaction time for two fingers even as he continues to pound on. It's when the first runnel slips down the length of his forearm that he realizes he's been actually physically touched. A sharp grunt of frustration at not only that, but also the missed shot, but Ambrose pounds onwards. It appears he's headed for the shadowy silhouettes of the Park's trees, still holding the revolver in his other hand. For now, no blood leaves the sleeve of his jacket for the cuff on it, but it does begin to stain and the wetness of the streaks along his skin is disturbing on a visceral level.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 1
*
Now that she's landed a blow, the woman just, stops. Ambrose runs on, and she stands there in the street, watching him go. She brings up the scalpel, smiles at her blood-marred reflection in the otherwise perfect, steel surface. "Pretty boys shouldn't run so much," she says on a sigh, and wipes one side of the blade on her fingers, careful of the edge. She smears the blood around, grips her hand in a tight fist, and says, "Where are you going, beautiful one?"
Despite the growing distance between them, Ambrose can feel her breath on his face, and hear her words like she's spoken them against his ear. The wound in his arm pulses, throbbing. "I don't want you to tire yourself out so much."
*
It has been a hard process forcing aside the burning brightness of the slice on his arm, for every step jogs his awareness of it to the front. There's an off-cadence to how it twinges now; experience tells him that this isn’t normal behavior for his body reacting to an open wound. A deep-seated fear of the unknown and the inexplicable isn't helping Ambrose's case as he continues onwards and through the opening in wrought-iron fencing that edges this span of the Park. He'll lose her in the pocket of woods and then he'll go to ground, yes — go to ground and —
With a furious snarl of denial, he sweeps his gun-hand before his face as if to displace cobwebs he might have run through. The woman's voice curling through the whorls of his ear is like a crop to his flank. Dry leaves lift and scuttle in his wake as he breaks from the pathway and across one of the open stretches of grass, headed for one of the patches of nearly bare-crowned trees and thick underbrush. "I've got eternity to run, witch, have you?" It's a snarling spit of a reply, on the outtake of a breath, on the off-chance that she can hear him back.
*
The woman has begun to follow in Ambrose's wake, striding like a queen come to claim her due. He's a beacon to her now, a gravity well she can follow for hours. All she needs is patience. A homeless man with a shopping cart sees her crossing the street, stops to stare, and *turns his cart around* rather than come any closer to her. In response to Ambrose's question, she takes a dab of blood off the other side of the scalpel and touches it to her tongue. As he runs Ambrose can feel a chill run from the slice on his arm clear up to his throat in an unwelcome caress.
He hears her voice again, intimately close. "I won't need to." Confirmation, then—she can hear him speak, at least.
*
"Ugh!" A sharp sound of revulsion at what crawls up his arm and into his shoulder, spreading in prickles of goosebumps like a sheet on his body. His shadow flies alongside him as Ambrose crosses that expanse of maintained lawn at the full-blown sprint. A rabbit in his path crouches as far down as it can manage before finally breaking cover and zigzagging away at a diagonal.
Finally, into the trees he slips and once in another hundred feet or so, striped and patterned by the urban light falling through branches, he pauses. Like a deer risking the chance of being seen, he holds still and stares back the way he came. Nostrils flare wide and his pupils shine that brilliant night-red. With a silent snarl, he turns his arm to look at the cleanly-separated clothing and his skin underneath, where the scalpel scored home. A hiss; it's fairly deep and hurts an impressive amount to wiggle the fingers of his left hand, but he's not entirely compromised. The Jackal holsters the revolver as he peers through the maze of old maple trees again, each breath silvering where the beams of light fall. "Cease and desist now, and I will spare you," he murmurs to no one — and someone beyond the pocket of foliage. "Continue at your efforts and no one will hear you scream." He's beyond any societal hangups about treating the fairer sex like porcelain now.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 2
*
It's some time before he sees the dark, determined shape of the woman come marching into view, her hair and face like a beacon in the park's lights; perhaps she went to a gate rather than scramble the fence. Despite the distance and the cover, Ambrose can feel her gray-green gaze as closely as he's heard her voice. She's coming right for him. Next to his ear, she murmurs, "Mmmmm, do you *promise* to make me scream, my lovely boy? It's been so long since anyone's fought this hard, it's delightful."
