10837/Running from Discord

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Running from Discord
Date of Scene: 21 April 2022
Location: House of Mystery
Synopsis: Zatanna calls in the demon exterminators. John Constantine and Meggan answer the call.
Cast of Characters: Zatanna Zatara, John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu




Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The house welcomes her as one of its own, opening wards that would shred an undesirable into pieces. Zatanna shuts the ornate door leading into the living room and leans against it, catching her breath. Then, with a sigh, she stands upright and runs her fingers through her raven hair, eyeing John.

"I think I need your help and a drink. But not in that order." She walks over to the table that serves as a bar to unstopper a crystal decanter gleaming with amber scotch which she examines with a critical eye.

"Nothing like a little civilized touch. I hope it is as good as the decanter. I need something strong."

John Constantine has posed:
John, at the moment, is in a pair of jeans and not much else, walking across the living room with a slice of pizza in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He stops when Zee walks in, smiles at her, and then tilts his chin up, bobbing it in a nod. "Well, good day to you, too, luv," he says, watching her get herself a drink.

He sends off a tiny little psycho-mystical ping to Meggan to let her know Zee's in the House, and then folds his pizza long-ways, stuffingg it in his mouth and asking, while he chews, "Whaf ken ah do f'r youff?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Fair to be said, the House has a will and personality of her own. Feminine at least in the latest incarnations, though when it comes to the House of Mysteries, is that ever certain or stable? 'She' might be he, it, them, or some blend there between as amuses the sentient powers that make up the ancient thing. Best just to ask how it wants to be called any given day.

"Don't be a nonce," mutters one mildly irritated May Queen, though it's not quite May and her actual domain extends about as far as her feet are apart. The phone in Meggan's hand has something to do with her irritation, and woe betide the receiving end of her disdain. Zatanna's emotional presence can be distinctly felt at a distance, even if the house is bigger by far on the inside. John's warning gets her moving, but not before she rattles off a blistering reply to another far-right pundit with opinions about mouthy blondes who ought to leave the big questions of economics to the adults. "Like I don't know the first thing 'bout social equity. Build a new coal plant and pave over half of south Jersey. Useless gov'ment yobbos," she mutters. Her eyes are narrow, blood up, and there you have it. The tagged response from a prominent acronymic multinational leaves her hissing, not quite tea kettle, definitely something that makes the vestigial brain scream in fear. "Stay in my own swimlane? I'm a sodding citizen of Atlantis. Is it illegal to swamp an industrial site? Eco-terrorism is so broad."

No reason she has flaming red hair when she flits through, nor that the ends are literally singed by actual flames. Nothing is in imminent danger of burning except a cigarette or pizza slice tossed her way. Never gotta ask 'Need a light' round here. She sticks the phone in her back pocket, or would've, except those pants don't -have- pockets. Because they're not pants. "Waitasec, then, let me fix you something. That's my job if we're not bombarding the Empire Club, right?" Because flaming elemental plus shifting around molecules equals strong drinks or molotovs.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
A smile slips secretly over Zatanna's lips as she feels Meggan's heat long before the flaming tresses warm the room. Lifting the glass, her nostrils flare at the heady fumes as she turns to examine a fractal goddess through the cut crystal.

"Meggan." Two syllables filled with welcome. "Let me pour you one. I'm good. What brings the smell of smoke in here? Who has gotten on your wrong side?"

She saunters over to the sofa that John recently vacated, checks it for pizza toppings that may have slipped on to it to seat herself, stretching her long legs in front of her. Some of the color is returning to her face as she regards the two closest to her. Thin and elegant, in fashionable Harajuku black, only someone with their acuteness would catch what the stage performer is adept at hiding.

John Constantine has posed:
John finishes his slice of pizza as Zee sits down at the couch, putting his cigarette between his teeth. He takes a longh drag of his cigarette and leans over to press a kiss to Meggan's cheek. "Hello, luv." It's not that he's not taking her seriously, it's just that he feels sorry for whomever she was on the phone with. (That's a lie, he doesn't feel sorry.)

