11017/Dreeeeeeamweaver!

Dreeeeeeamweaver!
Date of Scene:	04 May 2022
Location:	Angelo's Carriage House
Synopsis:	Eris, goddess of discord and strife... makes herself known and annoys some very magical people. This may have been a mistake.
Cast of Characters:	Achilles, Meggan Puceanu, Zatanna Zatara, John Constantine, Hyperion

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Achilles has posed:
    It is a lovely afternoon in the faerie market. Vendors go about their business buying and selling merchandise. Nobody has any idea the monster within Meggan that is begging to be unleashed upon the world. The visions of innocents being slaughtered that she's had haunting her own dreams are digging into her psyche.

    At the same time, Zatanna has known the first peaceful nights of sleep she's had in weeks. She may attribute it to Pokey, but it's that the spirit left to escape detection, and attached itself to the fae queen goddess monster environmental terrorist waiting to happen...

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Their purpose leaving John behind to begin the architectural teardown of wards was well-intentioned. Why drag a poor man through every shop in search of hyssop, wild betony, and other English kitchen herbs and wildflowers? It's easy to imagine him sulking under an awning or sitting sprawled on a bench, shouting profanities at goblins or trolls. Getting into every kind of trouble is his birthright and middle name. Why lose the man to a tankard in a pub serving drinks even devil-blessed and cursed flesh can barely tolerate when he can be left in peace, mucking about in a friend's enchanted house? He'll probably have the best chance of nicking the silver that way. Things never turn out quite the way they should.

Meggan hums 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' as she strolls through the phantasmagorical collection of semi-permanent stalls and fancy shops fringed in spring baskets, flying pennons, and luminous oddments. This close to the mortal world, Faerie maintains something of normalcy. Magic threads through the ground, the denizens, and most definitely the blonde Tuath de Danaan leaving flowers and greening leaves in her wake. A hint of an ozone haze inverts the smoky air where fires ablaze for Beltane (yes, still, the parties go a while) continue to draw their amused thralls. Halfway to summer, the Seelie Court of Titania remains in force. Not that the Unseelie or those undeclared or wild aren't having a time of it, mingling, chatting, being part of a bustling marketplace. Looking for an herbalist or a garden, the timebomb with a springtime smile disregards the first two or three options.

"Not the quality we need," she assesses in a lilting way that's absolutely true and remorselessly cutting to the proprietors. "For what you've faced, we need better than last year's weeds and winter-starved cuttings. Does /everyone/ think to take advantage of us? No matter, there's got to be more." In a place saturated with magic, she, too, is thick with its trappings, floating off the ground and very much pointed of ear, sharp of cheekbone, unnatural of gaze.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Waking up refreshed after a night of sleep had become a long-forgotten dream. The first morning that Zatanna lay upstairs in Angelo's guest room, listening to Brooklyn traffic and smelling the aroma of coffee and bacon drift up the stairs, she was certain it was sleeping away from Shadowcrest that had given her rest. Several days later, the dark circles have disappeared, and she feels like the color has returned to the world.

The Fae invitation to join Meggan at the Market found her in Brooklyn where she has been hiding out. A sartorial snap of her fingers dresses the raven-haired woman in a diaphanous silk blouse that bares a shoulder and matches the long trailing skirt that hugs her hips and flirts freely with her calves. Hi ho, a-shopping they would go.

Zatanna drifts behind Meggan, skirting the flowers that bloom in the Goddess's wake, adding a judicious frown or shake of her head at the wares offered them.

Achilles has posed:
    Maybe the guys are having a male bonding hangout or whatnot. Or maybe not. Hard to say when the womenfolk are away. And now we run into things having more meanings. Zatanna is no longer seeing people say oddball shit controlled by Eris. Yay!

    But Meggan is. Quite literally, the next vendor speaks in a sing song voice that only Meggan hears, "Your friend has been chosen. Those images you see when sleeping. Those people will die in one week's time if your companion there.." a finger pointed at Zatanna that only Meggan can see, "refuses to be the -hero- and surrender to the Mistress of Strife..."