She contorts the hand coated with his blood in a strange gesture, and Ambrose can feel a pull radiating out from his arm, like the gentle, relentless tug of a fishing line and hook caught in his skin. Not so strong he couldn't pull back, though there's the question of what the hook is caught in, and how it will tear if he yanks himself free of the hook.
*
Like a cornered animal, Ambrose has time to consider his options: fight or flee. That lichen-hued gaze unerringly aligning with him confirms that this is beyond sheer pissant luck on her part. She's done something to him — that realization is enough to make his heart rush up into his ears like basso drums for a second before he swallows his own goddamn pulse back down. He claps a hand over the split skin of his arm in a move almost affronted at the phantom tug and then looks back up at her, eyes narrowed to slits.
"No — I will put you down like the animal you are," he growls even as he abandons the futile shielding of palm against his forearm to once again pull one of the revolvers. Aiming straight down the barrel, he'll have to shoot between multiple trunks and at a tremendously difficult distance, but perhaps luck will be in his favor.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 6
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 3
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 8
*
"There are *true* animals in this place, beautiful one." The woman doesn't flinch as Ambrose takes aim; instead, she dabs another spot of blood on her tongue, and the frigid sensation travels from his arm to his spine, and from there all along the length of it. "Beasts that would terrify the life from you to even behold. I'm just a little bird, as you said, seeking my fulfillment where I may." She continues on her way, ever on the approach.
*
Not even close. About fifty feet along the bullet's trajectory, the puft of damaged wood can be seen, a slug buried deep. Ambrose rises up onto his toes as the drag of an unseen icy finger continues down along his lower back and the gun's aim continues to waver dramatically. At this distance, it's making it functionally impossible to shoot the woman. He waits until the sensation ceases, sacrificing seconds for it, and watches her continue to approach.
"Then they'll appreciate picking the bones of your corpse." He raises the gun again, aims, and fires, still chancing the minute gap between layerings of tree trunks and the range between them.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 18
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 9
*
"My bones?" The next bullet might have had a chance at hitting her, if she'd still be there. He's too far away to feel the build up and draw in, but he sees the result; one moment, she's there on the grass, and the next, a third of the distance between them vanishes. She lifts her blood coated hand and turns it, and a grip like an iron vise closes down on his injured arm. "Or yours?"
*
A jump backwards, almost like a scalded cat, at seeing a solid object disappear at a distance and reappear nearer yet. Ambrose can't process that without a visceral reaction; once he lands in the loam, he turns on a dime and makes to break for it again, deeper into the trees. He makes it all of a half-dozen steps before the clench about his arm whites out his vision. The strangled shout can't be helped — the sudden band of pressure cranked stings, to put it nicely. He's all half-blind, scrabbling panic now, attempting to get to his feet properly again from his briefly collapse to his knees. Whatever fishing line pulls at him, he attempts to run out the reel itself like an ocean game fish, all ferocious flight.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 17
*
The woman lifts another drop of blood to her tongue. "If you come to me willingly, it won't be painful." This doesn't even sound like a lie; her voice is sooth and gentle, a herdmistress to one of her flock when the time for bloodletting has come. "I don't want to hurt you." The shiver-shock runs down from his arm to his legs, shaking them properly. Somewhere behind him leaves crunch. Did she teleport again? "Just enjoy you." There's no doubt, she's still on the approach. The grip takes on a sensation like his arm is being twisted against the injury. It's not actually moving, yet he can feel the pain as though it were.
