7077/A Debt that Can't be Paid

A Debt that Can't be Paid
Date of Scene:	25 July 2021
Location:	Mostly in the Fair Corner of Hell.
Synopsis:	Turns out the cost wasn't so great after all. For now. Until an Unseelie figures a way for revenge perhaps?
Cast of Characters:	Michael Hannigan, John Constantine, Meggan Puceanu

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Michael Hannigan has posed:
Over at the City Spire condos, Mike and an eight year old child end up appearing in the center of a condo. With the privacy of the residence there's little to fear of prying eyes for the odd change in effect with the exception of the startled shout of the roommate. Who, quite honestly has seen enough weird shit to be quieted down after this incident.

Eventually.

What happens after that is a long story which is not necessary to relay here. The child got to watch a lot of TV while Mike made some calls and eventually Constantine's instruction was able to be followed. With a child being delivered to Meggan.

Along with an explanation. It appears that King Finvarra has opted to expand from taking women to taking a child. The very one delivered. And Constantine has taken the child's place to allow for Mike to get her out. There was a special door located over at the bar that led to the realm that John and Mike had treked through earlier. And perhaps it is there still. So. There we are.

Oh dear.

John Constantine has posed:
    A child, that might be added, has muddy blond hair and eyes the color of faded denim. Adeline was mostly quiet, very well behaved... so well behaved that it's impossible to believe the potential implications of those eyes and that hair. Her mother, Enya, is likely a known entity to Meggan, between the shared Fae heritage and well, Constantine. Easily reached if that happens to be the first goal.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Who in their right mind delivers a child to a girl with a fixed address of a *lighthouse*? Or somewhere at university with friends exchanging flats and lease time among a rotating parade of roommates, as takes the mark? CPS is clearly not involved or else they might question Michael and John extensively about poor life choices.

Neither is a bar a place for a child, really. But this is New York. Rules may be optional.

The sunny blonde trades a shift tending at the Empire Club, home to another League, and her extraordinary self dealing with sunny problems. Cue her being here, in jeans and a Kasabian t-shirt, abundant hair up in braids and dangling ribbons with a rainbow quality. Nothing at all scary about her, especially not when she somehow has a box of pastries from a nearby patisserie. New York, the city of bribes.

"Hullo, mates," is the easiest way to break that spell. So there they are. Or there Adeline is, as muddied in her origins as Meggan is. Somewhat, at least, though it takes zero ability for the empath to identify another fae; they're her cousins, as God to the seraphim or Olympians to the Titans. Except not backwards. Chocolate-filled and almond-dusted croissant, anyone? It's neatly on a plate, waiting to be cut. "Been a day, has it?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The guy's travel regimen consists of salt circles in his hotel rooms and he went through a portal with a guy who he saw trigger an explosion just a few nights earlier with little question. Is the topic of sanity really something that should be delved into right now? Is anyone here in their right mind? As for the life choices, there's probably a book series between the three of them.

Mike glances between Adeline and Meggan. He shakes his head to the offer of the croissant. "No thank you." He refuses, "But...there's the matter of what can be done about Constantine."

John Constantine has posed:
    There's one thing that wasn't in the bar before that is now, Chas Chandler, cabbie extraordinaire. "Daft bastard, leavin' that thing all out in the open like that," he mutters from his spot behind the bar, idly polishing glasses. Obviously he's talking about that door John summoned earlier, the one that took him straight into what he likely knew from the start would be a bloody trap.

    "Couldn't get it opened," he admits. Which explains why he's still there, in the bar, and not yet another for poor Meggan to have to rescue. "I can stay with the girl until Enya comes to fetch her. Bring him home, Meg. Just don't think I'm not gonna kill him when you do." Now that Meggan's here, Chas knows who's better suited to bring John back from the Fair Lands and it's not Chas.

    Little Adeline's eyes light up at the sight of the tasties, but... being the good little girl she is? Well, she mentions, "But I haven't had my lunch yet. I shouldn't spoil it." Still yet, she takes a step closer to the goodie. "Should I?"

    Chas raises an eyebrow and actually barks out a laugh at Mike's statement, "Mate, we all been asking that question for YEARS. Oh, and Meggan, this deal he made? Be careful, mighta happened near on a seven, eight years ago, but... I'm thinking it might involve you now, even if he doesn't know it yet."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sanity ought to be discussed, preferably not with government agents or agents of the Sorcerer Supreme, either. Besides, what's sanity where the fae are involved? Much less their *realm*?

"I've an idea for Constantine, though I guarantee you he won't like it," says the Englishwoman in a tone that very much suspects John's grumpiness will be inversely proportional to fun. Or she enthuses at snarling plans. That's a Seelie exemplar for you. Her fluttering ribbons shift over her shoulders and back, woven plenty tight. "Never you mind that part yet. Tell me what's up before I go marching headlong into trouble and botching up your grand ideas?"

It's meant to be a kind offer, one backed up with a smile. Survivability isn't the issue for someone like her. Chas earns a solemn nod. "I will do my best." Good and as close as she gets to promises that are rarely spoken. They turn iron-clad when they are. Adeline's concern gets checked by a solemn look turned to the cabbie. "Would you be willing to make our guest a sandwich or sommat, please? I wouldn't spoil her appetite or get her in trouble with Mum." A secret agreement there with Adeline, no doubt. "If lunch is a problem, we can save you this until she comes to get you and then it's no problem."

