19158/JLD: A Glare of Skulking Ferocity

JLD: A Glare of Skulking Ferocity
Date of Scene:	09 October 2024
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	Decorating at the Laughing Magician when a literary monster comes in and finds his like. Good company, dancing skeletons, and good times for the discerning friends.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Satana Hellstrom, Michael Hannigan, John Constantine, Belinda Gutierrez, Sally Pride, Frankenstein, Richard Stadler, Camille Russo

---

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
.! Happy Halloween at the Laughing Magician !.                

So spell the faerie lights hanging midair over the general seating area for the Laughing Magician. No wires necessary here to connect to a battery pack or cord. Bulbs? Perish the thought. Enchanted globes shimmer and pulse between a purple to orange gradient.

The Laughing Magician might be an odd location to choose to decorate as it's smack-dab in the middle of a commercial strip in Hell's Kitchen. Even moreso given the dive's open sign remains conspicuously off and Bryan or whatever his bartender name is runs a cursory door-check.

Guests run the gauntlet through wispy cotton cobwebs threaded by that most dreaded spectre of all: glitter. Ultraviolet-reactive glitter at that. Prismatic spiders in every corner join the fuzzy and black widowy variety. Brody the barguy mostly has the task of checking that invitees belong here and don't roam in by accident to cause trouble, claim sanctuary or try to pick up a Doordash order. That one city inspector that tried to insist John pay up his seasonal property taxes currently can't tell east from west, and they say he's walking up and down Restaurant Row even now.

Decorating may ostensibly the reason for the party, but a party is reason enough for itself. Some decorations are out to set the mood. Rotating projection lights throw witches sailing across a conspicuously spooky moon on one wall. Shadowy limbs of a dubiously dark tree reach out for anyone passing by, splashed by more cobwebs. An LED purple Grim Reaper flashes over a wall of liquor, his scythe conveniently hooking into a smoky bottle of something potentially illegal in fourteen states. A box of vicious daggers studs the crown and back of a grim, stone-warted gargoyle who grumbles about doing a favour.

Heaped up in a corner, several foam pumpkins in varying shades and squatness proportions await the carving knives and paints for creative minds to flex their talents. If a fixed shadow over the mound looks like a guillotine with the blade conspicuously lifted, and Madame perched above a stained basket... what of it?

Several stepladders from who knows where (Meg does) bloom around the periphery of the walls. Temporary stick-on hooks purchased in a Costco-sized pack provide all manner of anchors that don't call for actually damaging the walls or ceiling. The wonders of 3M magic never cease.

"You've gotta make your last wish,
Gonna light up every niche,
You've gotta set the mood just right,
Oh no,
Must be the season of fright."

In a gap between sets, Meggan serenades the world from the bar, or specifically floating six inches above the bar to twine and weave gossamer into a likeness of grumpy haunts looming over those drowning their sorrows. With a look of consideration, she asks, "Should we make them all wet like they came up from the depths, you think?" No point in hiding her resemblance to evil Galadriel here; the pointed ears are on display.

The evening's music ripples through the speakers, avoiding the usual Thriller and Ghostbusters mashups for throwbacks that predate Gen Z and baby Millennials. True Hallowe'en music calls for smashing some gourds and gobs of leather pants, torn t-shirts, and attitude.

IC Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5GxDB2hxFjNuannmBDCIPe?si=efNmXTbaRvKcxMahOoTeuQ

Gothier than Thou Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6icL95OPnX8T

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
What is Satana doing here? Enjoying herself. Seeing which of her.. Loosely defined teammates are about and present. Which ones that might get sloppy she could snack on later. She's wearing an outfit that could be called 'abbreviated'. By her standards even. It consists over of the classic style skull-kini, a long flowing cape sent behind her back with a massive sword hung over her hips attached loosely in a sheathe and her in high heels with skulls along them and stilettos so sharp they could be blades. She's shifted her skin to that of an albino, along with her hair but with blood red eyes that are enough of a giveaway as to her identity. The remainder of the outfit is what could be called combat fishnets up and down.

However, given the 'spirit' of the festivities, the skulls of the kini are painted orange with small glowing flames within them.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike is not in a costume persay- but with his usual off the clock attire being of the grayscale variety, a sizable amount of it black, AND him having stared as the chief antagonist of a vampire movie that's gone cult enough for seasonal showings at select theaters... Whelp.

Let's just say he's had more than his share of people going 'Dominic!' as he came closer to the place where the seasonal spirit has hit.

Although, the one girl who screamed out 'Colin' was a surprise. Granted the uniform in that show was black- Deep dive there, ma'am.

Either way enough about the trip over. He's here now, he's gotten settled and the items that had previously been brought up with the location's hosts have been delivered. For one night only, a 'never ending' keg and a few seemingly color coded candy dishes of varying longevity.

Currently he's at the last candy dish. emptying out the contents of several small pouches that had been carrying Reese's Pieces. Once the bowl was filled and the pouches emptied, the musician pauses for a moment to check the time and write something down in a nearby notebook.

There's... probably a good reason for that.

...Right?

John Constantine has posed:
Remember - you love her. You really and truly do. It's a mantra that John's been playing over and over in his head since the transformation of his beloved bar - his little stolen piece of home, once called The Liverbird's Nest. He often wonders what the old patrons think happed to it.

He loves his wife.

Even when she's going about doing what she's doing and turning his bar into - whatever it is it's becoming currently. He's sitting at his stool at the bar - where else would he be. A bottle of scotch rests at one elbow and the trio of Silks, a lighter and an ashtray at the other. It might be noted that the lighter is no longer a Bic. It's a proper Zippo, but it's not *his* Zippo. It does, however, have enough meaning to soothe the savage beast that was missing his own - if just a bit.

"Hmmm, what was that, luv?" he asks as he comes out of his constant reminder of how much he loves his wife. He glances up at Meggan - and is reminded of *why* he loves his wife. It's not only that she's smokin' hot either. That little pert nose, so much like Ceci's, the passion with which she embraces things just like tonight. The *color* she brings into a life so long void of it. "Sure, luv, make'm wet."

He pushes himself up from his stool and vaults pretty effortlessly onto the bar's top to lend a hand, Silk Cut between his lips shouldn't be a surprize.

He *loves* his wife, but he does draw the line at *costumes*.