*
"No!!!" It echoes through the woodland, whispering in turn off the stand of trees. The exclamation applies to myriad things. Denial to this situation, bloody as it's become. Denial at how his knees jelly and he trips over a root half-submerged beneath leaf-litter like a newborn colt. Denial at the way his brain is telling him that the cut is being opened deeper yet and yet here Ambrose's got his arm tucked against his chest as he tumbles down the small incline and into a small dry gulch where a stream runs in wetter seasons. Smooth and round rocks bruise where skin is thin, but still he works himself to his feet. Screw holding onto his revolver, that he holsters again as to better get both arms swinging. Spite, in combination with bone-deep fear, is such a powerful motivator. Up the other side of the hill he churns.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 13
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 6
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 11
*
The woman's sigh drifts over Ambrose's neck. He hears her feet crunch on leaves, and somehow, *feels* the leaves give way, like some part of him is being trodden on by her. "Of course," she says, and it's like it was in the alley; a gathering weight somewhere up the other side of the gulch, a rush of air, a release—and she's right next to him, "fear improves the taste." No killing blow, like he might expect, no jab of the scalpel. She just grabs his bloodied hand with the one she's already coated.
A jolt goes through him, and a weight begins to pull. At his blood, at his body, at him, a tide dragging him away from shore…and of course that includes the Bane. Which will be a problem for her, but the woman doesn't seem to notice that at first. She's too busy digging her hooked beak into him.
*
His heart flutters trapped wings against his rib cage. Leaves slip beneath his boots, far better suited for the drier surfaces of urban concrete. So close, just have to crest the hillock and freedom's beyond, almost there, almost —
Ambrose reacts as if he'd been hit by a taser. A full-body seizure brought on by the grip of her hand takes him on the last step of his retreat. Everything rushes from his skull, it seems, and he collapses to one hip on the loam, strung up by his arm and naught much else. The Bane surges up like a crocodile from the depths of his skin and clamps painful teeth onto the witch's hand in turn, seeming to swallow it from fingertip to elbow. A pins-and-needles prickling fights and blends and vomits up her own magic while attempting to sort out the life-energy of her body beneath it all. The Jackal is clutching at his coat over his heart with his free hand, gasping hoarsely for air as dark stars wink at the corners of his vision. Dying? Reviving? The swing in polarities is maddening.
*
Unpleasant surprise light's the witch's features; while Ambrose flails, she goes perfectly still, gazing down and in at the Bane and its hold. "Look at how special you are," she hisses. Her life energy isn't an energy at all; it's less a source, and more a void, a basin to drain into, with no outlets, yet the accreted magic around it keeps it stabilized unless breached.
It's not too much for the Bane to reach through, and so begins a tug of war. Her, dragging on Ambrose, and the Bane, dragging on her.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 18
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 2
*
Ambrose has no words, not when the undertow of her magic is dragging him down-down-down while the Bane keeps forcing him to the surface again and again for another desperate inhalation - another convulsion of frizzled nerves as they arc in reaction beyond his control - another hollow beat of his heart working against a lethe that so very much wants to draw him under.
An idea sparklers in his mind and just as soon falls apart even as he reaches for his belt. The knife is fumbled out of its sheath almost as soon as he has half-numbed fingers on it and falls to the leaf-litter, its blade weakly reflecting the ambient light fall in through the gap in the canopy above. He stares up at her, almost unseeing, wide-eyed in something akin to lack of comprehension even as the Bane works madly to do what it does best: siphoning life, and more selfishly, keeping its host existing.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 17
*
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d20 for: 5
*
"Now now," the witch purrs, and her void pulls and pulls. She's stabilizing herself, the shock of encountering the Bane receding and giving way to newly won patience. "Knives are mine." Can she consume the Bane? Would her life energy, such as it was, combine with the Bane into something new and more hideous?
Further down the gulley it's all shadowy darkness, the light obscured by bushes and trees that won't be shedding their leaves for winter. That darkness, which has sat silent save for an occasional tremor from the breeze, begins to move. Something has managed to approach in silence while their titanic struggle played out. There's a rippling shift that shines blue green purple in the dappled park lights, separating into a huge expanse of black feathers that is standing up, and up. A silvery metallic sheen plays over teeth in a long-muzzled face, and a whorled gleam suggests huge, curling horns. All of this is revealed in full, fiendish detail when the thing opens its eyes; they fill the darkness of the gully with a baleful yellow glow, lanterns against the ash gray fur of its wolfish head. Bronzey, pearl scales shine under that fur along its torso and down to its knees and elbows, and large, red stone amulet hangs from a bronze chain around its neck. A thick, heavy scar cuts a diagonal across its chest, from just below one shoulder to the opposite base of its rib cage.