Her fingertip taps her temple, just in case. Mike really is getting his toes wet. "Fionnbharr shouldn't be too much trouble, I presume? Failing any other way to get there quick, I can pop right over to Galway and have me a roundabout chat with him or ask after Oonagh. She's ever been the more sensible one, I suspect, and probably someone to catch up with if she still walks this plane."

See? Sanity.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike's eyes shift back and forth to those adding to the discussion. Not really knowing Constantine, references to whatever that guy may have been doing seven or eight years ago remains baffling. Seems the guy's been through enough to not keep track of some things. But speculating about what's not known is not really going to help at the moment.

He turns to the closed door, stepping near it to give it a gander. How did that Constantine open it? Gestures? Was he even doing anything when Mike just blindly walked in here last?

"There were a lot of redcaps there." Mike comments, "Those guys can be annoying. But. Had Constantine not brought up his name, I wouldn't have been able to tell you it was Finvarra." He glances back to the door, before looking to Chas, "So door's locked?"

He turns back, giving it a look of consideration before a really stupid idea comes to mind.

John Constantine has posed:
    He never looks up from his work, those glasses are going to be spotless if only because it's about the only thing keeping Chas from losing his ever loving shit. It helps him maintain the calm demeanor. "Sure thing! I can fix her up something."

    When he sets the glass in his hand down, it's with enough force that it's barely this side of cracking the thing. He makes it a point to circle out and pass by Meggan on his way to the back to grab a sandwich or sommat... "Meggan, the deal was that he had to kill the first woman to steal his heart, in order to sacrifice it," ...John's own heart that is. He whispers the words so the child won't hear, one hand on her arm. "His willful ignorance aside, it's no coincidence that Finvarra trapped him into paying up on the debt *now*. You know he won't do that, so... plan for it." ... a fight that is, plan for a fight?

    When Chas breaks away and heads off for that sammich gathering, little Adeline falls into skipping right behind him. "I can help! Mum lets me put the jelly on the bread, but not the peanut butter, 'cause it's sticky and I always rip holes!" Here's to hoping Chas can pull some peanut butter and jelly out of a hat somewhere?

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Reminds me of that awful music festival." With a shudder delicately rolling over her shoulders for dramatic effect, Meggan steals one of the pastries from the box. Just one. The rest are Adeline and Chas' to share, plus any others unfortunately dragged into the whole adventure. "How did this all happen? He call you up and walked through that door, or left a floating message on a sticky note? The details count, mate. I'm not one to retread uncomfortable ground." Her voice softens, lifting in its octave as her eyes widen, a natural byproduct of soothing instead of demanding. No playing the shrew when asking the occult rock star for help, since Mike holds keys after a fashion. "The story's opening chapters might control what I can do, what we can't. That's all."

Cocking her head slightly gives a devastatingly effective look of innocence or ignorance, both of them sins in faultless execution. The sandwich is for Adeline, handed over to the girl so she can eat before chowing on the pastry. Even two bites fulfils 'lunch' as an obligation. "Stole his heart." The three words she repeats again to taste them, feel them, rolling around on her tongue. "Chas, is that *exactly* what the terms of the deal said?"

She picks at the flaky pastry folded over and over on itself, not quite eating it. "We met in the Otherworld, you know. Lost on a faerie trod, after a kind." The smile rises as she glances to the door, then back to Mike. "Are you thinking of just booting it open?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike studies the door a bit more. As he does, the scar on his lower forearm fades away, appearing upon the other. Bringing a hand up, he reaches it towards the door, eyes closing for a few seconds. When a knocking sound occurs, his eyes open up, brows lifting as he sees the door stopped his hand. "...Well crap. Um. I was more seeing how it'd behave if I tried going through the panel. And that was a no."

He lowers the arm, scar moving back into place.

"Festival was great. The redcaps just made it awful." Mike looks over to Meggan, "No letter. No phone call. I just kind of zoned out and ended up here. He was at that door and there was a floating light bouncing around that he was talking to. I mentioned the zoning out bit. He said he didn't have time to get into a the pros and cons of coming along so he just gave me some rules to go by and the coin and instructions I used to get her out." He nods over to Adeline, "Path was straight for a long while, then the ground started changing in texture, and then we were at the castle."

John Constantine has posed:
    "I wasn't actually there for it all, Meg." Or, well, it likely wouldn't have gone down quite as reckless as it did. "Hell, he was only... six months out of Ravenscar? Tops, still reeling over Astra and that mess, even after three years in that place." He hasn't ever stopped reeling over that mess now has he? "Adeline there's mum, Enya, was pregnant with her... in some sorta trouble with the Unseelie. ... and John bargained for her freedom, probably some form of penance for Astra in his mind? I just know the story as he told it after." A beat, a laugh that's more sad than anything. "Boastin' about how he'd bargained against something he'd never have. In *his* words, 'The life of the first woman to steal my heart, taken by my own hands'. I guess he didn't count on you."

    Thankfully, little Adeline, SUCH a precious little thing, has manners enough to have moved across the room to eat her sandwich and her treat. Shouldn't listen when adults are talking serious business.