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Samhain. All Hallow's Eve. Halloween. Or as some pronounce it--

"Hawwwooooo-loween!" sings the decidedly NOT human creature in the corner. Taking unabashed advantage of her greater height, Belinda Gutierrez-- wearing her lupine Silverdane guise --strings up the last of the decorations along the wall, twisting them with a minor adjustment to her personal satisfaction. A moment's pause as she considers the glimmering streams, rumbling in pleasure.

"And so, that is the story of why wolves are the ones responsible for naming and renaming the tradition of spirits." Brushing off her hands, she gathers the mostly-empty box of decorations. Because limits-- even if she rather make the place look like a small (or large ) scale glitterblast explosion had gone off via guided aircraft delivery.

"Of course, it is not quite a match for Dia de los Muertos," she continues, talking to-- someone? Anyone? The air at large, it seems!

Sally Pride has posed:
To be fair Sally Pride has over time gotten better at not feeling like she always has to hide herself, but that doesn't change that this time of year is still the easiest to just walk around being herself. And now has an actual party to go to, so that's nice as well.

Of course there's the whole matter of what do you do for a costume when you're already a mutant humanoid lioness?
Well, you find a different humanoid 'big cat'.

In this case when Sally walks in it's wearing a black athletic top and shorts so you can see the dark spots dyed into her fur. To go with her hair having been dyed red. So you have a lioness, posing as a Cheetah.

She lets out a sharp whistle after making it through the winding webs. "Someone's been busy doing the place up for the occasion."

Frankenstein has posed:
"...Nothing can stay my glance
Until that glance run in the world's despite
To where the damned have howled away their hearts,
And where the blessed dance;
Such thought, that in it bound
I need no other thing,
Wound in mind's wandering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound."

Standing in front of The Laughing Magician, a strange and somber figure stares at some of the decorative choices on the exterior of the building. It looks like it isn't just the staff of the Laughing Magician who have gotten into the holiday spirit, as their neighbors have also pasted a few paper and cardboard decorations in the display of their plate glass window. Judging by the look on the strange and somber figure, he is either confused by these bits of bric-a-brac, or possibly displeased.

He's a displeased sort of fellow.

"Little early for Halloween, huh bud?"

A passerby stops to look at the strange and somber figure, taking in the full measure of his strangeness and somberness. For he is an uncommonly large sort of person, but not enough to draw such attention. Rather, it's the dark green of his skin, the strength of his bare arms, and the network of stitches all across his flesh. There's also the small matter of the bolts that have been screwed into his temples, the rather ancient-looking overcoat (sans sleeves, clearly ripped off...) and what appears to be an actual functional broadsword stretched to his back.

In reply, the large green man just turns slightly to look at the passersby, and responds with...

"Hrrrm?"

One of the passersby clears his throat, without slowing his walking. "Don't remember Frankenstein having a sword, bud. Is that from a show or something?"

His girlfriend corrects him as they continue walking. "It's technically Frankenstein's MONSTER, hun."

"Oh right."

Just before they get out of casual conversation range, the girl turns and yells back at The Monster.

"Great costume though!"

Sighing wearily, The Monster heads down the six steps into the bar, and swings the door open in a way that would be considered far too excessive if it were just about anyone else.

And then he stands there, filling most of the door frame and soberly scowling upon all that he surveys.

"Hrrrn... I fear I am too late. Madness has befallen you all. If you wish, I can offer you a painless passing..."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Meggan is not in costume because living outside the Otherworld means she's pretty much in costume all the time. She needs no help being marked out as different with slanting cheekbones and metallic bronze eyes turned upward on the lengths of black cheesecloth giving an apparition form. Meters of the stuff rolls off a bolt, waiting to be coaxed into spooky shapes that won't get in Brett's way. Billy? Briquette? Whatever that bar-dude's name is.

John, as it happens. He clears the polished surface and she exclaims in delight, swinging up til her knees brush the ceiling for leverage. In that position she could be Spider-Fae. "You're full of the best ideas, gorgeous." Blowing him a kiss serves more than a mark of affection from one Constantine to another. It actually convinces the water in a pitcher to wiggle up and conga-dance her way. Gotta get that from somewhere!

"Welcome, welcome! Love your body positivity, Sat," she calls out while the translucent serpent slithers higher and springs lopsided at her hand. It hits the gauze and the gloomy apparition starts to drip a bit. Some splash damage will be necessary to get the ghosts of the Ancient Mariner look going on. Beads sparkle in the light. See, pretty!

Her whispery voice floods like silk in surprise as Mike comes bearing gifts. Approval sparks. "Oooh, you brought treats? We are in luck." It's hard for her to say thank you to anyone without establishing obligation in the current form -- a no-no -- so that's the equivalent. Her smile is upside down, a glossy crescent as the playlist turns over and The Renfields comes up hard on the heels of the Writhers. Something for everyone in there.

Sally's big cat appearance hard on Belinda's arrival is also reason for fanfare, and she says, "Help yourself. Ah, Dia de los Muertos is also important. Sugar skulls are welcome, and you. Decorating is optional. Drinks and good spirits are the point." A beat as she's more feeling Frankenstein than spotting him. Bryan the guy stares up, way up, at Frankenstein and jerks his thumb in and steps aside. No point in even asking, some people fit the bill.

Richard Stadler has posed:
     Rick isn't in costume at the moment. Granted, he had things that /felt/ like costumes in his closet, these days, but they'd make for poor actuals... and when someone was pushing 50, it got just a little embarrassing to find some polyester one-piece Reed Richards outfit at one of the hermit crab costume stores in an outlying burrough. So he was just in some more conservative gear; a nice pair of kahkis and a long sleeve shirt that would, with the Jacket, keep the heat in as things got colder.

Why he was heree... well... team building? He wasn't a dive bar type of person, but this place seemed to be one of the properties that was tangentially being used by the JLD, and therefore worth scouting about while attempting to ensure the adhesive hook he was using perfectly balanced the plastic skeleton; one of a baker's dozen he'd brough with him. He's made /sure/ all the bones were in the right place. It /costs/ a bit more, but he'll be damn if he's inaccurate.

"Do you think anyone would notice if I nailed this in? This-" He says, looking t o his left... and up. He had forgotten exactly how tall Belinda was in that form... something that took some time getting used to. "Well. Maybe no nails. Dia de los muertos is a different holiday altogether, if I understand it.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
Blowing a kiss over to Meggan, Satana would wink, "Thank you kindly. Gal I'm hanging down with in the depths lately of the damned. Lovely thing. She enjoys revelry just as much as I do. Sorry she couldn't make it, but the restrictions on her coming up to here are rather weighty and annoying to work through. I'd say she sends her love but she hasn't got any to spare. She did give me these though." Pointing at the.. Celebratory pumpkins - celebratory given their positioning over on her, at least!