The woman's head turns as soon as the thing next to them moves, and Ambrose can feel her force against the Bane tremble. "No," she says, furious, to those eyes, and a response comes: a deep growl, the kind that can shake the ground. Her voice rises to a shriek. "This one is *mine*!"
The force pulling against Ambrose and the Bane evaporates, leaving them straining against nothing. The woman releases his hand, spins and brings up the scalpel as the creature lunges forward, jaws wide.
*
|ROLL| Halgrim +rolls 1d20 for: 20
*
The Bane retracts into its host's skin almost like the snap of an industrial rubber band; or at least, that's how it feels to his overly-stimulated sensory system. A proper collapse now back onto the leaves and he's staring up at the night sky, now able to clutch at his chest with both hands and somehow that's monumentally better than before. Everything's still swimming because the curse took less than it wished; the cut on his arm still stings like the furies and someone's screaming? He rolls to one side on the gulch's incline and blearily squints.
What. The. Bloody. Hell.
Okay. The brain accepts this.
Nope. The brain doesn't like it.
Trying to get up is a fairly useless attempt in the end. He simply slides down on a sheet of wet leaves to the bottom of the small valley and lies there, breathing heavily, curled upon himself as he tries not to flinch at the sounds that follow.
*
The witch tries to aim for the beast's neck, since its abdomen is armored, but only manages a thin, glancing, slice before its huge teeth land on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. It swings her around, slamming her into the side of the gully with a bone-crunching force, and the woman wails, helplessly battering at the creature's head. It rams her into the gulley wall again, then drops her, letting her collapse to the ground in a heap. She's not dead; she makes fitful movements, trying to right herself. Her scalpel shines on the ground next to Ambrose, reflecting the light of the beast's eyes.
The creature looks down its long muzzle at her, then turns to Ambrose. It studies him, waiting, apparently expecting…something.
*
His shoulders work their way higher up about his ears as Ambrose listens. The sound of wet snapping bodes unwell for someone, whom, he can't see because he's still with his back towards proceedings. Relative silence falls and lingers, punctuated by the furtive movements of a weak body. His breathing feels to sound so loud even as he swallows down the metallic bile coating his tongue. By cringing centimeters, he opens his eyes and risks looking over the rutched sleeve, the one defiled by the very scalpel that lies so nearby to him.
"Oh God…!!!" he breathes, staring at the creature in its impossible amalgamation of parts all forming one cohesive whole that defies odds. More adrenaline numbs what pain haunts his joints and bruised skin as he tries to scrabble farther away from the creature and witch. A lucky kick of his boot sends the scalpel sliding away under the cover of fallen leaves, but he doesn't get far yet again. A bad slip and fall onto his bad arm is enough to jounce a sharp cry from his lungs and he curls up again on his side, half-hiding his face behind near-X'd forearms as if to ward off an incoming blow.
*
The beast makes a low, grumbling sound. Almost like a dismissal. He hears it turn (and sees the light from its eyes fade when it does so), hears the witch's last yelp against a sharp crack. Silence, then, save for the creature's breathing, which now that it's not bothering to be stealth sounds like a slow bellows, low and deep. He hears it shift to crouch on its heels next to the witches body, and it sniffs at her, particularly where she's bleed. It snarls softly, speaks a single word in a deep, gravely voice. "Defiler."
*
Oh. Bloody. Hell. It can speak?! The realization filters in through the gibbering of primal panic and the master-thief dares a look through the narrow slit formed where his arms do not overlap. The impossibility appears to be focused on the witch's dead body, not on him, but replying will make it look at him. Oh. God.
His voice is quiet, just above a whisper, raw from earlier yelling. "…you can speak?" Brilliant, Ambrose, confirm what you already know and draw its attention all at once. Shock does funny things to the process of making logical decisions.