    "So... you just happened to walk in the door just as he was going to go off on it by himself?" Chas asks Mike. Seems like that question *should* be loaded with disbelief, but it isn't. It's more a statement really. "You poor bloke..."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"OBuckles (talk) 05:45, 26 July 2021 (UTC)oh," Meg drags out the vowel deliciously long, a cat licking cream from the bowl. Nothing quite matches the Celtic languages for rolling around a sound in western Europe. "You're right, the music was fab. Hope this year turns out better." A passing sentiment that she shares with Mike brims with hopeful tones, right on par with the melting buttery pastry on her tongue a moment away. It's the little things in life to bring profound joy. Her lack of comment on shifting scars might be the better part of valour or being lost in chocolate bliss besides.

"So, the old man's still staging a castle and playing to privilege? That's good to know. I must sound raving mad," she chuckles, "but in his world, King Fionnbharr's, the *story* holds power. Anything reinforcing the story in turn gives him advantage. Remember that and how you, as a participant, can twist the narrative. He has to play by the same rules, aye?" Fingers get dusted off with a meticulous ease. Go in clean, go in proper.

"Come along then. Chas, would you be a dear and toss him a bottle of Irish whiskey? No scotch; he'll toss us out on our ears otherwise." Finnvara, by the by. Probably not John.

Then she walks over to the door, twisting the handle. Bold as brass, that one, and amazing the floor doesn't collapse under... you know.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike's quiet as he listens to Chas's narrative to what led to the talk of debt in the castle. Seems he walked in on the tail end of a romance story of sorts. He grimaces at the mention of the boasting. "Murphy's law." Mike mutters, looking over to Meggan. Either way, this can't be a fun thing for her.

Chas's question draws Mike's attention back over to the other guy, "Yeah." Mike admits, "He didn't seem all that thrilled about it either." He shakes his head. "It happens every so often. Although twice in a three day period is- different."

Mike glances over to Meggan, "I'll probably have to miss it this year. I'm having to travel a bit more this summer than last."

Already near the door, Mike steps aside to allow Meggan to approach it. Glancing back over to Chas as he hears Meggan's request.

John Constantine has posed:
    Chas doesn't TOSS the bottle, that could end up in a waste of some high dollar Irish Whiskey. Instead, he fetches it and hands it off to Mike.

    "Meg, don't forget, in John's story he more than like thinks he deserves his bloody fate, whatever that may be."

    Playing to privilege *might* be an overstatement of the truth. When Meggan opens the door, the long long long long path take before is gone. The door opens to the base of the bridge leading to the 'castle', that's not a castle in any true sense, simply in sheer size. It's nestled on a patch of dry within what might be a small 'bog'? The structure is made entirely of trees and their limbs, trees that are still in the ground and seem to have melded and grown together into the the thing. The moat surrounding it is bubbling and boiling the slow boil of swamp gases trapped in mud.

    It's muffled from the thick wood of the big damned doors of the monstrosity of a 'castle', but there's John, in all his John glory bellowing, "Bloody *fucking* hell, would you *stop* that! I can't rightly pay a debt if I'm *DEAD* because of your weird arse kinks, now can I?" Oh... someone's been mouthy the entire time no doubt, likely egging on the good King in ways only Constantine can!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I look forward to hearing you play, if you do. Or anyone else for that matter. We need music to soothe the beastly mood the city's gotten into." Meggan seems to think New York is ever quiet or in better spirits, when it's a chronic condition of terse grouchiness reflected from the bedrock to the cloud-high building tops. With a last beaming smile for Chas and Adeline, she salutes with a tiny friendly shrug of her shoulders. "The sweetest revenge on living, isn't it? Man's head is on crooked, but what can you do?"

Stepping into the otherworldly domain on the other side of the eldritch door does absolutely nothing to make the Kasabian t-shirt any more thrilling. They've no chance of a night market or some kind of wandering peddlar going by with fancy dress or +6 ice arrows of Daoine sidhe bapping, no doubt. Though the changeling looks about just in case. You never know with these places.

Shame of her appearance is a fleeting concern, especially when confronted by a perfectly respectable pile in the gloppy brown muck. Peat and murderous smells? "Reminds me of the Neverending Story. Or that scene in the Witcher with the mudbath," she quips, assuming that Mike has come. If not, lovely, she's talking to the trees. Floating above the ground is an advantage here, her natural habit of defying gravity reinforced doubly.

Whether the bridge has any sort of defenses, be they stinging thorns or unfortunate hordes of redcaps, she approaches the exact same way. In front, since stealth is completely pointless, given the permeating energies flow through her and convulse eagerly, giving her aura a distinctly bright gold glow to anything with half an eye to see the prismatic halo. Pointy ears, too; there's simply no way around that. "'Tis so lovely! Look at the intricacy of the work, that's true craftsmanship right there," she chimes brightly, a traveller in unlikely raiment boldly striding forth. She truly loves the trees -- ask Pam Isley. They both snuggle the Green and loathe those who hurt it.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
"Oh if you think the city's mood is bad now, you should have seen it a little over a year ago..." Mike pauses, not sure if Meggan was part of that large team up or not. There were so many groups splintered off and he certainly didn't meet everybody. Hmm. Best to not go any further than that.

As Chas brings the bottle over and hands it over, Mike gives a nod of thanks and makes sure to have a good grip on the bottle. Turning, he follows after Meggan to the odd scenery. A brow arching to the colorful phrases being used by the man he walked alongside earlier.

