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First rule of survival club:

You do not throw rocks at a pack of mongrel dogs.

Okay, so it wasn't the first rule, but it was up there next to not harassing bears or grown, hairy-men with slabs of meat for hands and a meat cleaver in one fist. Common sense, man-rules.

Amahté didn't like dogs. In fact, you could go as far as to say he hated them (this was not to be mistaken for fear, as the boy-king was afraid of no mutt!). And right now, the level of said hatred for canines was so poignant, so concentrated, that he could have had horse blinders on. Mix that with a dollop of desperation, and you have the beginnings of a fused Molotov cocktail; he was definitely close to ignition.

He was focused on two things: how fast he was running and the thinness of his strapped sandals. The Scent could feel the smooth roundness of the cobbles beneath his feet, how they dug into the arch of his foot as he pounded the pavement. He could hear how his breath wasn't in his ears, as it was held tight in the bottom of his stomach, he could feel the chilling air cutting his cheeks and flaking his parchment-dry lips. The loudest sound he heard was the rapid-fire clickclickclickclick of un-clipped claws on the stones, the occasional bark and snapping of teeth. His hands were hot, sweaty, burrowed in the front-pocket of his sweater because he was making sure what he had tucked in there was safe and secure.

Amahté cleared the gutter (losing his sandals in the process) and bolted across the busy street, straight-lining for the first door he saw. Ripping his hand from his pocket, he tore into the coffee shop, greeted by a friendly chime that was cut short when he slammed the door into the eager muzzles of the small pack of four dogs. Instead of slumping in relief, adrenaline made the boy slam his hands flat into the window of the door with a bang! and heave a great, big "HA!"" at the dogs snapping their teeth in furious barks at the glass.

From this proximity, he could count the bubbles in the foam of their saliva. For a moment, Amahté's expression mirrored the dogs growling at him-- teeth bared, wild and feral and heaving. The only difference was the wicked triumph in his too-bright eyes.

He crouched and tapped at the glass, cooed between gasps of air as he tried to catch his second wind and assuage the stitch in his side, just to harass the obvious alpha.

Not exactly the kind of show a calm coffee shop ever expected.

Two of the four dogs had already lost interest in him and had decided to take out their frustrations on sandals they had snuffled from the gutter. His sandals. It wasn't until they clenched them in their maws, being shaken and chewed on that he realized his feet, hot from running, were now entirely too cold on this new floor. Those had been a really good pair of sandals too. He curled his bare toes against the floor and sneered at the dog still huffing and puffing his hot breath across the glass. The corners of Amahté's eyes creased, go on then, get out of here.

Hello.

The Scent jumped out of his skin, whipping around with an explosion of a look crossing his painted features. His hands went instinctively to his pocket, covering it with both hands. They didn't smack down, but cupped the lump against his stomach gingerly. It wriggled.

"What?" he snapped. His voice, breathless and defensive, sucked back into his mouth when he really took a look at the little girl and saw her rather than just reacting to her voice. He didn't feel guilty, he never felt guilty, but... his lips flattened into a sort of pout, eyes flashing with suspicion.

"...Hello."

The lump made a mewling noise.

Like children were wont to do, as Pana inspected him, he scrutinized her. From the curling foam of her hair to the patterns etched on her eyelids-- of which he felt the overbearing need to touch, but settled for running a finger across his own brow instead-- she was just... different. It was a point she drove home when she sat on the floor to remove her boots. No question mark or hesitation, a 'here, have them' and not a 'would you like?' He followed her to the floor in instinctive habit, sitting Indian-style (which probably wasn't entirely proper considering his kilt; oh well! Boys will be boys!).

He lifted his chin in haughty pleasure, because when he remembered himself, he also remembered that he was a boy-king and that it was only natural that one of his subjects should selflessly offer the very shoes off of their feet when they saw he had none! Amahté didn't even question the absurdity of the situation (or the fact that, in spite of being boots, they were still pretty feminine), and reached for the first boot when she passed it over. He was staring at the pattern running down her leg and pulling it on at the same time when his toes jammed.

"Ow!" He bent over -- carefully! -- and tried to adjust it. He tapped the heel against the floor, but his foot refused to fit. "You have the wrong size." Because, you know, it was her fault his feet didn't fit in her shoes. The Scent twisted like some sort of yoga lord, tugged the boot off and nearly clocked himself in the chin with its sole. He gave it back to her.

"It's good to know my people know their place," he said instead of 'thank you.' They were learning! He scooted closer and poked her leg, tapping the pattern there, sating his curiosity, "What's this? A brand? Who do you belong to?" Amahté didn't brand his people and if she was in his kingdom, bearing some foreigner's mark... well! Well! This did not please the boy-king at all.

A man stood from his table and idled behind the pair. Leaving wasn't an easy task when two kids were barricading the way out. Amahté's eyes cut up quick, expression a plaintive 'what?'

Amahté's leg jumped when she touched him, a panicked horse's movement because he was quite unused to being touched, and he couldn't quite tell you if the contact had been pleasant at all since he was too focused on how foreign it had felt. His hand found the invisible pattern she had traced like she had left it behind and he scratched at the spot, brows furrowed.

"Well, good," he said and when she said she didn't belong to anyone, he looked at her skeptically because he didn't believe her at all. "Because you're supposed to belong to me and I wouldn't like it one bit if some conqueror were trying to take what's been mine since birth."