*
That same sound comes again. It's a grunt, and definitely a derisive one. How can this thing put so much meaning into a single noise is a question for the ages. "As, it seems…can you." And now he's being mocked. More sniffing; it seems reluctant to actually touch her, and is puzzling over some quandary. Perhaps how to dispose of her.
*
By lowering his arms from before his face, the Jackal signals a hesitant belief in his own safety within this creature's presence. He doesn't lever himself up just yet, leery of attracting more attention and frankly not trusting his own knees to hold him up just yet. The Bane is steadily munching at the loam around him as is; far beneath, insects, moles, and mice are all targets.
"…well, yes, I just spoke," he replies, sounding vaguely annoyed if not still shell-shocked. The next thought seems to take some effort, but finally he gets out, "Bury her. Deep." His eyes close in a wince against the short-term memory of the recent happenstance. "The authorities won't find her before the ground freezes hard," he whispers with as much enthusiasm as reciting rote text.
*
The beast blows out a breath. Maybe it had been hoping for some sort of alternative which didn't involve digging. It steps past the body and begins the frustrating business of flinging dirt, which it does with considerable efficiency. Down here the body won't be found for longer still, and though the damage to the bones won't decay, the savagely torn flesh will. She'll look more like a victim of a vehicle than an animal, not the least because animals this size aren't supposed to be real.
*
The creature is a sizable thing yet and the master-thief's brain is busy trying to properly process the thing. Hangover from Bane-use doesn't help his case, so the monster gets compartmentalized in the end, tucked away into the file "To Be Addressed Later (e.g. NEVER IF IT CAN BE HELPED)". Ambrose listens to the sound of dirt moving and seems to shudder on his next exhale.
"Bloody hell…it's over now, Llew, it's over. Get up, man." His coaching murmur is for himself even as he creakily works to sitting upright, heavily favoring the arm sporting the reddened cut. He hisses complaint as he rotates his limb to look at it. Dammit. Looks like a night spent riding the subway is in order. The Bane's efforts haven't closed it thus far. He continues sitting, slumped to a degree, and listens as he rests his palm over the cut. When he hears an appropriate amount of silence, he dares glance over towards the creature. "…thank you." Always be grateful to those benevolent enough to remove an obstacle for you, a lesson learned over the decades.
*
The creature pauses between one huge double-clawed scoop of dirt and another to snarl an acknowledgement. The effort continues, because it's taken Ambrose at his word and is burying her deep. Almost as deep as the creature is tall. After a time it hefts itself out of the hole and drags her body in, flinging it carelessly. The reverse process commences, but goes faster. Between heaps of dirt, the beast snarls in its uncertain English, "Many, will workers, and. World shapers. In this," it stops, lifts its head to look up past the trees to the barely-visible light of the city beyond, "place." 'Place' is almost an epithet with how the creature says it. The refilling resumes. "Even something. Such as you. Must. Be wary."
*
Ambrose nods, his expression drawn and still a touch pale. He looks back to the creature after following its gaze to the distant winks of skyscrapers lit from within. "Yes…a straight case of piss-poor luck, that. I've never encountered anything like that before in my life." Another shiver runs through him. He's cold, damp, and yet another realization has crept up on him with the same skillful invisibility as his savior. God only knows if the vases survived the escapade. His eyes slide shut and he blows a long sigh. He'll check on the antiques once he's away from the literal scene of yet another crime on his laundry list tonight. "What's your name?" It seems an innocent-enough thing to ask.
*
Once the dirt is filled in, the creature begins stomping and stepping on it, tamping it down. It doesn't stop there; it finds loose rocks, sticks, and leaves to scatter over the site as well. The largest piece of evidence disposed of, it begins to sniff around. It grabs at certain leaves and dirt here and there, crushing and smashing them. …places where Ambrose's blood fell. The whole process is not unlike some animal rooting along the forest floor, and takes another handful of minutes.
The beast stands when it's done. In response to his question its huge, feathered mantle rises, fans out. "Names, are power." A warning. Or possibly an indication that a trade is required.
