Owner	Pose
Angelo Tampambulos	It's not like this is the first time people have become unreasonable in the world. Just look at history to see the signs of it. Wars, riots, comic book conventions. You name it, there has been conflict for as long as there has been humanity.     And let's be honest, it's not like humanity desperately needs to be pushed into conflict. There are times when conflict seems to be the natural order of things. And then there are times when a certain... nudge has been needed to go one way or another. Point in case: The Trojan War. And how did that conflict get started? It wasn't Paris or Helen. No, it wasn't even Agamemnon or Priam. It was Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite... each believing that they were the most beautiful goddess... and why did they believe this? Eris caused that with one little apple. Long story. But there are times when the goddess of strife and discord has been subtle, weaving patterns here and there. And then times when she'd just shove discord down the throats of mankind. Take the holocaust for example...     In the modern day, she's been feeling like she was fading at times, and she wanted a mortal avatar. She didn't want to walk the world herself where she was at risk, but an avatar could give her the total freedom to do so, without putting herself at risk.     Demigods are off limits for whatever reason, and she hates that rule. But for now, she has decided that Homo Magi are as close as she can get to a demigod body to possess as an avatar as she can get... and she's set her sights on Zatanna.     The potent sorceress has been plagued by terrible night-terrors, by people being mean and spiteful around her at all times. And finally, like out of some terrifying movie, Eris seeming to speak to her through those mortals, who have no memory of doing so afterwards... it's been a really harrowing time to be Zatanna.
John Constantine	Harrowing times call for harrowing measures, which is _probably_ why Zatanna resorted to calling in the Constantines. To be fair, there's nothing harrowing about Meggan unless you're someone who finds her sunny disposition and unrelenting optimism a detriment. John, on the other hand. Wellllllllllll. John Constantine is wearing his trademark black slacks, white shirt, red tie, and that beaten down, musty, stained, but still somehow miraculously clean (Meggan insisted on them doing laundry and it shows) trenchcoat. It's not a uniform! It's a trenchcoat. At the moment, he's walking around Shadowcrest manor, holding up different colored glass, eyeing things, and sniffing them. You know, typical John stuff. "Well," he says," your wards are definitely shot, luv." He turns to Zatanna and Meggan. "Something's been doing hinky shite around here, too. Fact, I sniffed it on you earlier but figured it might just be random magical residue. But now." He hrms. "It's all over here, too."
Meggan Constantine	The harrowing of Meggan Puceanu comes when she changes the null energy of creation's inversion. When Mab calls her to order, the vestiges of humanity fall and consequently the worlds suffer. Alternately someone decides to get dystopian on nature and she, in her dystopian outrage, starts to get Pamela Isley way better than she should. John's come dressed for bear, while the blonde sunshine child channels her inner happiness via a Union Jack slipdress, combat boots, boyshorts, and a very happy pair of bluebells riding in her thick braids. His is a uniform, hers is a statement from 1996. "Would a magnifying glass help? Sherlock uses them. Oh, but you've not got the deerstalker!" Investigation is not her strong suit. The world's best detective appreciated her the most as a /cat/, after all, but didn't tell her how to blunder through the process properly. Therefore, the brighter Constantine floats as temptation takes her, feeling for the wrong in Shadowcrest in a purely dysfunctional to a normal person manner. Batman would hate it. Watching someone dither here, then flutter over there, and then find a pretty bit of the chandelier to be agog at. The Bat kids would hate it. No reason, no rhyme. She hums. "Very factual, innit? That, versus wonky crap or fuck-knows-all." When it comes to mimicry, she's excellent. To the point it's just the feminine, higher form of John's voice saying John things at a John cadence.
Zatanna Zatara	Homo Magis need nerves of steel. Stage magicians need nerves of steel. Living in the modern world can require nerves of steel. Something has been stalking Zatanna for weeks on end. She can't remember her last night of sweet sleep without waking in wide-eyed terror from being thrown from a cliff to be dashed on sharp rocks below. Nothing can stop the dreams stretching her on the rack of fear, not even knowing she will wake because she is never sure that will happen. Pale faced with dark circles under her eyes; she paces next to the Constantines, casting dark glances at each of John's sniffs. The indomitable sorceress has begun to fray. Irritably, "That is only the least of it, John. I think I need to fire my staff and..." She is not sure she can bring herself to talk about the dreams. Daylight won't dispel them. Dressed in unremitting black from head to toe, admittedly designer black, Zatanna eyes her possible saviors dubiously.
