16622/Let It Snow

Let It Snow
Date of Scene:	18 December 2023
Location:	Lighthouse Keeper's Cottage
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu

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John Constantine has posed:
"I still don't know what the big deal is, luv, but I can't say no to you."

John Constantine, ever the romantic, is still sprinkling sea salt along the outside of the lighthouse cottage that Meggan is in charge of. He walks, making sure the circle of salt is nice and thick and unbroken, as he trundles his way around the edifice. It's big enough that it takes a _while_. Inside, with hot cocoa and a nice storybook, Cici is quietly spending some time to herself. Of course the storybook is a traditional Grimm Fairybook, because she won't have her mind dulled with infantalized bullshit. Obviously.

John finishes the salt circle and looks over at Meggan, "All right, you ready?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Gotham lies at their back, the Atlantic to the front. Wailing winds swirl and cry along the shoreline, but Cape Carmine isn't quite so rough with the redheaded daughter of Gaea in residence.

For all she loves the House of Mystery, this is her duty. Holding vigil for the ships imperiled by the reefs or bad luck or drunkenness is a fair lot for her. Cici can admire books and be called the *other* obligation and duty she has. But the woman approaches, floating above the rocks and thin earth, barely producing enough of a wisp to disrupt John's circle. "Aren't you still tempted to just throw a bottle of wine into the deep and see what Namor coughs up?" she asks, cheerful enough for a woman who has technical Atleantean citizenship.

John Constantine has posed:
"All the time, luv, but last time I chucked something fun in the ocean I got an earful from Mera and it's not something I'm keen on repeatin'. The woman could make Adolf Hitler feel guilty when she puts on the Mother Voice, let me tell you."

He wipes his hands a bit and then looks up into the sky, then to the sea, and then to her. "All right, luv, how's about you give me about a thirty-percent decrease in temperature just under them clouds up there, huh?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Mera?" Nope, not a familiar name immediately until she rubs her hands over her brow. "Oh, the angry redhead!"

Pot, mirror?

Her smirk rises slightly and she shrugs. "I wouldn't know. She's not pulled the mum voice on me. And my mum doesn't pull the voice. She just... well. Obvs why certain cities aren't any more, isn't it?" The mother-in-law who *is* the person you stand on might be a tad disconcerting. John seems pretty comfortable, though, and once she settles herself on a driftwood log turned into a bench, the request needs to be fulfilled. A little old thermometer, barely digital, marks the temperature around 8'C. Winds trekking from the northwest carry a chill and harnessing those would be a lot easier for a mutant, but she can manage. Her body starts to fade out of existence, losing substance, losing solid form more than anything else. She drops into her gaseous side by breathing in and out, until the rhythmic pattern settles the transformation. And his wife is air-headed. Air-armed. Air-everythinged.

She calls out -- a hiss, a gust, whirling into the sky. A song for the sylphs, a plea, insistence, on forces bigger than herself come to court. Her hair curls and flows in a breeze that isn't there, flapping coats, blowing things not tied down.

John Constantine has posed:
"Firm ol' broad, yer mum," John says, testing fate. Nothing new. "Here we go," he murmurs, bringing his hands together and rubbing them fiercely as she whispers to the elementals. It isn't that long after that he opens his palms and blows, a sharp plume of bright blue flame spilling from his lips and hitting the salt, which lights up, encircling the cottage entirely for a few seconds, and then disappearing -- the flame and the salt -- completely.

It only takes a few moments, and then, from above, the clouds just over the cottage begin to drop large, thick flakes of snow, and Constantine chuckles.

"There we go."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
No earthquake, no great crack in the earth. They've already been through that.

Meggan turns her gaze upwards, floating just a little off the surface of the driftwood. Salt might actually contain her, but convincing the temperature to plummet means more than blowing around winds and dissipating clouds. Though when clouds go, less heat is kept inside, so they can actually contribute to the cooling. Heat has to go somewhere; in that case, it's the elongated form of the woman, her legs shrouded in mist as the heat pulled into her spontaneously creates spot fog. The snow will go from there thanks to John's magic, but in the meantime, there's a very pleasant globe of sauna-like warmth at chest level hanging out there.

"She's lucky not to face the yule-fiends or Krampus. Krampus has become too popular though."

John Constantine has posed:
"Yer tellin' me. When I was seventeen we were busybodies tryin' magic out and thought we were big dicks around London, ended up summoning Gyla all the way down from Iceland. That was a _terrifyin'_ Christmas, that was," John admits with a snort, sticking his hands in his pockets and pulling out a match to light his cigarette. He puffs, blows it to the side, and turns to the fog that is his wife. "Now solidify that perfect bum a'yours so you can give me a kiss, luv."