The young werewolf was walking through downtown, looking for a store he could go into, get warm, and not be totally bored in. It was proving to be most difficult.

It didn't help much that the handprint on his neck was starting to tingle.

Cort was dressed in winter clothing, which did well to hide the black spot. Sweater, jacket zipped up tight, heavy pair of jeans, shoes, and a scarf which did double duty as a warmer and a hider.

It had little wolves running through snowbanks.

He stopped at a storefront window, looking in at the fur coats that were on display. He felt a pang of almost hunger when the door opened as a customer came out and he was able to smell the fur of those little, yummy animals. Sure, it was mostly covered in perfumes, curings, and other things like that, but there was still a faint smell of... mink, and rabbit.

He was pulled from these nice thoughts by a twinge in his neck. He kept moving, but it seemed to be getting worse.

He turned a corner, hoping to find a better, less boring store on this block.

Possibly, there are better, less boring stores.

There's also Azrael.

He's leaning against a patch of brick between massive storefront windows, apparently smoking a cigarette. The smoke makes interesting patterns in the air as he breathes it in and out of nonexistant lungs, ignoring the werewolf who has turned the corner despite the fact that he almost certainly knows he's there. Almost certainly.

In deference to the cold weather, the god of death is wearing a lightweight white tee-shirt with an ornage Hawaiian sunset badly printed on the front and a pair of white corduroy pants. A thin, lightweight white scarf hangs from his thin neck-- not nearly enough to keep him warm in this weather, especially not with him not wearing a coat. His hair is white and his eyes are lined in the same orange as his shirt is printed with. In general, he looks like a three-dimensional poster for some chic, anorexic clothing store.

His customary grin is absent.

Cort almost didn't notice the god.

Almost.

As he got closer, the throbbing got worse. It wasn't until he was in front of the god that he noticed the god, for a few reasons. One, the handprint on his neck seemed to be searing anew, and two, he finally smelled the musty, dead, absent smell that usually came with the appearance of Az.

He turned to look at the absurdly dressed figure, and the pain in his neck stopped. Sort of. There was still a dull throb.

He sneezed, the smell getting to him.

"You look cold." It was not said amiably. Almost with a sinister enjoyment.

Azrael gives him a bland look, pulling the cigarette from between his too-white lips.

"You look human," he returns, with some enjoyment. His mouth twitches, as if itching to spring back into its usual grin.

"I think 'look' is the key word, here."

Some resentment at having been turned, maybe? You bet your ass.

"What did you do when you gave me this thing?" he asked, pulling down the scarf just enough to let it be seen briefly. "Some kind of voodoo magic, or something?"

"I guess that depends on how much you know about Voudun." Yes, there's the grin. It flashes briefly, and then he brings the cigarette back to his lips and it disappears.

He closes his eyes and appears to take a good long drag. When he speaks, smoke escapes from his mouth in a way that doesn't white look like he's breathing it out.

"You could say it's a bit more than a handprint, though."

"Damn useful, I say."

He rubbed it gently, as it was still throbbing.

"Lets me know when to turn the other way and run."

Death flicks the cigarette off into the air, where it dissolves into smoke.

"You think running would be useful, if I wanted to see you?"

All this is said casually. He continues to lean languidly against the wall, as though he couldn't care less and wouldn't move for the world. Only his eyes, pale as always, rest on Cort with interest.

Well. Half-lidded interest.

"Probably not."

A shrug now, followed by a quick puff of breath that clouds in the cold air.

"But it gives me a sense of personal control."

The god glances blankly at Cort for a moment, his hands in his pockets. Finally, he says,

"Wanna see something neat?"

Now realizing he was maybe a bit too brassy, Cort took a half step back and repeated himself.

"Probably not."

Azrael tilts his head at Cort.

"Too late."

Taking his hand out of his pocket, he reaches up and scratches his cheek as though it were possible for him to have itches. Casual. Human.

"Cort? Howl."

Now, it'd be pointless for gods to be able to control non-god sentients all the time. Really, honestly pointless. However, with a good, quick burst of power and a nice, subtle tinkering with internal mechanics, it's certainly possible. Of course, Azrael isn't going to be telling Cort that he doesn't have complete and utter control over the were.

For a split second, Cort frowned. Then he felt it coming.