The phrase Chas mentioned plays in Mike's head as he wonders how that could possibly be twisted to where no one dies.

He looks over to Meggan as she mentions the shows. "I haven't seen them." He admits. The scar shifts once more as he walks along, avoiding the muckity muck by not acknowledging it where he treds. Considering the presence of redcaps, he's not all that inclined to offer the possibility of a from behind attack.

John Constantine has posed:
    No, no defenses, why would one do such a thing when the guests are expected and eagerly welcome. The doors swing open with a creak and a groan. The scene is the same as before, King Finvarra on his throne of logs and tree limbs. It's just sans one little girl and one one thing added to take her place.

    Suspended, upside down, by his ankles, is John. The man is soaking wet, dripping with stinky, vomit inducing, nasty *ASS* water. The same stuff in the large, overly large, man sized and better, tub of water they've just pulled him from again... for the who knows how many times? He's dangling, spinning, coughing and spluttering.

    "Hey, luv," he splutters out when he finally spins in such a direction that Meggan comes into view. "Some party, huh?" He doesn't seem or sound the least bit surprised to see her. In fact, the feeling of ... relief? Joy? Warmth? The way his heart just skipped a beat?

    Faded denim blues widen ever so slightly. BING, you fool! Dawning, realization... Snark momentarily gone. ... mayhap a heart on his sleeve, for just a beat. Will he give himself away completely; let on that he now *knows* he's doomed for sure, that his debt to be paid just walked through those doors? It might seem so, until...

    "Hey mate, really gonna waste the expensive shite on this arse?" he asks of Mike.

    ...and DUNK, down he goes again, head first, into that pool of vile water.

    "Well, so very nice of you to make an appearance, dear," the good King all but croons at Meggan. "...and along with a knight in shining armor to bear witness to the evening's events?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
As it happens, during the battle by Brainiac, one very spritely blonde decided to rip a Sentinel's head off to halt it from wiping out lawmakers on the Capitol steps.

By herself.

Never let it be said that Britain hasn't come through for the US when it counts, particularly after the whole sodding Revolution bit. Mike doesn't have to dwell on memories of old and neither does she, instead taking in the wooded cage turned into a hall worthy of story and song. Maybe not especially *good* song, but a memorable song with whiskey poured by the dram all the same. "Wonder what he deems 'weird,'" she offers for idle conversation. Laughter thrums in those depthless eyes.

Forth then she goes, looking back over her shoulder once and throwing a wink. The enormity of the situation clearly has not landed on the walking sacrifice, just another notch on the tally of John Constantine's unforgiveable deeds. Might as well have flicking lamb's ears and gambol up to lay her bare throat on the proverbial stone.

"'ello!" The bright chime is absurdly welcoming, but here threaded by the strands of a song never audible fully in the real world. Starshine glints over her hair, the ribbons dancing when she tilts her head to Fionnbharr. With both hands open at her sides, she executes a brief genuflection by sliding her foot behind and lateral to the other. "King Fionnbharr of Tuaim," her tone is brilliantly warm and respectful, those green eyes looking up through her thick lashes. "I bid you greetings and thanks from the invitation from your honoured personage. Acknowledged is your generosity in holding the door for our timely arrival."

Her smile ticks even brighter, utterly and completely in defiance of John's horrendous state. Oh, she feels every trickle of joy right down to horror, immersed in that wracked, foul bogwater emotionally as much as he is physically. Her hands come together. "I invoke the right of hospitality and guest-right extended to a distinguished individual, as according to the Brehon Laws." A beat. If that doesn't turn Finvarra's head, then no helping. Playing to the medieval laws themselves is one thing.

"For the ollamh of the Western Lands." Not for herself. Sorry, Mike. "We may agree by virtue of his rank, he is inviolate from our dealings and our witness. To do him harm is to bring down wrath upon your very name in this world and the others." Such bright things said, without a trace of guile or any hint of malice.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Well it may not be a sneak attack but with the loss of a sense of smell, it appears phantasming WAS the right course of action. Mike doesn't even wince from the scent. The visual on the other hand. Well, his expression clearly shows a distaste for the treatment of the blonde man. He looks to the bottle in hand as John asks about it before looking over to the king who speaks to Meggan.

To the mention of the knight in shining armor, he turns his head to look behind him. Not sure where he's seeing the knight but black tees and jeans are far from shining.

He looks over to Meggan as she speaks, her tone being a sufficient enough que not to be frowning towards John's situation.

He looks forward, observing the expressions of those being spoken too while Meggan seeks her guest-ri-

Mike turns his head, looking over towards Meggan. A brow lifts. He's not the one at risk here. So why would sh-

No questions.

He gives a slight nod before looking back to the king for his response.

FUCKING RULES!

It's hard to be the bard.

John Constantine has posed:
    How long *can* one bedraggled, exhausted, Laughing Magician with bad lungs to boot hold his breath? Well just about that long. It seems the second that John starts to wiggle and fuss about, the moment before his lungs would fully just explode open with the reflexive need to BREATHE, bog water or not, he's lifted from the tub once more, coughing and spluttering violently. "Yeah... make'm play for ya why dontcha...." *coughsplutterhackgag* "...sure he knows quite the diddy 'bout a betrayin' wife goes by the name Morgan." *coughgagsplutterchoke*. Still with the damned snark, can't keep his fool mouth SHUT, but he's tiring, it's true, easy to see. He's pale to the point of green, his chest's heaving with every breath. It'll kill him if they keep it up, maybe that's the point? Especially now that he's learned the truth of his own betraying heart?