"Had to make a couple of adjustments to me so they would stay on. She's an incessant flirt once you get to know her and you can get past her normal impulse of trying to gore you. Scandinavian.. You know how peasants from there can be." She would sway her hips on over in the far too abbreviated outfit that looked like something for a decidedly different sort of Festival.

John Constantine has posed:
A painless passing would maybe be welcomed - if John didn't love his wife. Of course with her six feet above the bar, the only hand he's truly lending her is placement advice and holding the tape. People coming in are definitely noticed - each pass through the doorway by someone 'more than human' causes a little niggle at the back of his mind - a tickle that raises the hair on the back of his neck. The more 'more than' the bigger the niggle tickle. If a person's been in the Laughing Magician in John's presence before, he can recognize their particular 'niggle tickle'. Mentally he's keeping track of party 'comers'. But it isn't until Frank enters the bar with all his most 'more than' that John actually turns his attention from the floating backside of his wife. Riiiiiight.

"Are you sure it hasn't befallen *you*, mate?" he asks in Frank's direction. "Perhaps what you think you're seeing isn't really here atall. That would be a twist, now wounldnit?"

But that attention is quickly turned back toward his wife - on the ceiling.

Satana has *nothing* on Meggan Constantine - at least not in John's eyes.

"Put'm where ever you'd like, Ricky Maybe I can spell them to dance a bit later, ey?" What was that? Perhaps the first signs of him maybe actually getting into the season? Or maybe he just wants to make Rick squirm a bit under the threat of magic being done to his perfect skeletons?

He rips his gaze from Meggan and offers small gestures of greetings to the gathered masses - a half grin here, a nod there. It's a start anyway. BryanBuckBurtBoyd - whatever his name might be, has been sure to keep the booze flowing for the bossman - if only by making sure John had a *full* bottle to start. About halfway into it and he might loosen up a little more. Currently he's only one glass so, but he's sure to make up for lost time quickly.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
"Just for tonight." Mike replies to Meggan with a smile. Pen lowering onto the notebook before he turns the pouches inside out to ensure nothing collects in them.

As Rick asks about nailing something in the musician cocks his head to the side. "The hook should be fine as is. Well, unless you got it from the dollar store."

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
The werewoman nods, grinning cheerfully as she considers Mr. Stadler's work. "I do not know for sure," she admits, "But adhesive hooks are retrieved much more easily than nails. Besides, could you find a proper semental here, a stud in the wall? Though perhaps the posts.... Anyhow, it might serve for now, but would ruin the longer ambience of El Magicion." She gestures, sweeping in as she breathes. Carefully-- instinctively, the wrinkling of her muzzle twitches at the smell of cigarette smoke.

She bites back her standard remark as she exhales gingerly. "...had forgotten the smell," she reminds herself, tail quivering. Newcomers! Cat and Mr. Hannigan and there by Mr. Constantine-- she peers closer. The Hulk? Sangre!

Sally Pride has posed:
Sally Pride glances back towards the door. "Now -that- is how you make an entrance. Nothing but sheer presence." Followed by a bit of a laugh. "Madness, maybe, but this is pretty low key compared to some days." She passes through, nodding to the others present as she does, and goes to lean on the bar. Tail flicks behind her as she smirks a bit. "But I'm all for good spirits. Of both varieties." So hopefully there's not a shortage of either here!

Frankenstein has posed:
Passing the Bartholomew Guy with a nod and a non-threatening 'Hrrrn...', Frankenstein lumbers forward on long, slightly stiff legs. As his jaundiced, yellowed, yet bloodshot eyes adapt to the lighting, he realizes that he underestimated the true horror being unleashed within the formerly quaint pub. But rather than resentment, there seems to be almost a tinge of sadness as he beholds the festivity, and a sense of awkwardness as he slouches toward The Bar.

Never the most friendly of bar patrons, Frankenstein is polite and careful with his lumbering steps, never looking at any one person for too long. There's a certain shyness, as if he wishes he were a much less obtrusive figure. Or at least a less... unique-looking one.

One might think that Frankenstein isn't much of a drinker, and one would be right. But this doesn't stop him from stepping up to the bar, laying both of his heavy hands on top of it with a dull thud, and just sort of lurking there silently for a couple of breaths before responding to anything.

'A couple of breaths' is an odd sort of time measurement for a person who doesn't even breathe.

"Ah... what a sweet release madness must be. But the mind of Frankenstein is far too sharp to succumb... far too sharp."

He looks up, and then almost immediately looks down, turning slightly to look at the bottle of scotch on the bar with what seems to be mere curiosity.

"There are foul omens in the air. I expected to find you all skinning a ram. I must admit... this is an unexpected twist."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Hope's like that," purrs Meggan from her ceilingside perch. She crawls along the flat surface as easily as a cat burglar runs the narrowest ledges. Sewing and stitching water through the ghost without splashing too much below takes skill to manage. On that note, she asks Satana, "What pact did you swear to keep the bikini top from snapping? Or is that your deathly trick?"

One could argue she's painted herself into a corner in black leather pants and a band t-shirt that calls for burning down Parliament, complete with ravens circling around. The Laughing Magician has plenty of room for sparkles and gourd times, since nearly everyone to step through those doors gets ultraviolet glittered. The water runs up her arm when she's not paying attention, wrapping around her neck like a boa and promptly soaking into the fabric. John's got more to worry about then.

"Excellent choice," she whispers as Rick unloads biologically accurate skeletons. It beats the stack of neon orange and pink ones in all the stores. "Ask John about any changes. Hooks and sticky pins that way." A nod at the box comes with her making a face as the water serpent hopefully lifts its sloshed head and she banishes it with a wave of her hand before the Zippo-deprived magician gets ideas.

Drinks enough abound for anyone who is actually thirsty, and not all is spiked. One bowl definitely /is/ though, crushed Otherworld fruits floating in a ruby sangria. Cups ensure it looks like Interview with the Feypyre is a thing. She tracks Belinda and Sally's reactions, and then smiles at Frankenstein. "Bit too Olympian for this celebration. More like to gut a turnip and dance around a bonfire in three weeks."

The song flips over on the system, loading up the Groovie Ghoulies, camp and punk in the same moment.
"Trick or treat, baby! On a night like this
Trick or treat, oh, oh, and that means a kiss
Trick or treat, baby, and don't let me miss
A sweet kiss from you on a night like this!
Trick or treat, baby! By the light of the moon,
Trick or treat, oh, oh, don't leave me so soon..."