*
"Right," Ambrose says on a sharp exhale. "Right, they do." He rubs his palm on his pants before pulling back the rest of the mussed head-scarf, now properly revealing all of himself from chin to tip of brown hair. Now can be indulged a wipe at his face, as if he were still attempting to compose himself and bring his mind properly back to the present. "Lieutenant Atherton, Esquire," he decides upon as offering to the creature he's watching carefully — a portion of his real name as honorable recompense, but not a full name, of course. That he knows better than to offer. Another lesson hard-learned during his accursed existence. The monster even gets a proper courtly nod despite the master-thief's disheveled state. He can't help but ask, "…what were you doing? With the…other leaves? Places on the ground?"
*
The beast watches Ambrose for an unnervingly long silence. The inclusions in the amulet stone catch the light from its eyes and flicker in the darkness. It narrows its eyes as he speaks his name, or some of it; human names don't mean a lot to the beast, come to it. They're just noises humans make, empty of real meaning to the spirit made flesh. Yet they mean something to humans, and so…
"We…" It stops, one ear cants back. "I, am the heart that is torn. Fjorskar." The name hardly qualifies as a word coming from the beast's mouth, and has a flavor of some ancient, Northern European language.
That transaction finished, it jerks its muzzle towards the path they took. "Your blood, hers, they have power. Her nest, may not. Be empty." Its lips writhe, revealing dagger-like teeth. "And the humans might see it. As well."
*
A lift of rounded shoulder at the reveal of those silvery teeth once more, high enough that part of his face disappears behind it. Ambrose considers the dentation in particular before his gaze rises to that of lambency.
"Well-met, Fjorskar," he says back, his voice back to a raw near-whisper briefly. He closes his eyes now, brows knitting. A shiver runs through his body and he seems to fight for words before he continues on, "…a nest? You mean there may be others? Like her?" His gut regains a portion of its previously liquefied state at the thought alone.
*
The creature grunts a confirmation, lowers itself to rest on its heels. It's still huge like this, but at least it doesn't loom. "Fledglings. Juveniles." It snorts. "Those it teaches its ways." It stares at the place she's buries. A long breath in, then out. "They always. Raise a brood." It's eyes flick to him again. "They are hunters. But not like. You, or me. They hunt us."
*
"That is…horrifying." The whisper is hollow and silvers before his face in the wane lights of the city. The craquelure of shadows from branches overhead coats him. After a long minute of silence, Ambrose opens his eyes again and gives a gut-weary sigh. "I have no idea how to keep them from finding me again. You may have destroyed what I bled, but…but…how," he hisses, tangling up a large wad of the loosened black scarf around one hand, all the better to clutch something and hide away white knuckles. As if he could truly shield his anxiety from the creature; the metallic tang of his own bloody in combination with the stress sweat of once being prey sticks to him like cologne.
*
The beast heaves a sigh. It's almost a sympathetic sound. Almost. "How does the rabbit evade. The hawk. How does the fish, escape, the eagle. How does the deer. Avoid. The wolf." It tilts its head to see if Ambrose follows. "The hunters, will always seek. They need luck only once. You, need it always. So you must make your own." Its feathers flatten, lift again. "Know of them. Know what they seek. What they follow—and hide it. Always."
It pauses, sniffs, and begins to look around on the ground, snuffling like it did earlier. A few seconds of this, then it stops and jerks back, licking its lips. It snarls and gestures at something on the ground, a silver gleam: the scalpel.
*
The brunet listens to what the monster has to say and he sees the wisdom of it, brought down to the brutal simplicity of blood-chaser and blood-keeper — predator and prey. But he's human, he should not be prey! "I - I understand what you're saying, but this is magic, this isn't simple as — " His attempt to disagree falters when he sees the beast begin to work at the leaf litter. There's no missing the reveal of the scalpel he'd kicked away minutes earlier. He stares as if the item alone were venomous, able to injure him by proximity alone. Still, the creature is right. Even from a distance, he can see where the ambient light doesn't gleam; that would be his blood marring the surface.