DUNK! Back in he goes.

    "Well then, certainly he will have quite the song to spread after tonight, after bearing witness to the great John Constantine being forced to make good on a deal and pay his proper debt." So much pride in his voice, his stature. Truly, if he makes good, it certainly would be worthy of bragging rights, wouldnit? How many times now has Hell itself attempted to collect debt from the Laughing Magician? "The ollamh will not be harmed," the King agrees, readily, eagerly even.

    Through it all, John is submersed. Again, at the exact moment that his lungs demand for air begins to override his conscious choice to not take a breath, he's pulled up again. The coughing and spluttering is weaker this time, but not for lack of need for it; no, it's lack of energy to put into it. No snark, nothing but the struggle to breathe and...

    *THUNK* he's swung out from the pole he's danging from and dumped to the floor in front of the King. He hits the ground pretty hard, but rolls to his side and pushes up to one knee quicker than one might imagine him capable at this point.

    "So, dear Meggan, I'm sure you know the why of it by now, you're too smart not to have found it out, figured it out? You know his debt?" Oh man, that smug look on that fae-bastard's face.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The phantasmal bard gets all the benefits. Rules? The only rule he has to play by is whatever he damn well likes, as far as Meggan is concerned. Binding herself and the faerie king to another law, the kind enforced by military salvos and cutting words, goes with the verbal agreement. A pact between the trueblooded fae and the blonde empath sinks in with the appropriate inclination of her head.

"Word hadn't reached us bile was the accessory of the moment in this domain. Has he reached a peak state to satisfy your liking, or is the performance entirely for our sake?" Her wide eyes remain fixed to the man on the throne, though she keeps drinking that emotional surcharge involuntarily. Bit by bit, it might be her inverted and drowned in a stinking, peat-heavy vat. "Surely we can make better fun over a bottle of something worthy of Fionnbharr the Fair-Haired's reputation?"

Cue the whiskey, watered richly in the loam and peat of Ireland proper. Hopefully Galway, but anywhere that Belfast hasn't pissed on will do. "Seeing you've my name, your majesty, you have the advantage. Grandda never did call me much canny. Not at all like your lovely Queen Oonagh. We've brought her a gift, too, if she is about to receive it?"

Yes indeed. That faithful queen who put up with all those dalliances of abducting mortal women, and now a mortal child, the spitting likeness of Enya and John. Her mouth rounds, an unspoken question there. "He bajanxed the whole thing, didn't he? Roamed right in to snatch your teind out from under your nose, and now owes the terms? Sommat like that?" Her smile isn't quite so wide, a worried look travelling to the Laughing Magician drowning on thin air. Plain isn't fair, is it?

If the air turns sweeter and warmer around him as a gesture to his breaking lungs, consider it a mercy of the Otherworld and not a factor Meggan herself wants something that doesn't reek. Nature lets her get by awfully easy. Michael can swallow that too, if he's close enough. "So down it goes, mm?"

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Quite the song perhaps. But quite possibly not the one Finvarra wants.To the mention of the drink, Mike holds out the bottle for display. Allowing for it to be handed off.

Mike turns his head, listening to Meggan's interpretation for what went down, giving the aire of one making sure that he takes in every detail. What kind of ollamh would not be paying attention. All for the better of the story that will be forever attributed to Finvarra. For better or worse. Where is Meggan going to lead this?

He looks back over to the kingdom. Head tilting intently.

John Constantine has posed:
    John pushes himself to his feet, more drags himself to his feet. Never let it be said that John Constantine remained on his knees before any Fae King, Seelie or Un for long enough to make it count. The coughing and retching begins anew. It turns to gagging and then...

    That damned cheeky bastard VOMITS swamp water all over the good King. It's projectile and violent and over almost as soon as it starts. He reaches up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, a beat to recover and a raised hand, index finger extended 'waitaminute'.

    "So sorry, 'scuse me... really... Didnit mean that." Suuuure he didn't. "...but, correct me if I'm wrong here? Is it truly possible for someone to have stolen something that is ... freely given?" With that last, he turns to Meggan. There's nothing but truth in those faded denim blues, not one single iota of a con happening here, it's a fact she would know of course, something she would *feel*, truth or deception, there's none of the latter here.

    But John is tensing, every muscle coiled and ready to move, spells running through his mind, a hand in is sodden pocket, perhaps for a trinket spelled long ago? He's *pretty* sure he knows this isn't going to play out peacefully, even if it does negate the debt held against Meggan's life.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
For better or for worse. For good or for ill. Fionnbharr's a married man. He really ought to know better about getting partners on the same side, truth to live. United fronts so rarely go well, especially for stuffed-shirt kings full of it.

Now he smells as ripe as the swamp. He deserved it. Meggan winces the same, but manages not to look remotely that sympathetic. It's not like some poor boggan or bound kelpie has to try to wash those regal duds with their hands or hooves. She has a distinct degree of sympathy for the servants, and bet she wasn't on the side of the aristos in Downton Abbey or Upstairs, Downstairs.

