7693/PoP: A Day Ending in Y and Nightmares.

PoP: A Day Ending in Y and Nightmares.
Date of Scene:	04 September 2021
Location:	The Laughing Magician
Synopsis:	Another thinning, this time right outside the Laughing Magician, is handled without any loss of live. It proves, at least, that a day ending in Y doesn't have to end in complete tragedy.
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Jason Blood, Phoebe Beacon, Simon Trent, Meggan Puceanu

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John Constantine has posed:
    Now that word's spread that John isn't as likely to spew Hellfire at a person as he is to look at them, business at the Laughing Magician has picked back up. The proprietor himself is back at his normal spot, on that stool at the end of the bar that no one else ever wants to sit upon.

    The jukebox is no longer stuck on Rotten's rendition of 'My Way', although Chas is still polishing glasses like it's his only purpose in life between patrons. So that tension's still there.

    'London Calling' is the current musical offering from the old vinyl playing box and John's actually finger tapping along to the beat between emptying and refilling his glass of scotch and smoking that lit Silk. Seems things are back to normal, but as they say, looks can be deceiving.

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood might be a bit skeptical of John having a change of heart, but, then, Jason himself isn't exactly known for his refined temperament. He's wearing a black leather jacket over a Pixies t-shirt tonight, along with a pair of jeans and boots. He's tended towards gentleman's garb for the most part, but even he can have a foray into the rock and roll lifestyle now and again. Rebellion is somewhat part of the devilish repertoire as it were and, while he isn't a demon himself, he often has a demon's habits.

Plus, he can smoke inside at John's bar, something untrue at most other places.

For his part, he has a German cigarette, imported and kept in a silver case, drawing one out and lighting it as he steps inside and makes his way to an unoccupied table, putting up his feet carefully as he feels the wards and protections on the place make certain parts of his broken old soul sting and cramp. Which is okay by him. He figures he deserves a bit of pain now and again. "John. Seems like you came out the other side alive again after all."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The Laughing Magician. The home that was right below her home. Weirdly, for all its odd clientelle and attractants, the seventeen-year-old part-time barback who sometimes appears to do homework in one of the back booths is the least surprising surprise here. She comes down the front steps with the night's supply of cut fruit and a couple bags of fresh pretzels for something salty to go with the rest of the saltiness, and she greets Chas with a big smile "Sorry, running a couple minutes late -- ambulence crossing caused gridlock on fifty-thir--" she pauses, and sees John at the end of the bar, and looks to Jason, who's entered before her, and then to Chas, and then back to John, who gets a quiet nod of greeting as she hands over fruit and pretzels to Chas.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Out front a lone 58 studebaker goldhawk rolls up onto the building. It's got a unique sounding engine: a spudder spudder click bang spudder spudder click bang that rolls along as it travels into the first available parking space.

     The car is pristine from one end to the other but that engine sounds on its last legs as it pulls into park the tail end still hanging out from its space as TV's Simon Trent steps out from within the confines of the classic car dressed in his usual garb. He's got a bit of a tired expression on his face but still walks with purpose through hells kitchen whistling as he travels through the front doors of the Laughing Magician.

     He strolls right through the front door with a smile on his face up to the same spot by the front door and plops himself down with a light thud looking over a menu even though he knows exactly what he's going to order. The same thing he's been ordering every time he's come here once a week on the dot like clockwork since the place opened.

John Constantine has posed:
    It might be noted here that, for two whole days, John Constantine sat at the bar in jeans, a hoodie and runners. Chew on that for a bit as pondering what complete shite his week musta been to lead to *that*.

    Chas's attention shifts briefly to Jason as he enters, eyes narrowed. It's not necessarily hostility so much as it is wariness and then, should Jason notice, a very slight shake of the head his head is offered. It's all summed up neatly in that gesture and the expression that goes with it 'tread light tonight, man's not in the mood'. And by man, that'd be John. Yet, he seems cheery enough.

    "Seems so, mate, death rumors and exaggerations again and all it," John replies before he takes something between a sip and swig from his scotch. It's there though, for anyone wanting to pay it any mind, the 'all it', the dark circles under his eyes, the slightly sunken and shadowed appearance of those faded denim blues. Hell and back again, twice and three times on Sunday, that's where he's been. He skipped the trip last year so he was due it, wasn't he?

    Oh, look, it's the soggy chicken tenders, too sour cole slaw and freezer burned fries guy! Chas vanishes into the back to start getting that order ready before it's even ordered.