Richard Stadler has posed:
     Rick looks over to John with a grimace, a quick knife hand directed over to him. "Nope. These need to go back into the attic come November, and I'm not going to have them accidentally... animating up there sometime past Black Friday while I'm sleeping." He says. "Besides, never made sense to me." He notes, moving to lift another skeleton, and move to a different area with a hook. "They're skeletons. They need muscle, ligament to move. What, you're going to telekinetically have them move around, each bone? Where would you have grip strength?" He mutters, hanging another onto the wall. "Almost as bad as zombies." And Mike gets a bit of a look. "The dollar store sells cheap ones. These look better. It's within the budget."

Belinda gets a nod. "It works, at least. And at least I don't have to get out a stud finder. This was a bit more casual than that and I'd have to get back to the apartment to get one. Unless you folks have one." Meggan is nodded to, as he wonders to the box itself. He's avoiding the sugar for today.

And Frank... well. Frank is simply... considered, as he lumbers into the area, looking up. Mouth slightly open. "Have we... met?" Rick asks, eyes flickering over to his nearly folded jacket, placed on the bar to keep it out of the way. "Though I will say skinning a ram is taking this a bit too far. Depends on what we'd do with the meat.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
Going to make some playful smoochy sounds in the air, Satana goes to start heading out to the dance floor, "Someone come to waltz with us?" Us? There's an image for a moment as there's now a replica over of Satana dressed in the same outfit, but just with pale white eyes and bright blood lipstick rather than the red eyes that Satana has. She goes to reach out with one arm to take the wrist of 'herself' forwards, and moves to wrap her arm over about the shoulders of 'hreself' as the two would go to start to waltz along in a somewhat creepy manner.

Then she would each blow a kiss over at John as he seemed quite swept up with his wife as the two would go to dance along through the floor, appropriate or not as they would sway along together and sing to a tune over accompanying Meggan's, but in a different, lost, language.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
To the mental image of Rick waking up to the sounds of skeletal riverdancing, Mike snerks. His lips press into a tight smile as the conversation switches over to him briefly. "My point exactly." Mike replies, "Then you're probably fine with what you got."

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
"Barbeque," is Belindane's quick answer, the werewolf humming cheerfully in tune and time as she attempts to snap her fingers. The claws ruin the effort; it comes off as a click as the sound is muffled by fingerpads. She flicks her ears, listening to the goings on of the bar, humming in turn. No dancing for her-- she hefts the box and proceeds after Mr. Stadler, the Eternal Assistant-- fuzzier than a gopher yet far more adept.

"Barbeque and tamales, roasted over grill or pitfire or slow-cooked on el espeton, a spit. At home, we did such sometimes when we caught one of the wild pigs nearby. They would sometimes wander through, and then stay for dinner."

Innocent.

John Constantine has posed:
"We just haven't gotten to that bit yet, Frankie," he deadpans - but certainly he's joking right? When he sees the Big Guy eyeballing his bottle of scotch, well John's sure to bend and snatch it up. Oh, nononono - that curiosity is all John's tonight. It's top of the top shelf, that bottle. Something he only allows himself on 'special' occasions - the ones that have him doubting his own sanity if truth be told. John Constantine is a drinker - in fact he likely has very little blood left in his scotch stream, but he is not a *partier*. At least not anymore. There used to be a time, a long long time ago. There might even be pictures to be used as evidence but those are surely locked up safe and sound in a vault in the House of Mystery.

Well, that is all of them but those that still flit about the darker corners of the web - pictures of Mucous Membrane and John in all his punked out front man glory.

Bottle in hand, Silk stubbed in the ashtray in the process and another tucked behind his ear for later lighting, John looks back up at Meggan. He promptly tips back the bottle to drink straight from it - making up for lost time, it's missing about a third of its contents when he stops. How *does* he do that without spluttering?

"Well, mate," John begins for Rick's benefit as he's lighting another Silk Cut, "Until you've actually done battle with animated skeletons, I can safely say that you haven't a clue." Because *of course* John Constantine has done battle with animated skeletons.

A little twirl of his finger and a few words muttered under his breath and the skeletons begin jerking and twitching. Just because he's not a partier, doesn't mean he can't enjoy mucking about with people, ey?

But again, his attention is drawn back to Meggan in all of her 'wet t-shirt' glory as he asides, "Nails if you need them are fine, pay no mind to the walls when they bleed, mate." Again, he's kidding right?

Sally Pride has posed:
Sally Pride picks up a cup, takes a swig from it, then turns to lean back against the bar. Casts her glance towards Belinda, and grins just enough for her fangs to show. "Dammit girl, now you're making me hungry as well as thirsty." Which of course leads to another slog from the cup. Followed by regarding it for a moment. "Not bad. You give any of the drinks creepy kooky names to go with the season?" Pause. "Or just no one stays sober enough to remember them?" After which she chugs down the rest of it.

Camille Russo has posed:
Cam comes straight from a shift, her only nod to the occasion the thin strands of metallic yarn draped over her curls in a webbed design. There's a vibrantly emerald spider with yellow and orange just above her right ear - an orchard orbweaver common in Louisiana. She takes in the decorations with a smile, coming up to the small group around John as he mentions the animated skeletons, then starts to hum "Creepy Spooky Skeletons" while giving the walls a sideways glance. "Seems like it'd be hard to shoot one, but if you get enough of their bones they'd fall over, right?" Her grin is wide as she wiggles her fingers at the bar in greeting, attention caught by the sparkling of her - "Ah hell, James is gonna hate findin glitter every damn where once I get home."

Frankenstein has posed:
"Hrrrn... I have never cared for turnips..."

Although he's the one who would certainly win 'best costume', Frankenstein sort of has the demeanor of the guy who showed up to a costume party as a last minute invite, in his regular work clothes. He certainly doesn't seem like a likely candidate to make his way onto the dancer floor, but the night is far from over. And as we've already established, there are foul omens or something.

He watches as the bottle gets more or less snatched away with something approaching indifference. An undead corpse neither eats nor drinks, except under duress. Though some of Frankenstein's nearest 'relatives' occasionally develop a taste for brains, or other gross things.

"Perhaps it is well that you have these moments of frivolity. For the night is dark, and full of terrors..."