    And then the woman Meggan was listening to pauses a second and says, "I said, if you like, I have some private stocks in the back. Should I get them for you?" as if she was repeating herself.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Men hanging out, won't that be a lovely change of affairs, considering the brotherly affection and chilling out popularised in Tolkien's day is practically non-existent now! Meggan knows the nature of the plants she wants to cleanse Shadowcrest, and she maneuvers effortlessly around those shoppers great and small. Some have hooves in place of booted feet, some are taller than she and behorned, behelmed, behemoths; the bewildering variety of human and inhuman collide in ways that have fed storytelling in the Indo-European speaking world since humanity had culture to call its own.

She pauses to look at something, her eyes lifting in a phosphorescent emerald flame twinned beneath long flaxen bangs. Reaching for some thread-bound cluster, her hand halts midway, fingers spreading as though to pluck the savory leaves right up. "Wot?" Oh, how eloquent is that, ripe off the tip of her tongue curling against her palate. She straightens, a thing only modestly impressive when men of the forest and trolls top her by a head and a half easily, though the ocean too doesn't look that tall -- at a distance. It takes a considerable amount of energy to change the direction of the tide, setting the currents running to a telling little push back and forth. "Who is /she/ to put a claim on her here, where she's under /my/ guest right?"

The question rings in the web of sympathies and bonds that link one and others. Blithe and sunny as the gold-tressed girl usually is, opposite to Zatanna's mature sophistication and elegance, it's all directed by a ringing declaration under the otherwise mild reply. Yet the nature of the fae is what it is -- the oaths and the bindings they swear and imply echoing with a force about par with pledges on the Styx.

The ground scorches around her, a ring spiked by opening flowers and wiggling roots that spring of nothing. Never mind the ground likely shivers a fraction in mute sympathy to her.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna glories in the world returned to normal or as normal as a sorcerer's life can be. No more fender benders morphing into fights on the streets, shop assistants with hangovers and tempers to match, husbands and wives bickering loudly behind her while she waits in line. But the world is not ordinary. This sudden change would typically alarm the sage Sorcerer. So instead, she basks in the peace, unwilling to tempt fate by considering what has happened to her. Something is wrong.

Focused on a pair of centaurs striding stately toward some destination, Zatanna's attention has drifted from the herbs held out for Meggan's approbation. An earthquake rocks her back into the moment, sapphire eyes wide in question as shock waves ripple through the market, and everyone pauses - cups freeze midway to a waiting lip, coins tumble suspended in the air, a mouth opens but no laughter heard.

Achilles has posed:
    And the oddest part of it all is that everyone seems as confused by this as Zatanna might be... if not more. Nobody heard any of those words but Meggan. Even the woman who spoke those words has no memory of speaking them. For they were only spoken -to- Meggan, and in her view and memory. Not that of the speaker.

    And so everyone looks terrified when Meggan goes on about guest rights and such. Vendors cringing back in horror at the very idea of infringing on such. The idea of offending this fae goddess... so much confusion going about right now. Maybe even some of it in Meggan's head too.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
And there, for an unfortunate morphic spirit riding the youngest daughter of Gaea, is the rub. It may share her psyche, claws or intangible tendrils finding their way deeper after that sweet, blissful bath of strife. But can something woven from the Dream Lord's work withstand an empath on home turf, where her empathy reaches its peak parlaying and sifting through the huge waves of confusion? This sea Meggan knows; she breathes and drinks it, a fish swimming through emotive waters, utterly submerged beneath the compounded reactions. Confusion and fear fathoms deep wash over her as she flicks a look over her shoulder to Zatanna looking equally perplexed. Hesitating gives a checked footnote for the blonde to briefly puzzle over.

"You've not sworn anything at all to gods or spirits, have you?" The query curls up into the air, blued smoke in opposition to the fires burning at spots in the market. Wherever the merriment is, it's not around them. Discord rolls in the confusion rolling away in waves, and her pointed stare over her shoulder makes mincemeat of some poor twit trying to sneak by.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Time catches up with them. Voices, music, footsteps resound at full volume around them. Zatanna, the Mistress of Magic looks as guilty as a child caught with her hand in forbidden cookie jar. Glad does not do justice to the relief she experiences when Meggan's shoots emerald fire at a passing twit by-passing her with that fiery look.

At first, Zee is certain the question that singes the air is directed at her. She sputters, "No one in their right mind swears to gods or spirits lightly." Nor, does she understand why she feels like she has done something wrong and yet, guilt lays its heavy hand on her shoulder.