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood doesn't seem to flinch away from Chas' staredown, just keeping his eye contact steady but not so much defiant as calm. He has no fear of the Hellraiser's sidekick, but he isn't here to start trouble or finish it for that matter. Just a place where he can be himself for a little while without playing the game of masking as a normal human being. Jason hadn't been normal for hundreds of years, if he had ever been in the first place.

"Been there, done that," he says in response to John's statement. "Not dying was always the best spell you ever worked," he says. " Although sometimes you might wish otherwise."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe takes over putting away the pretzels and fruit -- mostly sliced oranges and limes for certain beers that just work better with them, and fills some shallow plastic bowls with pretzels and puts them on the counter, and some below the counter as quick refills before she pins the bags shut with clothes pins. Technically, too young to be in back of the bar. Technically too young to work in the bar. Probably doesn't make anyone care about it, though. She's just being helpful.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon is in a great mood as he reaches into his sweater pulling out a smoking pipe from the depths. He lets out a low sigh of relief as he settles into his seat stuffing the pipe with tobacco before shoving down a matchstick into place at the end of the pipe. A few puffs lead to longer drags before he's happily setting down the menu realizing he's already set to be served.

     He reaches underarm , pulling forth a newspaper and folds it open in his grasp before calmly reading away on the spot, taking in the conversation abounding around him as he gives a light smile to the hard working Phoebe.

     He was always a good tipper, tipping before his meal was even finished, he sets down a small bit of money for Phoebe with the friendly smile of a television host which to be fair he has been on several occasions.

John Constantine has posed:
    "Aye, well, luck with that one just might run out soon enough," John returns, another 'tween a sip and a swig. "Batten down the hatches, Jason, what's comin' isn't somethin' all of us are likely to walk away from, if any at all." Mighty gloomy predictions from the Laughing Magician and all his normal arrogance and swagger. Makes a man think twice about the truth of it; if John thinks it might truly be the end... well, it might truly be, aye?

    ...and John's odd are always about half of everyone else's, aren't they? Little Mortal Mage going up against Gods and the things that'll gobble them up.

    "Even your roommate might be hard pressed to come through the other end of it if the whole mess goes tits up."

    When that meal with soggy tenders at its center is finished, Chas brings it up front and does ask Phoebe, "Can you run this out to the old guy sitting by the door there." He draws up a soda from the fountains; at least that's decent and not flat. Flat mixers don't go over well. Once the request is made, he goes about the business Phoebe absolutely cannot, serving other patrons the reason most come here - actual alcohol.

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood orders a scotch and soda, sitting back and taking a long drag on his own cigarette, "May as be, although you and I have both seen plenty of apocalypses come and go," he says. "And I won't lose a bit of sleep if Etrigan gets his head dunked for good, although I'll believe it when I see it. You got anything more than vague portents to offer on that front? Or you just got an uneasy feeling in the organ you once called a liver?"

He doesn't show much regard for the other people, mostly because he's something of a rude bastard.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Can do." Phoebe states, grabbing up the plate and the soda. She's not even wearing anything that would identify her as Staff except for the audacity to be behind the counter, but she runs it over to to Simon "Careful, Mr. Trent -- it's hot!" the Gotham native states with a bright smile, setting down the plate and picking up the cash, and then setting down his soda.

    "Anything else we can get for you, let us know." the girl gives a smile to Simon, even as she looks back to Jason and shoots him A Look. Insulting John in his own bar? The audacity.

Simon Trent has posed:
     What might be surprising about the payment is the amount on the tip. For a 10 dollar meal with 2 dollar drink he's left a 14 dollar tip. It's a fair bit extra especially on his finances but he's good for it if nothing else. Simon gives another friendly smile before offering. "It looks lovely thank you, whenever I need to get away from everything I know this place is here." He looks over the newspaper as he speaks smoke rolling from the corner of his mouth as he enjoys his pipe letting the smoke build up fresh before blowing out another billowing plume.

     "Never enough time in the world for good meals with good company.' He sets down the newspaper rubbing his hands together as he looks over his cold in the middle 'chicken', if they could be legally called that at this point, tenders, the freezer burnt french fries and yes even that far too sour coleslaw with all the warmth of a grandfather settling in for a home cooked meal made by his own family.

John Constantine has posed:
    John isn't one to speak an actual name in his place of business, but he gives what he can without doing so. "It's the thing that sleeps or faffs about at the end of all things, until something awakens it. Whatever's twisting death inside out and upside down is on the verge of doing so, waking it again and it'll seek to devour all of'm before it's finished." Demiourgon or Demogorge both names given to it and probably many more for those with enough knowledge to suss it out from John's colorful description.