As his voice trails off, Frankenstein seems unaware that he is a real killjoy's killjoy. He turns away from the bar, watching the merriment, the dancing, and taking in some of the decorations. Skeletons, pumpkins, vampires, witches... all the classics seem to be represented. But finally his undead eyes catch sight of something at once familiar and strange.

A sort of reflection, twisted into an abomination.

As his hands leave the bar, it's hard to tell whether it's the wood or Frankenstein himself that's doing the creaking, as he brings himself fully around to face this aberration with something that at first appears to be anger, but slowly morphs into bemusement.

Taking lumbering steps forward, and dangerously toward the dance floor, Frankenstein stops in front of a very tall display of a very famous figure. One to which he is frequently compared.

The larger than life-sized Monster has its arms outstretched, and there are plastic bolts sticking out of its green, rubber skin. But as Frankenstein steps up to his near doppelganger, the animatronic eyes light up, and the arms move up and down in a jerky manner. An electronic voice calls out:

"Fire, baaaaaad!"

Frankenstein merely stares, and responds with a 'Hrrrn...'

Richard Stadler has posed:
     "Well, I imagine-" Rick said, before pausing. "Did you say the walls bleed in here?" Rick says, his hanging stopping for a moment as he turns to John. "Look, magic is a bit of a sell with me, and I don't like hearing I'm in something with a functioning circulatory system. Like being in the mouth of a whale waiting to see if it'll swallow." Rick mutters, opting to take another adhesive hook instead from Belinda, as well as another folded up Skeleton from the oversized gopher carting the box behind him. Though he does take a moment to turn and let her know. "You can do other things if you'd like. Not that I don't appreciate the help. Can't fault you for a pig, though. I've bagged a few deer when I was younger, when I could stand it." He says. "Though, in terms of skeletons-" He's back to it as Camille brings it up again. "If we're talking about engagement, I imagine the idea would be to impart a good amount of kinetic energy to the point most of the bones attach. Spinal cord, or the pelvis. Again, if you can move bones there, how much force is keeping them together."

Frank gets another look as he kkillgoys the argument, and then... comes back with something of a similar looking device. "You know, he was right. Fire is, indeed, bad."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Well, that drowned spectre will not get any more impressively wet without some assistance. Kelp isn't exactly in abundance and bog weeds aren't either. Meggan pulls a couple more threads out to dangle wetly from the ceiling and then drops off the ceiling.

No three-point landing here. No dramatic dip either. She only rotates the once to end upright, pulling her knees up to perch at the edge of the bar. Satana's dancing in two probably entices her to consider going over if the horde of skeletons aren't going there first. "You laugh, you go show us how to dance," she recommends to Mike. See, the twins are there having fun.

John might have his comfort scotch, but comfort tamales are much more interesting. The werewolf might have found a way to make the redheaded Tuath sigh for empty hands and an empty belly. "Would you barbeque later in the season?" Taking a candy from Mike's endless dish is not quite breaking the seal on tipping into a sugar high, but she pops the morsel into her mouth heedless of the danger. Whatever chemicals dance under the surface in unholy abandon were not tested on the Danaan physiology she possesses, a slipstream of rocket fuel meeting the white-hot incandescence of the sun in five, four...

The emotional sledgehammer that's Frankenstein's dour mood might push the detonation point back a couple seconds. But only that long. Her slanting gaze, the unlikely hue of fallen leaves and quenched bronze, mark his approach for one of the many things acquired for decorating. Three... "Pumpkins are New World crops. Didn't come and introduce them for a couple centuries, and my siblings and cousins don't believe in meddling *much*. Goibniu is a real stickler and if Lugh tried anything, Myrddin'd come out and smack him on the nose." Two... If contempt can be encapsulated in a single sound, 'Merlin' would be a small ocean. Distraction comes in the best way; Camille! Spooky Skeletons, she knows that one. "So pretty! Did you make that yourself?"

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Belindane grins towards Sally, eyes dancing with merriment. Culinary discussion onslaught, unleashed! "It is a strange shame that los cerdos, the pigs, never learned to stay away from us," she says with a lingering fake sigh. And fanning tail! "But when hunting season came, oh it was wonderful!"

She blinks as the box in her grasp jitters. Something creeps over the edge, fingertips peering over as though they were eyestalks. A Thing Addams replica, a bony hand complete and down to the wrist-- She gives the box a good shake, glaring down at it with a frown. "Silencio, tu," she warns, snorting with a chuff of breath. The 'Fire!' remark from the plastic Monster(osity) draws a quirk of fuzzy ears, a stifled tensing and easing as she rolls her eyes. "Do not mind it," she offers, stepping over to Frankenstine with a bump of her hip. "Es no importante!"

Attention returned to Mr. Stadler, she casts John a glance, lips quivering as she remarks. "I am not sure of the words, but I believe he is 'messing with you'." She pauses, eyes tracking back to the walls. Sniffing closer, just in case.

Right?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The gargoyle currently hosting a wealth of daggers patiently watches the box shivering. Emerging fingers get a steady stare from slitted stony eyes to measure each digit as it crests the surface. It isn't a large gargoyle by any means but any animatronics are sorely tested as its beaky visage realigns into an even grumpier face than Richard might be facing fan-dancing magical girls or Frankenstein asked to serve on a big-budget Hollywood movie trying to be camp about his monstrous buddies.

It hunches lower and its claws flex a little. By gargoyle standards it's practically a fan-dance of its own. For anything else, just a distraction the thing isn't a foam ornament.

Sally Pride has posed:
"I... sadly, only vagely remember hunting. Before... things happened." Sally waves at herself vagely with one hand, so she's probably talking about the whole mutation deal. Then glances over at the decoration as it activates. "Huh." She sets the empty cup on the bar, snags a couple of candy from the bowl, and meanders over to see for herself. Looks up at the electronic decoration.
Then to the real deal.
Then back to the decoration, and once more to the real deal.

"Eh. It's a clever gimmick, but I dunno. Seems kinda kitchy of a decoration when you can see the real deal in the li.. unliving flesh right in front of you."

John Constantine has posed:
Thing is, there might just be a hint of coopery scent radiating from those walls. Wards such as those don't just happen without some blood, sweat and tears - all in the very literal sense. Magic, something that he'd like all to believe comes so easy - it really doesn't. It's certain that Meggan's likely bore witness to just how difficult, draining, and painful it can actually be. So, is he joking or not?

John will never tell.

Once Meggan has abandoned her spot on the ceiling, John hops off the bar to reclaim his 'throne'.