He flops himself onto the couch, back against one of the armrests, and then he puts his legs across Zee's lap and puts the cigarette between his teeth. "Zee needs our help, luv," he tells Meggan. "She was about to tell me how we can help." He grins at the raven-haired magician.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The radiant heat from actually fiery locks isn't substantial, mostly because the elemental keeps them to a dull roar at best. Her fingers move quickly over the phone; melting the glass would be a waste of hard-earned cash and she just doesn't have enough for that to be an expense she can manage. Curses, you know? Nothing to be gained by wrecking her uplink to the wider world. Meggan is still a devious creature when it comes to burying links or pinging other aspects of social media, though she doesn't make a point of loudly flexing that.

"It's all water to me, Zee. Whatever hit you get from it's nothing for me," she admits, giving a light shrug. That's right, a teetotal bartender, though not by choice. Still, upping the alcohol content of a drink while retaining its flavour is her literal business stock in trade. She tilts and drags her attention away from the ongoing war of Extinction Rebellion and its sisterhood of environmental groups to yell at various groups and ping poor New Jersey lawmakers to death. They had it coming. John doesn't risk losing any pizza; she nips his jaw instead in passing and flits to the couch. "Oh, that's bound to be more timely than this nonsense. They'll come round or their basements end up flooded. What's it then?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Manicured fingers, the nails a faint iridescent periwinkle, wrap around John's leg, just above the knee and squeeze lightly at first. "It's terrible not getting the benies from alcohol," she laments with a faint smile. "Not all of us need it, though." Her eyes slide to John and a dimple deepens on one side of her mouth.

Unready to launch into her own troubles, she shrugs, head tilted to one side. "I just needed to get away. I also...do you both have a little time on your hands? I have some housekeeping that I need a hand with." Her expression darkens somewhat, contemplating the chores awaiting her.

John Constantine has posed:
John reaches out when Meggan is close enough, and takes her wrist. Then he pulls her down to his own lap, high enough not to sit her on top of Zatanna's hand. He wraps his arms around Meggan's waist, setting his chin on her shoulder to look at Zee as she talks.

"What sort of housekeeping? You got goblins or brownies or somethin' in there?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Could be worse. Imagine never needing to eat or taste food. The angels have a wretched lot there, no wonder they're in such a foul mood all the time." Meg rolls her eyes, laughter simmering and banishing the stormclouds of a grimmer mood. The anchor that John provides is another bulwark against a rather bitter mood, always beneficial there. She glances askance at the blond magician and then back to the Italian one, and shrugs her shoulder in a lazy roll that nearly knocks the strap of her shirt straight off. The other holds, and being pulled down, she pretty well pours herself into a supine position.

Not literally. With her, it's very possible to be literal.

"All the time in the world and then some, I think. Except a couple weeks round Midsummer." Green eyes flash wickedly. "Oh, tommyknockers? They're right awful. Or you have problems with the revenue sorts? I can't help at all about that."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
After contemplating the soft glow of Meggan's shoulder whose perfume is a heady mix with the scotch she holds, Zatanna sighs assent and gives in to the inevitable truth telling, "Demons broached my wards. I'm being followed. I thought it was because of something I "borrowed" from Mephisto." She releases John's leg to make quotation marks with one finger.

"You both are wizard at wards. I don't think it is Mephisto though. Would you mind?"

John Constantine has posed:
John doesn't say anything for a moment, he just settles under Meggan as he listens to Zee. Once she's done, though, he tilts his head to the side and considers. "Demons are bad news, but they don't immediately mean Mephisto. Given our history, luv, I'd be much more worried about Neron or Nergal. But wards are cake, I'm sure we can help. Any specific tells?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Dumping scotch on the rocks, not bad tasting. Dumping it on the spring-aspected Tuath? Probably an experience that could be sold for more than most NFTs or net an experience up there with buying a Wayne's company for charity. All in good taste, undoubtedly /a/ good taste at that. Be that as it may, Meggan quite thrills to the moment, her eyes lidding.