As if his joints ached, he unsteadily makes his way to his feet. Leaves fall from him as he walks over, light-footed and uncertain by step. A chary stare at the monster, but still he stoops to pick up the blade after a second's hesitation of fingers overtop it. The thing goes away into an interior pocket of his coat, heedless of open blade. "…thank you," he braves again in a whisper, his eyes slowly rising up her body until he's looking her dead in the face, rather close for his liking.
*
The creature doesn't step back, perhaps gauging how comfortable Ambrose is, or isn't, in proximity. "It is, that simple. Humans complicate things which need, not be. Confuse themselves, and then become lost. Filled with *fear*." The word fear comes out of her mouth like a spell in and of itself; it's the sound of people huddling in caves while forgotten beasts hunt for them in the dark. "That is when they make, grave…mistakes." The voice of experience, there, and no doubt about it, even through the rough, gargling language.
She blows out a breath, forceful enough to stir his hair. "Do not, lose yourself, in an attempt. To make it more. Than it is. That is vanity, to assume. That because you cannot except, or understand. What is simple. That it must be more." The beast slides forward, moving to all fours, and begins to move away. It's an odd gait, yet fluid none-the-less.
*
His shoulders do attempt to reach his ears again after that snort of an exhale, but Ambrose stands his ground. This one…this one he could not run from — and in this instance, knowing he's relatively safe, the old addiction to danger and adrenaline can be assuaged without complication. He watches the creature turn to leave and finds himself simultaneously relieved and dismayed; yes, please, go away, most dangerous thing, but…how interesting it is, this creature who went out of its way to save him when it was entirely unnecessary. That spurs his question, a quiet one, full of weight despite it being few words in totality:
"…why save me?"
*
Fjorskar stops, looks back at Ambrose. "When a creature of power. Consumes another. Creature of power. The result is…far worse. Than either were, before." She bares her teeth. "I do not know. If I could have. Killed her, myself. Once she had consumed you." The light of her eyes wavers as they flick up and down in an examination of him. She doesn't need the Sight to have felt what was going on between the witch and Ambrose. She might not know the particulars, but she also didn't need to. "And now that she. Is dead. There is no purpose. To killing you." Her nose wrinkles. "Your smell is wrong, Helschild. You are not. For consuming."
*
A gulp. "I understand," comes the raspy whisper. Ambrose appears acutely uncomfortable where he stands now, enough to rub at the outside of his forearm, beneath the cut as not to cause pain. "I would…rather not be eaten, yes. I might be…stringy?" He volunteers the thought as a weak joke, fully expecting to fall flatter than a lead balloon — still, worth a try, given the creature's intelligence on display. "They called me 'Deathstalker' once…after a scorpion. In the desert. I am…cursed. I did not deserve your aid. Thank you." More emphasis brings his voice up louder yet briefly.
*
Fjorskar dismisses the stringiness of Ambrose's flesh with a wave of one clawed hand. "Cannot consume of your kind any, longer." It's a dismissive explanation, almost an attempt to be petty. 'I never liked how humans tasted anyways.' "It is not deserve. All must preserve that, which is wild. Or there will be none." She considers him anew, lifts her eyes to the ugliness of the city beyond the trees. Her ears lie back, and her eyes narrow. "We are all cursed. To be in this place." And with that she turns to go.
*
"…are we?" All cursed, he wonders, turning to look over his shoulder at the winklings of light through the trees, where humanity towers over this small patch of wilderness. His attention returns to front and he watches the monster prowl away from him. "…be well," comes the whisper, so softly as to be heard likely by inhuman ears alone for all it ghosts along his palate to slip from his lips.
Now is the time for healing. Even as he begins his own departure, he doesn't turn his back on the beast. Instead, a goodly number of backwards steps until intuition tells him that he'd at least have a horrid head-start if she wheeled and came after him on a whim. Only after that does he attempt to figure out the order in which his self-care should be enacted. Turns out to be a shower followed by change of clothing followed by some food and then a ride on the subway, perhaps the last just in time for the morning rush. Everyone will be yawning, but not because they didn't have enough coffee.
*