Potential bleeding walls, animatronic gargoyles that look more real than not - a closer look about might point to other things that could be more than what they appear to be. Did anyone expect less from the Constantines for Halloween?

The truth of it is something, much like the difficulty of magic, only Meggan might ever know. John really does enjoy the spooky season. It's the one time of the year when the things he deals with on the daily cross into the world at large - and in a way that makes them less than what they truly are - a way that makes them feel lighter, right down to the real deal for him.

Sitting there, on his stool, a Silk Cut between his lips with his wife and, well, what could pass for his 'friends' - John's not quite as grumpy as he pretends to be.

Another little twirl of a finger and a a few more muttered words and Rick's skeletons rise from their box and begin to actually dance.

"There you go," he directs toward Satana. "Dance partners."

His attention shifts to his wife - a quick wink and a quicker crooked smile is enough to at least let her in on his little secret. He might just be having a little bit of fun.

Frankenstein has posed:
It's not often that something that looks like Frankenstein gets hip checked. But whoever had that the individual doing the hip checking would be taller than Frank and every bit as Halloween-themed on their Bingo card can go ahead and cross that one off.

"It's not important, true. Five billion years the Earth will be completely swallowed by the Sun and there will be no evidence that any of us have ever existed."

Looking up at the where wolf (there wolf), Frankenstein looks as if he's about to try something approximating a smile, but the effort is simply too much for him. His face muscles have been dead for about two hundred years, so perhaps he can be forgiven. But there's a somewhat bemused look on his face, as if he's beginning to be infected by the spirit present within the pub. It would be a nice change from the spirits he usually gets infected by.

"I was reminded of that fact in my meditation this morning. It reminded me of the futility of existence, and the beauty of existing in spite of its futility."

"Er... we haven't met. I'm Frankenstein. Like from the books, and the... shoddy animatronic displays."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike blinks at the mention of dancing, seemingly missing that part. He glances over to the floor. and glances back, shaking his head.

"I'm...not really in the dancing mood at the moment, honestly." The musician responds. For one he's not being paid at the moment. "Also I'm keeping an eye on some things."

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
As the skele-bros go her way, Satana and her partner grin. Even as they seem more distinct and more solidly manifest. "Well, since you're offering.." The two look even more different now as more power goes to form them. "I suppose we can make a little exception to things now." The music changes, the tempo rising. Satana and her partner go to each take out blades to twirl them. There is more power in the air as Satana bends some rules to allow a more formal apparation but not quite a dimensional breach. A song that's traditionally sung by the cossacks rises through the air. It is however a song traditionally hewn to a month ahead. A very fast tempo goes to it as the two go to rapidly amenuver towards one another. As she and the Lady of the Damned Svelgate dance, they then pull out blades. The tempo picks up as the two start to throw the blades at one another, with the speed only true demons can.

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
The werewolf (therewolf!) makes a most unspeakably un-monstery sound.

She /giggles/. And ahems.

"Silverdane," she offers in return, tail fanning as she beings a curtsey. Or bow. Or something-- a moment's respectful gesture disrupted by twin skletons springing from the box in her clasp!

"Dios!" she exclaims, staring at the two cadavers cavorting off to-- dance?

"...fine then," she all but growls, tipping the cardboard up and over, dumping the Thing Addams replica(?) out to join the others.

"Just do not complain to me when you get stepped on repeatedly!"

Snorting, she folds the practically empty box beneath her arm, trying to curtsey again, offering her own (toothy) grin. "Buen noches, Senor Frankenstein! Please, do not be offended by--" Glance. "--the decorations. It is in good spirits, and better than the days when walls would bleed."

John Constantine-- POINTED GLOWER AT.

Sally Pride has posed:
"I gathered as much," replies the lioness-playing-Cheetah with a smirk. Jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the animatronic. "Honestly it doesn't do you justice."

She's just not going to comment on the existentialism. She'd rather go with the 'in spite of it's futility' part.

"Sally Pride." As they are doing the actual introductions. "... The spots are fake." Her tail flicks back and forth, as if indiciationg the -rest- of the feline woman is real though.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The soft hit of sugar trails away, vanilla on her tongue through the hazy crackle as long as it lasts. Not long enough for Meggan. She takes in the overall glow of conversation and take on animatronic Frankenstein over there, Sally's judgement accepted in a low, throaty laugh. "We will not spoil you for the spiders then."

Shadows tremble and copper flares hot on the air. The gargoyle recedes back into watching as he patiently bears up his back of hedgehog bristles, some a few inches long and others large enough to hack through primeval Welsh forests untouched by the sun or mankind since the Romans. Stygian darkness bleeds from corners, here and there, skulking at the edges and dancing a bit as the lights bouncing around in a greeting sign dissolve from words into something else. They spin and whirl to the music overhead, adding a visual effect not entirely different from going to a dance club. Except they're freewheeling lights with their own opinions about what beat to follow. One decides to land on the bar and bob around drunkenly as though lost, or maybe it's out to convince anyone loitering around to join the party.

Meggan asides to John in a whisper almost lost in that short distance, "No one tell him we're on other planets or the folks on Oa recorded all our stuff for perpetuity, right? Hate to spoil the moment and all that."

Her hands cup around her knee, adopting a comfortable demeanor. He might be brooding outwardly but she snatches that smile and harbours it like a state treasure to be known another day, behind a piquant smirk. "See, they enjoyed everything. Now we get them to string cobwebs before the goblins show up."

Richard Stadler has posed:
     "I can never tell with Magic." Stadler says, adjusting the skeletons, his back turned to the box as things shuffle around in there. "I didn't think there was a devil geese in a geese hell, but there it is." He says. "And the /other/ house is alive. Has a mind of it's own, and it's like setting up a civilization in a whale's belly." He notes, as the sounds from the box grow louder. "Ms. Guiterrez, is there anything wrong with-"

He promptly turns around, and, despite the way he should have been prepared, gives a loud yelp and a jump back as he sees the skeleton's dancing, fists clenching and unclenching. "God.... /Damn It/, Constantine- The- You!" He says, pointing at John to make sure the ire's properly directed. There's a deep breath for a moment, a few clenching and unclenching, before he just throws his hands up. "Great, I suppose they're /you're/ skeletons now, before they're not going in /my/ Attic/ after this. And they can good god damn hang themselves now." He notes. He's briskly walking over to John now, a rather stern look in his eyes...

As he attempts to snatch the pack of Silk Cuts out of the magician's hand to draw a cigerrette from it.