Angelo Tampambulos	And when it comes to the wards, it's like they weren't battered down. It's not like Star Trek shielding that was overpowered. The feel of it is that something just kinda... snuck inside. Or was allowed inside. The truth of it was... when the shadowy demonic infestations were released in the estate... yeah, it was a package that was carried inside. Right past the wards... when those spirit forms erupted out of it... and were subsequently chased off.... well, let's just say that not every spirit that was in there was a shadowy attacker. Not every aspect was obvious and violent. Eris plays the long game. She wants access to a Homo-Magi because she wants to infuse her divine power and will into pure magic. Imagine the strife she could cause from within Zatanna's body.     But... one of those spirits that was released has been hiding. Quite effectively. It is not like people just know what sorts of spirits are doing what. Well, some know. Some figure it out. And some... like a faerie representative who some consider flighty, but whom is really just... everywhere at once, can smell something off about Zatanna. Spirits who are skilled at concealing themselves from mortal magicks, and whom have been doing so for thousands of years... have basically sunk their roots into Zatanna's psyche. They have attached themselves to her dreams... and they literally only manifest when she -is- dreaming. Otherwise they are virtually undetectable. That is why things have been so hard to nail down of late.     But those well versed in the old myths, the old gods... might think to search for Oneiroi spirits... servants of Phobetor, Phantasus, Morpheus, or all three... during her waking hours, Zatanna is plagued by people suffering from Eris's influence, but the dream attackers are striking from inside the wards. Those wards are not being breached over and over...
John Constantine	"Well." John puts his hands on his hips and leans back, looking at the ceiling, then back at Zee and Meggan. "I take it back. I see the wards. They're just frayed from the inside, which admittedly I wasn't looking for. Whatever got in here snuck in first, released something inside, and the wards just started to come apart because the hole wasn't patched." He hrmphs. "Patching wards is shoddy work anyway, we'll have to take them down entirely and do it from scratch." "You 'aven't been sleepin', can tell that from the bags under yer eyes," John tells Zatanna. "You're being harrassed during the day. You being harassed at night, too?" He may not be Vic Sage or Batman, but he's an investigator! He knows the thing!
Meggan Constantine	Meggan tips her head as she feels out the weight and immensity of Shadowcrest. It differs from the House of Mystery in many ways; the latter is ancient, sentient, a byproduct chiselled out very long ago by divine hands. Different from Shadowcrest, a thing of mortal make, even of the homo magi who created it to suit their needs in a time of burning, doubt, and the swords of faith or reason drawn against the mystical. That's all to say she mostly admires over here, and takes a good long look over there. "Lovely couch!" and actually means that, though she stands on her tiptoes to feel around it. "Um... why your help? You suspect them of something? I'm not so good at crime procedurals, they always go right over my head after a bit. Unless it's James Bond." Braids hide the slope of her pointed ears as the Tuath goddess sheepishly ducks her head. "Right, business. No distractions." The methodical process would never work for her in the first place, so she breathes out a sigh that smells of fresh willow buds, violets in woodland dells, and a brush of the first almond blossoms of spring. "Hyssop for purification, rosemary for clarity, and wood betony to end despair and restore balance. Hawthorn blossom would help but it's out of season. Juniper will do, a length as long as my hand." She holds out the offending extremity, the one unmarked by a Sorcerer Supreme, and then casts a bright smile. "You've any of that on hand or do I need to go to the market an' fetch some? Might be faster to cut some but John's not bound to like standing in the New Forest quite so much." Her gaze flashes past Zatanna to the Laughing Magician, her irises wide and full of stars. Emerald fades back, passing through the spectrum to its further end, lightening as grey steals heat and blue remains. "Oh. That's a right bit off. You're smudged up a bit, your colours are muddled. Turn widdershins for me, would you?" Nothing to worry about.
Zatanna Zatara	Mouth set against the hope she feels welling inside her, one slender finger explores the bruised skin under an eye. Then, Zatanna shoves her hands in her pockets to keep herself from turning John into a rabbit out of irritation. "Completely?" The question hardly out of her mouth before realizing he is right. Damn him. And yet. Spring blossoms under Meggan's feet. What has begun to taste of ashes and look washed with soot transforms as Faerie walks in Shadowcrest. "What? Since when do you like Harajuku fashion, Meg?" Everything irritates Zatanna recently. Even the breath of spring on the air in such sharp contrast to the miasma of her dreams. Dutifully, she loves and trusts them both. Zatanna turns widdershins in place, wondering what Meggan will see. "We will have to send for it. Nothing stays fresh. My stocks of herbs are turning to dust in the cupboards."
John Constantine	John keeps doing his own thing while Meggan starts to analyze Zatanna, letting her do her job in her own way. For his own part, he takes a few steps away and then claps loudly, saying a few words in some para-Latin-ish dialect. Upon separating his hands, his workbag pops into existence before him. It's not something that he should be able to do in Shadowcrest without Zatanna being explicitly permissive, but her ward situation at the moment makes it a trifle. "So, nightmares, right?" Even though she didn't answer. John opens his occult bag (it's like a medical bag but with hinky occult shite inside) and sticks his arms in way further than they should be able to go. Bags of Holding used to be too trendy for John Constantine, but, well. Can't beat the convenience. "Ah hah!" From inside the bag, he pulls out... a dreamcatcher. "Shaman I know left me this a while back when I had a bit of a tussle with some baku.