It wasn't just a swelling in his chest, or a feeling deep within; it was an instinct. His wolf-side had been released just slightly, letting the howl come through. Without knowing what he was doing, he looked straight up and let out a howl which sounded remarkably like a wolf's, considering the body he was in.

After a good, long howl, he looked at Azrael, the poor boy's face flushed with embarrassment.

Of course, now he could feel something just below the surface of his own mind stalking the dark corners.

"Personal control's an illusion... especially for a werewolf."

Oh, that was fun.

Cort narrowed his eyes, and surprised himself by letting a small growl escape his lips.

smell bad, attack

It wasn't in any language, or even any words that were comprehensible. Just a feeling from under the humanity.

He stopped himself and hitched up the scarf with a sniff.

"Yeah, well."

"Well what?" he asks, as though the answer to this question were the most interesting thing he could possibly be curious about, ever.

His eyes look odd, lined in orange.

"Well... whatever."

That's it, retreat into teenage communication.

"You're an odd one." He straightens up, taking his wieght off the wall, and flicks one dangling end of the white scarf over his shoulder.

"You know, I'm curious. Would you really have taken Dacia's favour for her?"

"Yes," he said, then paused. "Yes."

It hadn't really occurred to him why he would, but he would.

"Interesting. Do you really think it would be better?"

Considering all the many, many things Azrael has done with the wonderful Cort over the years they've been acquainted.

"Better for her, at least."

Cort frowned. "She's too... happy to be in your debt."

"You know, despite the conventions about Death... I'm not altogether an unhappy being."

On 'conventions about death', the shadows engulf him and form into a black robe and shining scythe, only to disappear again almost immediately.

Reminiscent of their first meeting, really.

Cort's face darkened.

"You're not unhappy, but you do seem to have a knack for making others unhappy."

"Oh? I guess it's possible. I hadn't noticed."

He darts forward, one finger catching Cort under the chin in a version of the 'coochie-coochie-coo' gesture.

"Why? Are you unhappy?"

It was more of a reflex than anything else, but he knocked the god's hand away, this time with the added effect of a snarl, the something rising up. It wanted to snap at Azrael's fingertips.

"You might say that."

"And what would make you happier, little wolfboy?" he asks. He doesn't seem concerned by the offence of knocking his hand away-- that's Azrael. Unpredictable.

Cort shrugged. He knew better.

"I dunno. Not much."

"Oh? Surely there's something you desire-- something that would make you pleased."

He crosses his arms, clearly unwilling to believe otherwise. (Where did he learn human body language, anyhow? or is it so odd that he'd know it?)

Cort tried to think of something harmless.

"A piece of paper would make me happy right about now."

"You're kidding." This isn't an exclamation. He's just stating it. (Kidding... thinking of something harmless... same thing.)

"Come now, Cort. I'm not trying to get you into my debt. I'm sure I've demonstrated that I can do more or less as I like with you without worrying about debt. I'm just curious-- hmm?"

"Honestly?"

Cort stared hard at Azrael, then sneezed again.

"For you to go away."

"Good thing I wasn't planning on giving you what you wanted."

He coughs into his fist, and frost forms on the ground underneath Cort's feet, freezing the were's shoes to the ground.

This done, he moves closer.

Cort gave a few futile tugs. A growl tried to force its way out, but he stopped it before it could get very far.

The animal under his humanity was feeling panicky. He had a strong urge to ganw his legs off.

Instead, he said, "Aw, damn."

Death slides up close to Cort, wraps an arm around his shoulders and, leaning the were back like he's going to tango with him, pulls the scarf down to give his handprint a good look.

Cold fingers. Cold fingers.

Very cold fingers, and very uncomfortable position.

Not physically (though it is, a bit), but more emotionally. He can't do anything from this position.

"What're you doing?"

"Oh, just taking a look. Does it hurt much?"

Now, let's think. Azrael almost certainly knows the answer to this question already, so-- why is he asking?

Because he wants Cort to answer.

"No."

Then it gave a nasty throb, as if teaching him the folly of lying.

The god's mouth is awfully close to Cort's face.

"Does it bother you much?"

Cort swallowed, feeling another sneeze coming on. He wanted so badly to sneeze in his face, but willed it away.

"No."

Throb.

Lips almost touching. When he speaks, his voice is like a physical touch.

"Would you like it to go away?"