He spoke so smoothly, so surely, that one knew there was no punchline. This was no joke. The man hovering over them wasted few precious seconds of patience on them, instead opting to step over them while muttering about kids and their lack of manners and where were their parents? and something about bad parenting. The Scent rolled onto his knees to shut the slowly closing door with a swift bang. He didn't want the dogs to come in, after all! He stared out the window a moment longer (the street was clear of heaving mongrels, praise be!) before climbing to his feet.

"Where would be the nearest place to get some warm milk?" he asked, back to business. He obviously didn't know what a café was or else he would have known the place he was standing in could help. The lump shifted, and tiny hooked white things (was that the shape of a paw there?) appeared from the inside of his sweater, and the fabric of his sweater itself gave a violent squiggle before a head popped upside down from the pocket. A fuzzy, caramel colored head with massive ears and an even bigger forehead and the bluest eyes this side of the sky.

Its long, drawn out 'mrrrriauuuu' was cut off when Amahté coughed loudly like he often saw guilty parents do and shoved it hastily back into his pocket. A woman at a nearby table turned in her seat to look at the two children; the boy pointed at Pana wide-eyed and shrugged. It earned him an oh, you kind of a smile as she turned back around.

Another person who didn't know who he was! Really, they needed to advertise his reign more. Didn't he walk around the city quite enough? Amahté's pout mirrored Pana's.

"I'm Amahté, king of all that is and ever will be!" he said grandly, crossing his arms in a stately fashion... or he would have, if he didn't have to relocate his arms high on his chest to accommodate his passenger. He dropped them down after a minute, lip curling up in disdain (so many questions!), "I'm not an Indian. I'm pharaoh and-- this isn't a game."

At this point, anyone listening would have mistaken his words as a major case of make-believe. Most people did. The Scent, however, was dead serious. But if this girl was willing to help him get milk for his tiny charge, then he wasn't about to rebuke her assistance. He leaned forward conspiratorially and his brows lifted over his painted eyelids, urging her to go on.

"Where can we get some, um... you girl?" Did she even give him her name? No matter!

See, he said we. We meant more than one. It probably meant Amahté and the cat, but why not include her too? Girls, he'd found, had been quite a bit more useful than any boys he'd ever met.

"And you must keep quiet about it," he said in a loud stage-whisper, pressing his thumb to her mouth.

Amahté frowned. What was taking so long?

In truth, it had been maybe 30 seconds since Pana had flounced off to go attend to his and his charge's needs. It should have been half that, really, considering the young man behind the counter should have been falling over himself to serve his king. However, when the girl with the whipped hair spun around and came back his way, he saw that she came empty handed and scowled immediately.

We need a distraction.

Amahté snapped his mouth shut with a tense thoughtfulness, glaring over her shoulder at the barista. His hands drifted back into his pocket, fingers stroking the kitten's soft, if not matted, fur.

"Well. Okay. I guess that makes sense," he grumped after a moment. Perhaps this would benefit both him and the people. If they didn't know him, he'd just have to tell them. "Okay." he repeated.

Spinning on a heel, Amahté marched over to the nearest table -- one occupied by a university student sipping tea -- scrambled into the iron-wrought chair, before climbing onto the table. He kicked books off the top, much to the student's yell of surprise (and anger), and surveyed the coffee shop.

...Hm. Not good enough.

Amahté leap frogged to the table to the left, this one much more "center stage." The woman seated there threw her body across the table in order to keep it from tipping and sending the little boy flying.

People were getting up, but not moving to action. He figured it must have been out of adoration and surprise in their realization that this boy was their king!, but it was really social etiquette keeping them back.

And a healthy dose of responsibility shuffling. Amahté took their hesitance and raised his arms.

He got as far as "Greetings, my worshipers!" before the barista was up and over the counter and he was being snatched off the table in a flurry of arms, legs, and yelling. A ball of fur leapt from the fray and scampered across the open floor, avoiding the throngs of feet and people, and headed (inevitably) in Pana's direction.

"Knew he was going to be trouble the moment he came in--"

"--he spilled my mocha latte!"

"Who is his mother!?"

"LET ME GO!!"

The flea-bitten dog that was karmic revenge was probably laughing somewhere in the distance.

He couldn't believe the insolence of some people! Who did they think they were, manhandling their king like some common criminal?? Amahté continued to twist and scream and curse them all, their mothers, grandmothers, ancestors--

"And just you wait and see, if you do not unhand me at THIS VERY MOMENT, the god Petbe will strike you all down with the righteous hand of the GODS for handling me so!" he shrilled, twisting and turning until he had Indian burns in questionable places.

"He suffering delusions-- "

"Maybe he doesn't have parents?"

"Can you grab his legs, I think he's aiming for my-- oof!"

Amahté's heel connected with the smaller barista's groin and he doubled over, dropping the Scent like a heavy sack of mulch. Luckily, the boy caught himself on his hands and knees, and not waiting for more grabbing hands -- the crowd was momentarily suspended in a moment of shock ("Oh gods, are you all right?" "Someone, get the boy!") -- Amahté propelled himself forward and bolted through the legs around him. He sprang towards Pana, or rather, that unmistakable head of hair, bracing his hands against her back as he rocketed into her. He bunched her shirt, because if anything, adrenaline at least made sure to keep her upright (she had a kitty, after all, he could care less about her--).

"Game's over, you two--"

The bell rang as the door swung open. The fat barista turned his head to catch the confused face of a customer, who blinked at the barricade.

"Uhh..."

Amahté shoved Pana, "Go, GO!"