"You did all this," a circle of her finger indicates their collective presence as a trio, "because you were horny and got a lusty itch every twelve months? I'm making sure I've my ducks in a tidy row. And so the ollamh's saga will be complete."

Right, Mike, remember to get those details of being upchucked on really clear! She's about to say something, but Finvarra's reaction to the question about 'given freely' has to be answered first. "Fionnbharr, did you say 'stealing his heart?' Seems you've a problem with your terms thrice over. In either the pact doesn't hold. Your claim is null. Either cause he doesn't owe you, or you cannot possibly collect."

A gesture to the whiskey. "You can still have your gift though. As a friendly gesture. Bloody night, you never bothered to ask who we were, did you? You'd contend with an ollamh and a druid, all to get a hand in your pants and a mark for your record? Dagda take it, there's easier ways."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The ollamh's head turns, looking over to John as he gets up and upon the King getting puked on, the musician steps back. "Hmm." is the slightest utterance from Mike as he looks to the covered monarch. Alright, now there's need to find words that rhyme with vomit or hurl. Oh yes. This king is going to LOVE this story. Mike turns his head, looking over towards John as he poses his question. Brows lift, giving a slight nod to that interpretation before looking back over to Meggan.

He brings up a thumb to the underside of his chin, seemingly pondering the argument being put out.

Pale eyes set upon the king, waiting for his response. Oh please answer these questions. Future audiences will want to know.

John Constantine has posed:
    Had they been dealing with the Seelie, there likely would have been grudges held and maybe some revenge in the pipes down the road, maybe. But here, where the night stays all day thanks to enchantments making it thus, in this tiny bit of the Fair corner of Hell? They don't play nice when slighted.

    One of the Red Caps, the one on the King's right, closet to John, is on the magus in a flash; hand around his throat.

    He splutters, "uh.. you... I..." He has nothing, John's right. The fact does nothing but *enrage* Finvarra. "You have tricked," although John really *didn't* trick the arsehole, "...the wrong King, you insolent, disrespectful *HUMAN*!

    ...and really, that's all John is underneath, mostly, a squishy human with normal reflexes, no super strength... so he does get grabbed, but when he reaches up to lay hands on the damned Red Cap, his are alight with flames. The thing bellows a sound of rage and pain hurls John away from itself like a little rag doll.

    Tomorrow, he'll feel all of it tomorrow, but for now? He's running on adrenaline and smug arrogance. He rolls to his feet and calls out, "MEGGAN, find us a way out o'here!" Or at least back to the lighter side of the corner, where... hopefully the sun is shining bright?

    ... the tree-melded castle erupts into absolute chaos, Red Caps, Flitlings... there's even a Goblin or two to start slinging spells.

    "...and make it quick!" He's already running for those big doors, his will extended through one hand to slam them open and try to keep them that way so they can all get out.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
As the king errupts into a tantrum and ...well.. all hell breaks loose. Mike turns, looking to the chaos.

And then an idea comes to mind.

Twist the narrative.

It isn't really hard to do. With the amount of anger and agression about, all it takes is for one redcap to not be mindful of his surroundings as he starts to leap into action. An innocent step over and-

Mike lets out a loud OOMPH! As he gets knocked to the floor by the red cap.

And now cue the justifiable anger, "HOW DARE YOU!!!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
At the eye of the storm stands the floating blonde, putting her hand slowly onto her hip as the bloody-minded sot decides to even the equation. "I can't let you. He owes me," she says to the redcap without even turning her head, since the storm is collectively breaking on too many fronts for the empath to exclude. She can hold up the barriers singularly for short bursts but that much Unseelie bloodlust and rage when the gambit a la Michael and Constantine comes clear pulls her under.

Disrespectful dirty humans, all of them, on the surface. Meggan's Kasabian t-shirt will end up coming out the worse from all this, it really will. Contrary to popular suggestion by a likely better tactician than herself, she bolts.

For the throne.

A gold-and-silver flaming stream stretches behind her when she flies straight at Finvarra, happy to break the sound barrier without a second thought. No matter how many hitpoints an amazing tree throne may have, the regal target probably has less. Arrogance reflected right back in her own outraged, flashing eyes and hardened expression are every inch his own, cast in a feminine form, with one considerable difference. She's not weak against cold iron.

Those claws tipping her fingers in wicked, lethal purpose absolutely are cold iron, and even if they have absolutely no effect whatsoever to an Unseelie weakness, ten very sharp appendages at the spear-end of a torpedo aimed for the chest may just give a king reason to pause as the infuriated Tuathan elemental turns it right back on him. If she connects, points are going through clothes, armour, skin, enough to sting, enough to make any violence turned reciprocated in kind.

Diplomacy by words? That's one thing. Diplomacy by putting a king's neck or heart at fatal swordpoint. Her voice seethes in a velvety sussurus, the submerged vibrations of a Morrigan's laugh or a dark oracle's scream hidden in there. Irish Gaelic springs to the tongue, for English ain't her mother tongue and never was. <<Reconsider.>>

John Constantine has posed:
    "Bollocks," John mutters as he releases the energy that was holding the doors open. They slam shut with a sort of booming finality.

    His head's pounding, his right side feels like it's being stabbed again - repeatedly, he's having trouble breathing and he's just bloody well had enough of the shite.

    Flashy energy slinging is not John's normal cup of tea, it's not. But that doesn't mean that he's not more than completely capable of it.

