#anywhere

"Well I.. Oh dear" She says

She opens the cupboard

There is a shadow inside the dark cupboard, and she has fangs sunk into a foil packet of tuna! A hiss as the light shines in.

Green eyes blink and dilate to adjust to the light.

"Lovecraft?"

The shadowcat jumps down to the countertop gracefully, tuna packet still clutched in fangs. Sometimes even dumb mortal dogs can sense chimera, so she stays up out of reach.

"I'll leave this one to you" Tove observes

"Is there a shortage of tuna at the Lee's"

Lovecraft licks a paw briefly. "Caaaaaaans."

"But Symon can open cans."

"Has he not been?"

Tove does look concerned "She's never raided us before, not like this... that's..mmm " Worried sound

Her eyes narrow and she washes the paw fiercely.

"Dagmar. Open the can for her. See what you can learn from her if she'll talk. I need to make a call"

Dagmar fishes a small plate from the cupboard.

Lovecraft is muttering hissy whispers. "Mountain promise tuna, but mountain home has smelly dog-thane. Not fair, precious."

"Lovecraft, will you let me open the pouch and dish it out proper?"

The can is batted onto the floor in (somewhat rude) answer.

Brow.

"I am not the Mountain, and I did not promise you tuna."

"Troll pay troll promise." She suggests.

"Oh dear" Tove sighs "I'll call the mountain while I'm at it" And off Tove goes

A stretch, and she eyes the curtain hanging over the sink. Her claws flex, wondering how it might feel.

"I'm not Vali anymore than you are Odin." Dag picks up the package of tuna and opens it.

Lovecraft is shoving her face in before it can even be emptied onto the dish. Dagmar may risk a finger.

Granted, Chimera do not need to eat mortal food, in most circumstances, but that doesn't stop some from LIKING it. And who is to tell a cat what they're allowed to do? There are customs to be observed.

If the shadowcat wasn't always skeletal thin, she might expect her to be acting starved.

She does attempt to spoon the rest of it out onto the plate around Lovecraft without injury.

She does, however, kenn the beast.

The tuna disappears with alacrity, and the plate is licked clean. To kenning sense, she is perfectly healthy, though Dagmar's cat sense, honed by Odin, can tell that even full, she is still irate. Tail tip lashing as her face is washed.

A frown, and she pulls down an old margarine container from the cupboard. It smells of catnip.

She HAS been around the barn and lodge more than usual. That is, more often than she lurks about when Symon isn't there.

Ears prick.

She pops open the lid. "Do you like catnip? Odin can take or leave it."

"Troll gives it to us. Yes." Eyes widening now from annoyed slits to interested orbs.

"Okay, can do." She sprinkles a hefty pinch on the counter.

Lovecraft leaps over and shoves her nose into it, rubbing her face against the fragrant herb.

A worried crease between her eyebrows again. She risks a very gentle stroke down Lovecraft's back.

Her back arches, and she presses against the hand. Rare is it the kithain who has attempted such. Few have tried. Some have died. But Dagmar is... permitted.

Perhaps softened by tuna and catnip, mmm.

Perhaps.

She has learned from Odin that cats are always in charge of how much attention and affection they receive. But since this seems welcome enough at the moment, she will give it.

Lovecraft nibbles more catnip, and, despite her frosty demeanor... is that even a purr?

Granted, it sounds somewhat like a death-rattle.

Trolls are not sluagh, but they are capable of being quiet and gentle.

Simple affection - no gooey cooey noises or fuss.

Lovecraft is too scrawny for a proper loaf, but she settles down in a shadowy lump, idly pawing the remaining catnip into a nice dusty mess.

"We have plenty of nip, if you ever n-.. want more."

"Ssssssymon. Should." A touch petulant.