Achilles has posed:
    Indeed. Now it is time to sit back and observe the discord and strife caused by all of this. Eris -is- observing vicariously, via the spirit bound to Meggan. And in her home, she is cackling with glee.

    The people are still terrified, backing away from the fae goddess and her mage companion. Yep. Nothing to see here, let's see if we can get home without losing our lives, souls, spirits, or worse... free will.

    The best uses of discord and strife are done with minimal effort, and maximum observation. After all, Eris caused a ten year war by dropping an apple on a table. She's a master at this sort of thing, even though her methods of late have been less subtle than usual. She -wants- a homo-magi body. Preferably one with a functional liver and lungs. So John is RIGHT OUT.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
She wants a few things, though Eris might generally regret what's coming to her.

The backlash emotionally is enough to irritate the blonde, who doesn't exactly ask when she reaches out for Zatanna's wrist. "Come on. Poisoned wells and we're not going to find a spot of anything in this bloody forsaken place because it's gone and freaked itself out. What we /need/ is a drink. And you need to think real hard about it cos a lady of strife says she's got /her/ sticker on you."

Yes, Eris, you chose badly. Paris was besotted, Helen lovely, and Meggan doesn't have the capacity to tell an untruth worth shit here. Or most anywhere. Not without botching it most of the time. You wanted a clever tongue, it's the Laughing Magician or the average 9-year-old who has that. Not her.

"How'd she even do that? Hmph! Stupid title too, all poncy and stuff. Does she wear a mask and lord over Sigil?" Her path if Zee is willing to come weaves straight for the nearest tavern, and that will very well mean dragging some frantic blue-skinned miner coblynau with her if needs must. Or that long-armed tylwyth teg working a stile by the door who doesn't get out of the way fast enough. "Bloody night, this must be what it feels like for John in flipping Tyneside. Or Newcastle. The big one, not the little one."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Were it not for the unfortunately familiar feel of strife souring the air, Zatanna would laugh aloud as her feet leave the ground and she is pulled in the slipstream of a goddess. "Never were words more truly spoken. Herbs be damned when there is whiskey to be had."

Heads turn as dawn's blonde beauty is followed by night-dark tresses and they fly toward their destination, bowling innocents over like so many ten-pins in their rush."Where has he gotten to?"

Achilles has posed:
    Whiskey. Yes whiskey. Yes, a drink that lowers inhibitions and acts as a depressant. Booze is one of Eris's favorite accelerants. Now, the bartender is set up and ready to deliver another of Eris's messages without having any idea that he is.

    Not to mention the suspicion that had John out and about. He wasn't actually hanging out with Angelo.. the old Greek was at home cooking. What? He loves to cook. A lamb is being slow-roasted in preparation for company later tonight.

    But John figured correctly that the faerie market would be the place to go. And by the time he got there, people were already acting terrified, and there was a fading ring of greenery and power where Meggan's temper had been roused.

    A simple divination pointed John in a specific direction. So odd was it that he ran the divination again, wondering if maybe the first had been cued by his love of a good pub. But no, Meggan was definitely in the local pub, tavern, bar.. whatever. It's a bloody pub.

    And even as Meggan leads Zatanna into the place, and towards the bar... Meggan hears the bartender's gravely voice say, "She made no promises. If she did, this would be unnecessary. All she need to is let me in and thousands of innocent lives will be spared. Refuse me and she will be dooming seven hundred and thirteen children, plus one thousand four hundred and six adults. Not to mention thirty four elderly people who have already lived their lives."

    Zatanna only hears the bartender saying, "What'll it be ladies?" And then when Meggan doesn't reply right away, he repeats, "Ladies?" as his eyes flicker from Meggan to Zatanna and back. "What'll it be?"

    This right as John approaches the pub door.

John Constantine has posed:
John's synchronous magic being what it is, he's sure none of this is a coincidence. So even as he approaches the door, he peels his coat off, turns it inside out a few times, and then pulls it back on again, nudging the door open and stepping into the pub looking two decades younger, dark-haired, and with more leather than Meggan's ever seen on him.

Shhh. He's incognito.

As he steps inside, he makes his way towards the end of the bar, starting to murmur to himself, playing with the rings that are on his fingers now. He slips onto a stool watching Meggan and Zatanna, even as he tries one of his more subtle spells: a glamour-piercing sight.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Fingertips to her forehead, Zee feels a vice grip wrap her head. The bartender's face has a corona of light around it. He has to repeat his benign question twice before she gets the jist of it.

