16813/In the Woods

In the Woods
Date of Scene:	06 January 2024
Location:	Wissahickon Valley Park, Philadephia
Synopsis:	Up to stuff.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, John Constantine

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Carpenter's Woods is a section carved out from the Wissahickon Valley Park that meanders in a wooded gorge through the City of Brotherly Love. The remnant of ancient forests that used to cloak the Northeast from Nova Scotia to the Carolinas speaks to lost majesty; here, screech-owls and woodpeckers normally flit between stoic black and white oaks, tall beeches, tupelos and sassafras. Old growth ecosystems boast dense thickets that choke the well-trimmed paths, even in the cold season. Heavy leaf-fall coats the thick roots. Bushes and scrubby, short trees, vines, and other skeletal branches form spots that block the trails or create dead-ends.

The very sort of place a deer fleeing at top speed would bound into and turn, cornered, for something fierce and harsh.

Deep in these woods, few hear the screams. They don't see the flash of ominous pale light. Though in the heart of Roxborough in Northwest Philly, the park is literally only meters from some of the houses along its fringes.

Nature cameras monitored online by the odd curious viewer might hear the abrupt stillness, the lack of sound. On the ground, the air is thick with a stench, dusty and unnaturally cold, despite the subzero (Celsius, of course) temperatures and the spitting sleet that promises to become worse, more, given the chance and the right push.

It won't *quite* reach the cold it needs in the immediately vicinity of the Wissahickon Avenue entrance to the park, due to a woman with bone-white hair and a real penchant for not being cold. "Blimey. American weather's awful," she mutters, but that's just a signal that the isle they both call home by default is temperate.

John Constantine has posed:
"Even Gotham doesn't get this cold in its veins during the cold months," the woman's husband, John Constantine, Laughing Magician and Jester of the Occult murmurs, pulling the collar of his coat up. For once, he's wearing something thick and wooly... over his usual brown raincoat.

"What're we here for again, luv? I think the cold is makin' me forgetful."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Gotham goes parallel with Philadelphia in many ways, but being on the Atlantic rather than inland has its advantages. Not many; but some.

The usually blonde Tuath de Danaan lacks a spear to conveniently lean against, so she must make do with a tulip tree shorn of leaves and a branch sometime in the recent past. The snapped wood looks like broken fingers, the fallen limb tangled in a berry bush studded by thorns. Not somewhere fun for humans, but great for squirrels.

Conspicuously there are none.

"A sandwich," she explains, because Philly sandwiches apparently are a thing. Cheesesteaks? Heroes? Grinders? All worth exploring. "Something's gone all tits up in there. Muddled and wrong, angry. Trees rarely are angry."

John Constantine has posed:
"Cheesesteak." John shakes his head. "Americans." He shrugs and then looks at the bush, and then around. "No squirrels. Even in this cold, you'd get the little buggers conspiring to take over a realm or two. Never know _where_ you'll find a sliver of Ratatosk humping some bark."

He frowns. "Your connection t'yer mum tell you where we need to go looking for whatever's making everything dour?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Better than sloppy Joes. Or Gotham buttered noodles." Meg shrugs and zips up her jacket collar higher. She may radiate heat but that doesn't stop the spitting flakes from turning into water that runs down her neck. Wet boots and wet collars aren't very fun. "They have no greater motivation than the downfall of society or finding a nut their neighbour stole. Squirrels are a lesser evil. But geese..."

Less said the better there. Invoke not the cobra chicken.

She gestures at the general northwest where the park thickens, though the ancient trees grow particularly dark almost immediately. It could be noon and it resembles something closer to twilight. In the snow, things are even grimmer, greyer. Smelling of rot. Blood. The hunt.

John Constantine has posed:
"Oi vey." John puts his hand to his nose and shudders a little at the smell. "That don't smell right at all. Bloody hell. All right." He starts to trudge towards the darkness. "D'you think you could conjure me some light, luv?" While she's at it, he reaches into his coat and rummages until he finds a rather short, bronze-colored shotgun with a muzzle the shape of a dragon's head.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan throws a wisp into the air, pulling a very pale glow that makes for a frosty glimmer around them. Shadows run dark and the sleet continues to gather in a slick sheen on branches, fallen leaves, and dirt. The slippery trail is better than going into the woods, where even a squirrel might expect to wipe out.

Rustling ahead interrupts the needling percussion of wet drops and flakes hitting the branches. Even with the light, seeing very far is difficult between the precipitation, the interlocked canopy, and the gloom. Something moves, though, crashing on a trajectory across the path. Large and heavy, it comes down in a percussive series of beats.

Fear pulses cold and sharp, twisting Meggan around to trace its source, but that proves to be fast-moving and shadowy, frantically bounding at John.

John Constantine has posed:
"Kind of assumed it was going to be something shadowy and big," John admits after a moment as he watches the thing coming at him. He grabs the shotgun in his hand with both hands and waits for the last second before launching himself to the side, turning in mid-air and squeezing the trigger.

A plume of DRAGONFIRE explodes from the muzzle, lighting up the entire forest. Hopefully it'll show them what this thing is on top of utterly burning it to a crisp..? Maybe?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Six feet of frantic deer comes plunging headlong through the woods, hooves kicking. The white-tail springs desperately ahead to escape something large in pursuit. Ears flick back, strong legs bouncing higher--

--and fucking dragonfire roars over the caramel hide, a jumpscare brought down by a scorching wave. Burnt hair and flesh join with a terrified scream from the deer's throat, but none of that matters when the front end to the side are currently a charred mass of venison. It crashes down to the ground, legs blackened, akimbo in their splayed fall.