Meggan Constantine	Ruffling a bird's feathers requires unidirectional plumage, and plumage in the first place. Meg's multidirectional and patient, well aware that Zatanna has a short fuse. Burning the candle at both ends can't help either. "Cheapside vintage," she says. "Harajuku costs quite a few quid. One day I might dig up a Vivienne Westwood but not /all/ of us have the luck of the devil." John, though, he'd look smashing in a tapestry corset circa 1993! She sets a hand on her brow, as though trying to shield her eyes from the sun-dazzle off the sea on a bright day. Well she might, the sclera starting to blacken rather than turn a pearly white or a rheumy, bloodshot red like her better-days half. Throwing open the curtains proverbially on magic hurts her, so she tries to take it slowly as she sinks into the emotional patterns that define one person from another to her like the pace of their gait or the scent of their skin. "We might walk in her dreams. That's right precarious if you get unbalanced." Meggan flits a handwave at John, the dreamcatcher not something that registers. He does though. "I need the wood betony and rosemary. But you've got your glow all muddled up -- like you came out wearing a macintosh and waders instead of fishnets and a tophat. Too dim and blotchy. It's never blotchy even when you get really peaky."
Zatanna Zatara	With an effort, Zatanna whispers, "Nightmares." She can't look John in the eye. When she forces herself to look up and catches sight of the Dreamcatcher, she disappears, leaving a single leaf and her voice, hanging in the air. "Are you kidding me?" As the leaf circles to settle to the ground, she reappears. Sheepishly, Zatanna's gaze moves between the two. "I have the patience of a two-year-old today." At Meggan's words, she looks down at herself, half-expecting to see her fashionable clothes in tatters and her limbs withering - a vampire crumbling to dust in the light. Impatient with her own helplessness, she makes an open-handed gesture, slapping down the evil that seems to well from the grounds. "Right. I'm in your hands. I can't seem to..." Another gesture of frustration. "I don't know where to begin."
Angelo Tampambulos	The problem with trying to detect spirits as they tamper with things as opposed to just detecting magical spells and effects... is that spirits are at least aware. Semi-sentient, and can act to protect and conceal themselves. A spirit in service to the god of dreams is going to recognize that dream-catcher right away. The item is deemed a threat, and the spirit wriggles away, sliding into the ether and the irony is... in trying to escape and evade detection, it has done what they would have tried to force it to do anyway... it has removed itself from Zatanna.     Getting back into position to haunt her more is going to be difficult. But maybe, just maybe... that fae creature might be susceptible to the 'tender ministrations' of nightmares. Maybe she'll manifest them in the real world too. So the spirit decides to lie in wait, to try to latch onto Meggan later, when the couple decides to depart. Eris did make a deal with Morpheus to cause strife... the deal wasn't exactly picky about who suffered from the effects.
John Constantine	John doesn't care that the oneiroi has left. He doesn't even think to check. The dreamcatcher is, after all, going up anyway. "Not kidding," he informs Zatanna with a smile. "Putting this right over your bed." He looks around and then frowns. "Okay. How about you two wonderful lasses go to the markets and get the ingredients needed, I will continue doing something analyzing here. Then we'll take Zee back to the House until we've got the wards up. Plus, I want to set up some spells around her while she sleeps, see if I can find anything new." He steps over to Meggan and presses a kiss to her temple. "Off you go. I'm gonna be useless to you for a bit here now anyways."
Meggan Constantine	Spirits may be aware, this is so. They embody the platonic ideals of shadows on the cave wall and the impulse of minds, emotions, and ideas. How do you catch a thought? How do you box in a bobble of essence of --put your favourite feeling or concept here--? Meggan slides her fingertips over her brow, fully invested in the ebb and flow that marks Zatanna. The homo magi isn't invisible to her, even if her physical form goes invisible. Not when she thinks, and thoughts transform into moods, and those moods dance in strobing patterns and colours as obvious as the moving shadows answering the sun or a marquee lit up in the night. Which has its dangers. She breaks into a faint smile. "More like seven! Two would be throwing tantrums and no coherent words at all except 'no no no.'" A finger-waggle gives a boundary for her, hands held up to frame the raven-haired sorcerer. Hands are no dreamcatcher, but they give a portrait to the weird. "Now you've lit proper bright again but the bruising still shows. We need to buff and polish you up, starting with sleep. /After/ I get the juniper to purify the house. Sage won't cover it, John. Smudging's not going to do the trick. Unless she pissed off her domovoye, supposing Shadowcrest even has one. If it does, why's it not making a proper racket? You walking in should've had the floorboards shrilling." Her lips graze the corner of John's mouth, hinting at violets and fresh-blooming places. "You want anything from over there? Reckon the garden will do to get us there. Winterwithy or Bournemouth, and if we're not back by dawn, call old fussy pants. Reckon the greybeard deserves to get his poncy cambion nose out of joint, and you're the best one to do it."