"A double of your best!" she commands.

Whiskey will be the cure for the dreaded headache. Her eyes slide down the length of the bar seeing a handsome face that reminds of her youth. Who was that boy that upended her spirits for one short weekend? Surely, not him. Surely, not here.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Whiskey, snowdrop, laugh of the hare, the faerie tavern ought to have an abundant selection of drinks. Some, as promised to John, might actually even be what ales him. Let there be a keg popped, a bottle poured, and a lot of noise to cover up the reactions bound to be generated by a madcap spirit.

Meggan chews on her cuticle as she enters, bombing right for a comfy spot at the bar instead of an excuse for a booth in a corner. Drinking hole, bartender. They go together like graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows. Except that happy frivolity detonates in a crackle from the threat of murder to a tiny spark of life staring in blank consternation.

Her hands clap over her pointed ears, body folding in a protective curl as she grits her teeth. 713 + 1406 and 34 is a fucking high sum, too high for her to compute on the fly -- oh bloody night and bright hours. One angry and confused fae on the rocks, anyone?

She's aglow in fire to the other side, entirely tapped into every leyline of magic and wisp of power in the Otherworld as one of its gods. Not as scary as her mum or the biggest in the pantheon -- Lugh, Brigit, Morrigan, Dagda all being plenty spooky. But oh, scary and bright like a very mad Christmas tree.

"One Mistress of Strife," she says brightly, all sharp and lovely, and pitiless as the sun sparkling. The tiny spark of John's soul knows itself, bound to her, but the rest is blazing ticked. "So I can give my regards. It'll be so much fun, with all you as my witnesses. By blood and thorn, by dream and flame."

Hyperion has posed:
    And of course, the message delivered... the goddess Eris, along with her allies... see fit to withdraw from the field. This is not a night for direct confrontations. After all, Eris has never been known for fighting her own battles. She simple creates conflict and lets others do the dirty work.

    The bartender seems to have entirely forgotten what he just said. That, or he doesn't even know that he said anything other than asking how someone's day has been. He even goes so far as to pour up the drinks that Zatanna has ordered, and slides them over before her with a wink, "For the lady." he says, "So, what brings two such -lovely- ladies into my establishment?" he asks, trying to use innocent flirtation as a bartender's secret ploy to sell more booze. In fact, he doesn't even seem to be aware of anything Meggan said or did regarding Eris. Talk about a blind spot.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
That the bar didn't erupt into an inferno from Meggan's ire is nothing short of a miracle. Zatanna blinks and draws a cautious breath, regarding the woman next to her - sharp as sunlight glinting on a knife's edge. She ignores the whiskey and the flirtation for the moment, sapphire eyes cutting critically to the bartender.

What just ignited the blaze of magic? Zatanna's blood fizzed to its presence and the aftermath of its bright presence still burns on her retinas. Fireworks would not match the brightness that flared around Meggan.

John Constantine has posed:
John, in his magical disguise, is sitting at the end of the bar with his pint. He had the weird hunch that something was going to go down back at Shadowcrest so after a few rounds at the manor, he found Zatanna and Meggan and kept a discreet profile.

He's familiar enough with Eris's energies and the mark she leaves in the world to identify, now that he's close enough, that his wife is... not possessed, but definitely _influenced_.

When Meggan flares up, his magical senses _do_ detect it, and John tenses. Meggan isn't someone you want losing control...

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"<<Twll din pob sais.>>" In the Otherworld, promises hold power. The very substance of reality molds itself to fulfill that promise, and once sealed with a kiss or a curse or a clang, it's a done deal. Fae know that and thus avoid obligations and debts like the plague.

Meggan seems to care not one whit about her audience's opinion, though the smoldering emerald glimmer in her eyes coats them entirely. Tonight is not the night for direct confrontations as Eris might want, but the blonde goddess casts the first stone, the gauntlet down, and words into the void to see them proofed. That arrow is coming. If not now, then tomorrow or maybe the next decade.