Meggan bends backward with the roaring flame, and throws her arms up in front of her. Winter abhors a blaze, and the old trees here would go up as easily as the young at that belching gun. Frantic splats of snow and rain swirl around, hitting the trunks, a barely tangible shield.

The bright light ignites the branches and the white-grey shape of a huge furry thing with six arms and whip-thin protrusions whirling around to produce a soundless wobble.

John Constantine has posed:
"Aw, no..." John immediately feels bad. Not bad enough that he's going to cry about it or anything, but pretty bad. Dragonfire is, at least, to mortal creatures, pretty ... well, intense, but merciful. Still, not a great way to go.

"Sorry, bambi, you startled me." But then his eyes turn to the more sinister of the creatures out in the night. "What is that, a six-armed wendigo?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Oh deer.

Bambi doesn't happen to be more than venison brisket, but the great big white furry thing roaring after the burned lump makes a really impressive noise of HGNRGNCH HRNRGNCH! Its toothy maw chomps a branch right off a red oak, ripping it free. The lashing whip-like wings keeps it upright as the huge insect greedily devours bark and wood in a torrential downpour.

Wood chippers everywhere surely feel emasculated.

The compound eyes focus on John with mild disinterest as it shoots a branch three feet long, NOMNOMNOM.

To all of this, Meggan looks fairly disgusted. The messiness of the meal notwithstanding, she mutters, "Nary a fekking clue."

John Constantine has posed:
"Well, if _you_ don't know, and _I_ don't know," John points out, skidding to the side to duck the branch, digging through his pockets to pull out a rather large shell that he slides into his dragonfire shotgun. "Then we're pretty ignorant in this matter."

He starts circling to get a better angle for a shot. "Heeeey, big fellah. You unnerstan' the Queen's English?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Another tree shudders as the great mothlike bug bites into the nearest branches available. Some additional twigs end up plucked and pulled, hauled into its mouth. No proboscis there; more alarming, the creature has some kind of serrated plates, similar enough to teeth, all the better to grind pieces of hardwood into chippy foam. It stretches up on its back legs to tear down more options from the taller trees, not quite recognizing what danger a man with a gun is.

Or maybe shooting something with an exoskeleton has its drawbacks.

"GNRHCH! GNRHCH!" Horrendous noises and the odd white strobing flash flick off its 'wings', and the sleet just comes down harder. Munch, munch. Those compound black eyes gleam its way, but clearly it's all about mowing down a poor beech tree. Nomnomnom. Must explain all the branches left torn away instead of a storm doing the damage.

Meggan floats ominously like a ghost behind John, the full spook mode activated when her eyes aren't quite so deep a green as to be black. He doesn't quite benefit from having an umbrella but her knocking woodchips out of the way counts. "It's hungry." Well, obviously.

John Constantine has posed:
"Yes, luv, that seems evident." For a moment, John stares at it, and then he lets out a long sigh, dropping his gun a little and closing his eyes for a short second, before opening them again. "I think I know what this is."

He looks at Meggan, and then at the creature. "... It's a fucking Mothman." He rubs his brow a bit. "I somehow actually thought this was going to be one of those myths that was actually a myth."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Still batting the unwanted bits of wood out of the way, the winter-aspected Tuath doesn't proceed further. Partly because a giant hungry moth may not be particularly dangerous. Or because it is, and antagonizing it without a skyscraper-sized light may just be a very bad idea. Her teeth grit, slight indentations dimpling her lower lip where her canines press down into the flesh without breaking the surface much.

"And that's a wot now?" No, Mothman has not entered the annals that she would expect to know, other than moth-winged faeries, and those fuckers suck. Her narrowed gaze goes way up to the skinny monstrosity in the dark trying to yank a tree down or denude half of North America by its presence. Least it's not a g*psy moth, or things might be fighting words, given she was raised by the Travellers. John's lead on this has not ended in hellfire or dragonflame yet, so she holds back for a second. "What do you do with that fekking thing? Put it in Cernunnos' garden?"

John Constantine has posed:
"I honestly don't know." John stands up a bit straighter. The thing clearly doesn't speak English (or any human tongue, evidently); so rustic communications are out. He tucks the dragonfire gun into his coat and then considers the thing.

"I suppose we can put it in a pocket realm. Somewhere it can roam around. At least for now." He looks over at Meggan. "But it's a binding spell and I'm not sure it's gonna like it."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The moth definitely doesn't seem to speak anything remotely human. The waving feelers and the grinding chew of wood makes enough noise, though, and the weird flutter of its whip-like wings only adds to the alien quality. Blinking, it pulls down its front legs from a tree, putting four of the six on the ground and stuffing the remainder of a twig into its maw.

All the while staring with those red-glinting black eyes, possibly judging the warlock wrapped up in a coat and a furry layer. He is not made of wood. Therefore he might well be safe.

She gestures with a raised shoulder. "Can't toss it into one of the green realms like that. Maybe swamps? Be a bit less dangerous among the dark elves."

John Constantine has posed:
John rubs his brow and then groans. "I-- might have to dump this one on ol' Swampy's head. I think you're right, but if it's a swamp, he's gonna notice. Might as well give him a head's up if that's gonna happen."

Rubbing his palms on his coat, he sighs. "All right. You make good with Mothy here. I'm gonna have a chat with our big green moist friend."

He rolls his eyes and turns around. "I'm gonna hate this conversation."