A look over to Frank, as he looks at him for a long time. "That... Mary Shelly? That book? That's you? Reanimated corpse? Why should I be suprised?"

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
The dancing of the pair of twisted, bladed women goes on. They're twirling together, fwooshing now as the tempo of the beat picks up. The albino demonic lady throws two blades. Which Satana catches in each hand. then two more are hurled at her as the tempo is at a rocking pace, as what was a holiday song has now become a twisted, macabre melody. The blade is flung through the air, and Satana snaps her head up. Jaw opening and distending like it was a snake's, the blade landing in her throat even as the last one would skewer her through the neck. She would twist about with a flourish, pirouetting now as she would take the four blades, and go to launch them back. She and her paramour would be properly dueling now.

Blades matching the tempo and melody, as they would catch, dodge, and occasionally be hit by a blade, the blood and fire staying composed about them rather than splattering all over the arena.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Listening to Rick's mini rant, the musician tilts his head, "Honestly I figured by now you'd just take it in like a breath of air." Mike comments, watching as the professor tries to steal ciggs. "Hey Rick. Rather than that, why don't you have some candy?" There's a hand gesturing over to one of the dishes, giving a smile. "Plenty to choose from."

John Constantine has posed:
Meggan's whispered words nearly cause John to lose his composure and bark out a laugh - nearly. His efforts to hold it back aren't in vain - he does manage to choke it back, but a coughing fit soon follows. A long pull from his bottle of scotch chases that right away. He idly wonders if anyone's ever mentioned that to Lois Lane.

It might have taken him a beat, but John's attention finally lands on the one person in the room that gets much of a reaction out of him - other than his wife. "Poppet!" he greets Camille with much more enthusiasm than most would ever believe him to have. Lil' Witch, often times out of her element, but still staring into the pits of madness that spring up in John Constantine's orbit with grace and courage - even if the former is a little unrefined. Is there any wonder that she's hit one of his soft spots.

Not unlike him as a budding magi - although his 'grace' was much much more unrefined than hers.

He *really* needs to find some time to show her a thing or two.

He lifts his bottle in her direction 'cheers!'

"Never let it be said that you don't know how to throw a party, luv," he murmurs to Meggan. It's a good thing that one of them has it down to an artform - parties and socializing and all those things people consider 'normal'. If it wasn't for her, John might not ever leave the comfort of his home or his bar until duty called. Wait - he's still in the comfort of his bar.

"Have at it, mate," John tells Rick as he actually *offers* the pack. Let it never be said that John Constantine refused to be a bad influence by encouraging a vice! His look of bemusement, that little smile that hints at him knowing secret things that no one else is privy to, that expression is there in spades now. Rick's little fit? Now *that* was funny. He may not be laughing outright, but the humor is reflected in his eyes and the way they crinkle around the edges.

Camille Russo has posed:
"Think that'd be one of the times I'd approve Caleb's concussion grenades, even if I got caught in it. Seems like a fairly efficient way to dismantle multiple skeletons at once," she remarks to Stadler, before getting drawn in by Meggan's autumn gaze and question. "Not the spider, she's a trinket I found in the markets. Bigger than the real ones, but I based the pattern for the netting off the webs they weave in nature, yeah. And ooh, barbeque? Dibs on bringing the cornbread. Or somethin that'll go with." She beams at the woman, reaching out to ruffle John's hair as he greets her.

"Is there anything I can help hang up or hold in place for someone? Or maybe wipe this glitter on? It's very pretty, but I don't want to wear all of it home."

Frankenstein has posed:
"Mary Shelly... I think that was her name."

There's some affected nonchalance from Frankenstein as he brushes past some of the conversation topics that seem to always inevitably come up. Sure, he's got a fashionable mohawk these days, but he's very obviously Frankenstein. And... mohawks aren't really fashionable anymore. He'll be sporting the Broccoli Cut in about forty years at this rate.

To the relief of perhaps everyone, Frankenstein walks around the dance floor on his way back toward the bar. Nobody really wants to see him doing the Monster Mash, aside from those with severe mental afflictions. But as he lumbers across the floor, one might notice that his giant boots seem to be moving in time with the music. There are some things that even a perpetual downer like Frankenstein isn't immune to, and apparently music is one of them.

But he'd almost certainly deny it.

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Silverdane bites back a groan, a giggle, laughter-- ears perking to the various sounds, the whizz and whirl and trace of blades on the air, The clatter of bones-- Belinda exhales slowly as the Danse Macabre continues, complete with added swordplay! "Perhaps this is so," she admits with a grin, "But half the living is carrying on in spite of life's end, no?"

One eye keeps on Mr. Stadler carefully; she releases a breath she was 't sure she was holding as things calm by measures. She bites back another giggle-- mussed hair. Touseled Constantine hair! When she glances back, the Creature has moved on-- quietly, for one of such size! She chuffs softly, hugging the box to herself before moving over to the counter to provide the empty carton to Bruno for later use. Bandino? Braveras? Bruce.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Five billion years from now, there may be a man in a blue box travelling the universe and a guy in a stolen trenchcoat, in some timelines. The end of the the days of stars and the vast dark, if not snuffed out by a war or a hungry super-scientist, don't portend well for certain people.

With a reach around John whilst he greets Camille coming in, she goes for whatever bottle of something might be on the bar. Less important what and more significant is the fact it might be trusted to quench her thirst. The fruity sangria with enchanted berries is dangerous enough not to go for, but all the other stocked liquors are fair game. All this makes a smug cover for John's blustery response to her soft words.

"I do love spiderwebs. Colourful ones too? Best way to show your inspiration. You might have to show us how you do it."

Her fingers flex into a take on a wave, taking all kinds of acknowledgment and welcome. Poetic to watch how people interact, and how the Laughing Magician lights up for all the conversations, the trappings of Hallowe'en just there to add another layer of colour and light. Even the dour notes strike a good balance, and the autumnal-aspected woman half-closes her eyes. Basks, even. Vices being sold on the side won't get a word out of her in this place anyway.

"Ooh, is that a yes? She was like, what, 18 when she wrote that? Puts the rest of us to shame." Shelley is most definitely a notable worth knowing and Meggan sighs in satisfaction. She nods most thoughtfully up at Frankenstein as he approaches. "I'd be listening to her," a nod at Silverdane, "for a fine time. Has the culture down and promising barbeque. We haven't anything near the same back home."