    Particularly in moments like these, when it's clear that the burning ends of that candle Meggan is always going on about are so painfully and obviously meeting in the middle.

    He stands there, arms spread a bit, palms up and hellfire burning in each. It's moments like these where someone can look at John Constantine and maybe see a little bit of what a woman like Meggan sees in him; trench coat all flappin' about in the wind of of his own making that's forming a whirlwind of a shield around him, knocking flitlings this way and that... literal hellfire burning in his hands and reflected in those denim blues. His voice BOOMING when he speaks. "I'd listen to the lady, Finvarra!" But also, "MEGGAN!" Not calling her down per say, just a warning... don't take it too far.

    One Red Cap is turned into a screaming ball of flame for about two seconds before it just disintegrates into nothing when it's stupid enough to try to get through the winds.

    That, right there, is the man Thor referred to as a Champion of Earth.

    Fivarra snarls, he does... but his word, while snarled out in kind to his expression, match neither tone or curled lip. "Reconsidered."

    As quickly as it began, the attack stops.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
To add to the point of the slight that the redcap must have shown the ollamh. Mike shifts to his knees and brings his fist forward to the face of the dumbfounded red cap. With no one else to deal with, he focuses all of his physical strength into the point of impact. Fortunately for the redcap, the surface is sufficiently large enough to not mimic the effect of a knife or claws. But it does provide a bit of oomph.

As the attack stops, a solitary redcap tumbleweeds across the room. "The audacity!" The Ollamh mutters as he gets to his feet.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It's quite the sight. Red cap crashing into Michael, and the audible *twang!* rippling through the threefold pact. Finvarra made an oath with Meggan about Michael, and he is much as party to the agreement as the Englishwoman. Thus when circumstance colludes to knock over the ollamh, the vow snapping like a taut thread is just as loud to him as the fae pair.

Don't underestimate the speed of a royal command. Or apparently the foolishness of playing a crabby, angered fae lord over lothario. What more could poncy mcponcerson want more than what he already has: an ollamh to witness the besting of John Constantine, the Laughing Magician running for his life, hot and angry faerie girl in his lap and somehow unbothered by the stinking wet clothes? Fionnbharr the Fair-Haired, king of the Daoine Sidhe might go down as the biggest idiot this side of... Look, it's a long list.

What weird kinks is he about? Masochism, if it's displays of mystic prowess being hauled out of a damaged mortal. Voyeurism, if watching his subjects get punted for offense.

Her claws sink in that slight bit more as Meggan has to straddle the throne and Finvarra. Neither particular want her on them, and the feeling is mutual. Blood will spill one way or the other, short of armour or spells to block. "With respect for your queen, you live. Push and your throne's forfeit."

One redcap being rightly splotted by Mike for its audacity isn't commented upon. Her curled lip and exquisite snarl are all Finvarra's. The threat being empty or not is another thing. "Grandda Merlyn would be *delighted* to deal with you."

Buy contention, buy time.

John Constantine has posed:
    Constantine simply has to drop his hands and the flames flicker and die, the winds settle. Lanky legs carry him toward the throne, a wink tossed in Mike's direction along the way.

    He leans in while the woman whom he's, apparently, freely given his cold black heart, keeps the King in check. "Remember this, the next time y'choose to bind a broken boy months out of Asylum into a debt. He, too, might grow up one day to be John Constantine, the Laughing Magician and yer worst nightmare if you go near that little girl and her mum in retaliation for any of this." He reaches out and patpats Finvarra's cheek all arrogance and condescension. "Y'have a good night now, mate. We'll be takin' our leave now."

    He straightens. It takes more will, more effort, to call on his wretched house to open the doors for him from here and he's *tired* no matter the front he's putting up. But there it is, the portal home. "C'mon, luv, it's time ta go home." He holds out a hand to Meggan.

    "Bard!" he calls out to Mike, a nod toward the portal. The rules, magic has so many, is that he needs be the last one through.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Now upon his feet, Mike maintains a look of irritation upon his features, glaring at the red caps near him before looking over to Finvarra. He does not seem pleased at all. He then looks towards Constantine and Meggan. Making a motion to wipe some type of dirt from his arms, he strides over towards the portal. One would think someone would be cautious about portals, but being that he tried to shove himself through a magic door panel earlier and how easily he agreed to take part in this adventure in the first place... Yeah no. Woop! Through he goes. That guy needs to learn to as-

NO QUESTIONS.

Oh for crying out loud!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Walking away is so damned hard. For a good long moment that stretches to a minute, the overwhelming temptation keeps shoving the needle closer to outright damnation. Finvarra's jealous emotional stew tips the empath into a binary system of rage and wrath, one circling the other in an inevitably fatal dance.

Blood dances in arteries and veins, so close to the puncture marks left by her fingers jammed into the fae king's flesh. One wrenching grab could put paid to the threats, and rain bloody hell down on anyone not wise enough to flee through a portal back to safety. As much safety as the self-possessed House of Mystery ever has.

Seelie urges for victory and levelled scores circle after the underhanded Unseelie deceit and vengeance, and it really doesn't matter where Meggan Puceanu or Fionnbharr stand in the courtly structure. Labels are just labels, and that violent hellsong keeps tilting the scales until someone goes and sticks a devil-damned sticky finger on the blonde's.