The bartender is near forgotten, the drink nearby abandoning its cup and leaping over to her open palms to spindle into a splashy orb. The air twists with it next, and the mining she does gives it a voice. "Thousands of lives. Seven hundred children and a thousand and some adults. And thirty-four elderly people who already lived out their lives." The sharp-edged mockery of Eris' voice is pitch-perfect in tone and cadence, even if Meggan's a different sort entirely. "I'm the Mistress of Strife, tee fucking hee. Ai, you useless sack of meat, <<go ndeana an diabhal dreimire de cnamh do dhroma ag piocadh ull i ngairdin Ifrinn.>>"

Hyperion has posed:
    The interesting thing is... there is give and take involved here. By trying to wage war against Ares, one tends to make Ares more powerful. By drawing upon anger and strife to curse the goddess of strife... it's not usually the most effective combination.

    And yet, it is coming from one of the more focused, intense, and powerful beings in the mortal realm. A goddess in her own right. Eris -is- fortunate that she has two other gods of her pantheon in on her schemes. How could dreams haunt a person and cause such fear in them if Phobos and Morpheus weren't in her corner, so to speak?

    Granted, it's not that they want to harm people. It's more that among divine beings, favors and obligation are.. as Meggan implied, -powerful- forces, and for centuries, they have owed Eris a favor. Now.. she has cashed that in, and a chance to get out of debt to the goddess of strife is a chance they both jumped at. What? They're not exactly bosom buddies of partners.

    And so the presence of the Greek goddess fades away... a tinkle of laughter in the ether of the otherworld left behind. And yet, the bartender lifts his brows and then narrows his eyes, "Hey! That was good booze. You're still payin' for that, right?" he asks as he leans on the counter and reaches for a rag to start cleaning up the mess.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
You cannot unhear oaths and certainly not promises spoken by Meggan, blessed by good alcohol. Zatanna turns to face away from the bar but not before pointing two fingers at the bartender with his false flirtation. Some people never get it right.

"Double that and take my gold. Drinks for everyone."

Relief spurs celebration. Chaos will try to suck them all into her deadly whirlpool, but not tonight. Does anyone else feel the darkness fade to shadow and then to a memory? A faint tinkle of laughter dismal as a shovel digging a grave's cold earth disappears under the sound of ordinary voices, glad for free drinks.

John Constantine has posed:
John tenses when he hears the oath being spoken. still, he relaxes a little when the presence of Eris seems to dissipate. He frowns, and then pushes off the bar, shedding his disguise -- losing a magical disguise that alters perceptions doesn't really _look_ like anything, it just replaces the lie with the truth seamlessly -- and walking towards Meggan and Zee. "You all right, luvs?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Hey, it's John. Look, he's right there. A sharp grin shows before she says, "Hullo, love of mine."

All said, she isn't moved to settle on a stool or the bar, gabbing the whole night long. Gold that Zatanna shoves over to pay for the booze which is still circling between the Tuath's fingers covers one debt. She still toys with the unneeded rocket fuel for a flamethrower in the making, crossing the distance to meet John halfway. "Right as rain. Cos apparently it's fine to order people to do a thing or else people die. Good, well fuck that. I think it's time to suggest that's bullshit."

Hyperion has posed:
    In fact, the dark power feels completely gone. . . well except for any dark emotions Meggan has been feeling. Her empathic powers likely keep that around for a bit, in a sort of storm-cloud sort of way in the Otherworld.

    The bartender shakes his head, finishes wiping up the mess and then adds, "What can I getcha sir?" towards John. Yep.. he didn't notice anything strange going on. Nope. Not at all.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The handsome face that haunted her with memories of a splendid weekend resolves into the well-loved and oft detested visage of John. All is right with the world for now. Except.

"Pure bullshit. Deeper than the Augean stables, sweethearts. Fuck her."

Zatanna knocks back a shot.

John Constantine has posed:
John smiles at Meggan and Zee, mouth tight, glancing around. "Indeed, luv. Fuck that. Fuck her." He doesn't seem willing to chill out. Eris is the goddess of discord and he doesn't trust her to be gone entirely. That said, he does slide onto a stool and hold up a finger for the bartender to swing him a pint.

"This is gonna be a long affair, luvs. I can feel it in me bones."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Oh, that'd be too kind. No, I'm going to send a gift basket." Meggan doesn't /do/ gift baskets very well. Unless it's liquor.

She still has all that booze to do something with, so firing outside to rain on everyone in the market proper seems only fair.

"Now I've got to go find my curb-stompin' boots. Back in a flash." Not quite.