Richard Stadler has posed:
     Rick seems rather sourly stonefaced as going after the cigerette's doesn't produce a proper response of annoyace at theft, but punishment was only half the reason Rick was taking one... well. Two. Two. Was all he was taking, as he pushes the pack back into John's hands, fishing out a rechargable lighter out from his pocket, a small arc of plasma lighting the first one up. "Don't act so smug. These things are going to kill me one day, if that giant murder planet doesn't get us first, and it's exceedingly hard not to do them at the /best/ of times when you're smoking like a chimney in a small space like this, much less the stress." He notes, taking a long drag off the lit cigerette, before walking over to the bar. "You have an Ashtray in here?" He notes. "Or should I go outside? How often do you get code enforcement?"

Mike gets a bit of a look, and then over to the bowl, before pointing at it. "Is that thing still operating? Hasn't... overflowed since I played that record, has it?" He asks, before he addresses Frank again. "And you met her. I... I'm a bit over subscribed at the moment, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you a few questions on.. operation." He notes, before finally looking over to Camille. "Overpressure does a lot to a lot of things. And I imagine it's only problem is blue on blue, depending on range. That's assuming the skeletons want to get within close range, and not, you know, get behind an M2. Granted, that's role for explosives, anyway, so are you really changing the tactical situation?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike gives a smile, giving a nod to Rick's question. "Yes to both. But yours is starting to slow a little. Which is promising for the desired temporary effect."

John Constantine has posed:
Did Poppet just ruffle his hair? John's killed for less! Not really. But he does make an annoyed sound and swat her hand away. It isn't so much that he's worried about his killer hairstyle - that just rolled out of bed and ran a hand through it look. Some people strive for that look, spending an hour and lots of money on fancy products for that look. For John, it's *literally* rolling out of bed and running his hand through it.

It's not the *hair* but more the idea of being 'ruffled'. That implies affection - he does not abide affection. People that get the warm and fuzzy feelings for John Constantine often die horribly. So he does his best to nip the warm and fuzzies in the bud. Sometimes he's successful and other times - well, there's Poppet ... and Meggan. Both seem able to see the truth of him.

Then Rick, well, he's being Ricky and adding more fuel to feed John's bemused expression. He points up to the 'No Smoking' sign right above his beloved stool and then down to the ashtray on the bar to his left. "It'll be the bus that takes you out, mate. Best to look both ways before crossing. Of course it might just jump the curb. So smoke up, ey?" His bemused expression leans toward 'oh so' serious. Wait? Does he know? Can he - certainly he *can't* know how someone's going to die, can he? Maybe he can?

He leans a little closer to Meggan and murmurs, "I promised Ceci I'd be back in time for a bedtime story, luv."

Sometimes it's easy for others to forget or overlook the fact that the pair of them aren't simply a pair anymore. They're a *family*. Something about that makes the cost of John's magic and his fight against the darkness seem all that much more painful, dunnit?

Belinda Gutierrez has posed:
Belinda-- Silverdane checks in her box, glances enviously at the Neverending Bowl of Happiness and Chocolate, sighing as she restrains herself from diving in. She smiles as she turns her head away, humming softly to her--

"Si!" she exclaims without thinking, a blush brief on her features as she nods to Meggan. "We can discuss menu when next I bring your tea shipment over. Orange Djeeling this time? And other tiny things." Added at the end, a knowing wink for John. She dusts her hands off, casting a wave to the patrons-- staring briefly at Dem Bonez Danzing.

".....Dios," she murmurs, giggling to herself. "Have seen fishnets with more cloth!"

Humming innocently, she sneaks for the door. Out, about, off-- to the Belle! And maybe only a few muggers to be taken down and hogtied for the policia tonight.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"She said she'd stay in bed and give Rintrah no problems 'til you came round. That seems to have held." The lack of anyone calling about the House of Mystery burning down or Kamar-Taj having one recalcitrant little girl running amok probably counts as a good thing. The woman tips her head to Adding Ceci in the disparate, erratic orbits of her parents might just turn a comfortable and happy situation into a bowl of firecrackers around a pyromaniac.

She winks back at Belinda. "You had me at tea." Closest she's getting to outwardly saying anything about appreciation. The harboured sigh is mutual between her-wolf and she-elf. How can one not devour the whole bowl of treats or cuppa?

With that note, she closes her hands and the multicoloured floating witch-lights vanish, a sea of violet sparks settling onto the ground. No harm as they burn out, evaporating. The gargoyle cracks an eye, awaiting his opportunity to settle somewhere else, a host of knives notwithstanding. They can see use at another time.

"We have had excellent company. Enjoy yourselves," sounds very much like farewell without saying farewell. An arm loops around John as she unfolds her legs, no longer floating next to him but standing. Their height's almost of an eye, though her damn hair can sometimes add a couple inches when it decides to go full Tamaranean-that-was. She and Kori really need to see the same stylist, fire trails and all.

Darkness that ever wants to close in, even when the stars are extinguished, can be companionable. Night's veil harbours no fears when drawn close. No, the horrible truth is loneliness is the great killer and it stalks as much in the light as the dusty, endless tidings of years. And those haven't got a toehold, held at bay by the torches and pitchforks of events such as this. "She's gone and asked for Cixin again. Try to shake that out of her, or we're going to be up at Greenwich trying to have them explain the body problem all over."

Frankenstein has posed:
"She had an... unreliable source."

More glossing over. It's almost as if Frankenstein has something to be ashamed of where the book is concerned. It's not like he strangled his creator's bride to death on her wedding night or anything...

Good luck proving that one in court.

"But it appears that the seers were wrong, as they so often are. There is no danger here this evening, despite the earnestness of their portents. I will leave you to your fleeting revelries and sweetmeats, for I have... reading to do."

The look on Frankenstein's face is relatively pleasant as he begins walking toward the door in his singularly stiff fashion. Social interaction has never been his forte, but look at him trying to expand his comfort zone ever so slightly. Not all heroes wear capes, and it's a good thing, because Frankenstein would look exactly like Bizarro if he ever tried one on...

As he makes his way toward the door, he gives Barnabus Guy a surprisingly friendly nod, and says something to him under his breath. He receives only a nod in response.

This time he opens the door much more gently, and the sound of his lumbering stomps can be heard going up all six steps. And from then? Probably back to S.H.A.D.E. HQ for all anyone knows. But it might surprise anyone who happens to be scanning the roof of the building around midnight tonight to find that a figure that looks a lot like Frankenstein is up there, watching over the nearby streets in silent meditation, like some sort of stitched-together gargoyle.