Who needs good bourbon or whiskey when an emotivore? Emotions come in different vintages, same as magic, and she consumes them both. "Marks or smells, maybe? Sulfuric ones are a breed apart from the rotting flowers or dry scales and dragonsblood types."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"The tang of iron. Cold and slaughter. It was a like a battlefield after the dead have been taken to be stacked like cords of wood and burned." Zatanna's sapphire eyes grow distant remembering. She comes back to herself and attempts to lighten her tone, "Good old-fashioned sulphur would have been welcome."

The skin on Meggan's shoulder glows like dew at sunrise, distraction from the woes of demonic intrusions. Zee pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and traces a line along Meggan's neck.

"Shadowcrest stands with what wards I could bring back. It's like I left the front door open." Her cheeks flush angrily at the violation.

John Constantine has posed:
John turns his head and puts his nose against Meggan's jaw; then he wrinkles his brow and says, "We can do some research to be prepared, but if it isn't sulfur and brimstone, then it probably doesn't have hellfire, which rules out a large chunk." He shifts a little under Meggan, more and more interested. "We'll have to go anyway to help set up the wards, might as well see if we can follow up with the intrusions. You didn't hear them did you? No rhyming?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
If nothing else, Meggan's a bit ticklish, though only now and then. Curse of adjusting to the stimuli inflicted on her, at least when she thinks about it. She doesn't shy away from a traced fingertip on her neck nor the affectionate nuzzle, though her shoulders instinctively start to rise in a protective gesture until flatlined enough to avoid pinning either Zatanna or John inadvertently. Some things require her active participation to still, though she tilts her head to admit more attention wherever they might choose to bestow it. Languid and absorbed isn't totally her state of affairs, arm extended to entrap a few strands of midnight coiling around slender fingers and teasing straight up to the scalp.

That, and she draws an idle circle like the lone scar ever to survive the ordeals of shapeshifting and existence, the barred circle on her heel. "Iron. Blood. It's always smelled a bit coppery to me too, but there's a whole city of cursed soul-iron down there." The sickly arc of a smile lasts but a moment. "Another spot's that hammered from all industrial refuse, not that it suggests much there. Russian and Slavic stories are chockful of that stuff, I think."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Come to Shadowcrest then. Maybe there is a scent that eluded me. Though..." she leaves those words unsaid. "I need your fine sense of things. Both of you."

A periwinkle flowered hand slowly grasps the fingers curling in her hair and presses it softly. "Come soon. Before they ransack the House. I can't get rid of the awful smell." Suddenly vulnerable, she lets them glimpse how shaken she really is. Hard for the proud woman to admit to need. But, where did she run in time of need? Not to the Sanctum Sanctorum.

John Constantine has posed:
Stephen Strange would want to do research first. Just the implication makes John want to roll his eyes into the back of his head. He turns his head and catches Meggan's neck with his mouth, giving her a smooch, and then smacking her thigh a little as he starts to shift. "Let me out from under here, luv, I'm going to get my coat." He winks at Zatanna. "We'll get you sorted, luv. Don't we always?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I'm going to have iron and slaughter in my nose for days, aren't I?" Meggan sighs, though the lopsided grin is all sunshine and promise. "Good thing I'm past being queasy now. Looking forward to having a proper bite to eat, too." Her lips pressed to John's brow return the benediction, and she loosens her hand from Zatanna's hair, as no one wants her moving and tugging on a sensitive scalp. The abundance in midnight blue falls away, a reluctant banner released, but sacrifices are as they need be.

Shifting, her bare feet touch the floor momentarily. Righted, she floats up and pulls her t-shirt back a fraction. "Coat /and/ shirt, else I'm stealing it again!" A reminder to John, as if he needs it. "We'll not leave you to face your monsters alone. You're not put out much by wolves, are you?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Me?" Zatanna points to herself incredulously, eyebrows raised, her eyes following them both as they sort themselves out.

"I will compensate with the best food in any quantity or time of the day. I will be your willing servant if you can rid me of the smell and set Shadowcrest to rights."

Eyes narrowed at John, "Yes, clothing will do. You know," she drawls, "the neighbors and all."