"*What*?" gets turned a little too sharply, proof of how thin a line that is. Her eyes drop to the offered hand. You know, the whole purpose for dragging Mike into this. For nearly becoming offered upon a plate. The gamboling lamb, the firebird rising from its sacrificial ashes. Who does she want to be?

Her hand -- bloody-fingered, more petite clawed -- gets extended to John. He might want the blood, after all. Useful for magic, innit? "S'go. He makes me sick." Literally that. Madness is contagious and there's no psychic wall to guard against detonating into rage, alas.

It's a case of who leads who, her leg swung over the foul king's begrimed lap and stalking for that portal with John hand-in-hand, or if he runs along with his newly found favourite kite flying above him, and rather hastening the pace.

John Constantine has posed:
    First Mike, then Meggan. Both step out of the portal into the niceness of the main parlor. But... where is *John*?! Oh no! His hand slipped from Meggan's right at that last second before the portal closed...

    ...and reopened upstairs in the bathroom. The House dumps the Laughing Magician straight into the claw foot tub with a *THUNK* that can be heard from downstairs. "Bloody Hell!" That can also be heard from downstairs as can the groaning of the pipes of an old house as water begins to run.

    What? He STINKS? So declares the House of Mystery.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
'Enraged Finvarra swipes a child,
with temprament sweet and mild.
So Constantine raised his voice
to trade places was his choice.

A fate his love won't accept
With faith in him she had leapt
Bringing a gift of liquor
while she steps into danger.

Her love received much rebuke
so on the king he did puke.
The deal this adventure starts
dealt with matters of the heart

But how can love be stolen
when- '


Mike frowns. Looking to the notepad. "Always hard to close these things out..."

The musician glances around the parlor, looking to the lack of door where he had initially come through. Well, they were right. The notepad was in here. But... the part about the disappearing door. Well. He's not going out that way anytime soon. Oh the heck with it. Setting the notebook aside, he lies down on the couch.

He's got his own problems to deal with. Might as well get that energy tank on Full.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"--Hope remains unbroken?
By the vow we have spoken,
A different path was woven."

Meggan finishes off the poem with the lilting beat of Cumbria, which ends up being the more Scots-Irish version of the Liverpool accent John wields with such finesse. Hers bounces where his jabs, hers smiling where his scowls. Call it a matter of living in the Lake District, all tourists and rolling hills with poets on the go, versus sussing it old in the dark battered streets lined by pubs.

She looks patently exhausted in a different way, happily diminished, because she is. "Be right back. Someone best check he isn't forcibly drowned, plus I am no sight." Her voice, ragged but mildly amused, is back to itself. The blood on her hands puts pat to the lie of being entirely round-eared, normal sweetling. Just a monster hiding as one, right?

"Rest well, Michael. Thank you for catching my drift, and pulling it off royally well. I'm sorry too for giving you a scare, if I did. Not my finest hour." She salutes with a lifted hand, and then bounds to the stairs. House don't fail her now; her feet won't.

First, the blood to deal with. That can be done by using an unsullied cloth or streaked onto some kind of ceramic where the faerie gore can hopefully prove of use for John later. You know, like if he vanishes again cause the obvious. With the worst of the stains off, washing her hands becomes a fastidious act until her skin turns pink, the sink wiped down and not left a hideous shade of stained. T-shirt and jeans end up doomed for the dumpster or fireplace, which is rather too bad given her clothing budget. Sucks to be a broke working-class girl, eh?

They've their own problems all around, and hers is resolved by putting on one of John's shirts, the main choice at hand. Then the distinct problem of being in one of his shirts presents itself mid-button, for which she sighs. Proportions all off, naturally. Well, *fine*. He may or may not find her making the necessary augmentations to fit properly and not cause a 15-alarm fire, which is a feat without a mirror. Shapeshifters, can't live with 'em or without 'em.

John Constantine has posed:
    John took the house's hint to take a right and proper shower. When he walks from the bathroom, waist wrapped in a thick towel, the bedroom is conveniently right there again. He's glad. For two reasons. His bed is RIGHT there and so is Meggan.

    For the first time since his stint into hell, he approaches her to plant a right and proper kiss. Gravity, or mayhap a little magic, keeps that towel up when he curls the fingers of both hands lightly into her hair. Were it any other night but this? But it isn't. It's this night.

    It's the night he still has a three inch puncture wound to his lower right flank, a goose egg to the back of his head that likely spells a mild concussion. His lungs are battered and every breath leads to a painful wheeze of a sound. He's already feeling just a tad too warm to the touch; fever or...

    ...maybe a little of both.

    But as much as he wants nothing more than to seal the deal on his confessions? It just ain't happenin'. When he finally breaks that toe curling kiss, he collapses onto the bed and that's the end of it. He's out in a count of five, maybe even four?

Michael Hannigan has posed:
Mike glances over to Meggan as she offers up a closer, and gives a nod. "I like it. We'll use that."

He shifts up to record the suggested lines to complete the song before setting the notebook aside once more. He gives the departing Meggan a wave, "You two rest as well."

Back to the couch, he curls up pulls the blanket over an- When did the blanket get there?

QUE-

Enough with that already!

Ok either way the blanket's nice. So he curls up to work on getting his rest.

And maybe in the morning, they can help him figure out how to get home.