    ...and without the Gods, where does that leave man? Believe it or not, even more fucked than they are with them. Pretty bad, that.

    "You'll figure it out, John." Chas assures as he drops that scotch off for Jason. From John's stock even. Most believe the him to be a bottom shelf kinda guy, but John has a penchant for the good stuff more oft than not. Then the best mate and cabbie in all the realms between Heaven and Hell just stares at Simon a moment, never ceases to amaze that the other man actually *eats* that tripe with a smile.

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood snorts and takes another drag on his own cigarette, gesturing for a refill of his drink as he lets the nicotine soak into his nerves and leans his head back against the chairback.

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't," he adds to Chas. "I might be able to help. Six hundred some odd years gives me a bit of experience in things like this, even if I've got a few holes torn in my memory here and there by demon claws," he says. "And a lot of it on the darker side of the blanket, so to speak. There are things that will talk to me that wouldn't answer your call, Constantine."

He, too, regards Simon with a little bit of disgust, probably a combination of the man's gentle aphorisms and his choice of nourishment.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe turns in the cash and the tip to Chas (she has a distinct fear of the register, as if it's going to attack her fingers), and ducks beneath the counter to make sure that the fruit's secured and there's a bottle of hand sanitizer beneath the counter in the event of Boob, Brastrap or Sock Cash, and she looks to Chas and John, and then to Jason. "You need anything other than your scotch?"

Simon Trent has posed:
     And eat it with a smile he does. He seems to genuinely enjoy the terrible food going from one bit to the next as he looks over his newspaper reading the funnies in the midst of serious conversations about the end of the world as anyone knows it.

     He's just in a good mood overall, and there's something almost infectious about it as he finds himself settled in for the most important meal of the day.

John Constantine has posed:
    "I have a plan if it gets that far," John murmurs before he polishes off his own drink in one smooth bend of an elbow, practiced that. He refills both his own glass and Jason's from the bottle at his elbow.

    He reaches into an inside pocket of that worn old Trench Coat, his very own version of a Knight's Armor, and fishes around for a moment. When he pulls his hand back out again, he's holding what appears to be nothing but a normal old nut of some sort or another between his thumb and index finger.

    To those properly sighted, the thing is ... there's not much in the way of words to describe it save 'that's a fuck-ton of magic in a tiny little thing'; a seed of destiny that, waiting to be planted in the right and proper spot.

    Before Jason even has the chance to ponder such things, a low rumbling sound drifts in from the streets outside.

    "You hear that?" Chas asks, rhetorically probably because John's attention is already on the door. "Sounds like..." He pushes himself up from his bar stool, that little seed getting tucked away safely again along the way up.

    Dark shadows, darker than the evening outside, flicker past the windows in a rush.

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood narrows his eyes at the object John produces, wondering just where he'd gotten it and what purpose it might serve. But, yes, before he can ask such questions, darkness and rumbling from beyond the walls draws him to his feet. He turns his head towards the noise, his dark red hair marked by a notorious streak of white asymmetrical to the center.

"Sounds like the usual sort of thing that John Constantine attracts. You might as well spend all your time sitting on a hook, for as often as you're bait."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe pauses, and her head tilts her head a moment as she looks at that nut. She opens her mouth slightly, and then looks up at the rumbling. She looks up, and holds onto the bar for a moment as she looks around to the more Old Salts in the metaphysical world.

    "Earthquake?!" she asks, and she looks to Chas, and on the off chance she *could* help, she turns and hops the bar.

    "Might wanna stay inside Mr. Trent!" she calls back as she goes to the door as well!

Simon Trent has posed:
     Well to be fair Simon Trent is about to be completely in over his head, but some small part of him expected that when they started talking about the end of the world. It came with the territory honestly. Simon sets down his fork and knife gently onto the table before him before slipping on a pair of brass knuckles from within his lovely little sweater.

     He slides his feet down into a well practiced boxing stance with the grace and poise of a professional street fighter, his expression gone serious as he goes into the fight portion of flight or fight. If his agent could see him right now the man would likely be defecating an entire brick house just for the danger posed around him.

     "Evil only wins when good men stand by and do nothing." He speaks with a firm voice standing with confidence as he looks towards that door ready for something to come tearing through even if he's not sure what it might be. "I may not be much help, but by jove I'll be all the help that I can be!"

John Constantine has posed:
    "Phoebe, get back!" John snaps in the girl's direction. He reaches the door with Chas hot on his heels after the larger man just vaulted himself over the bar. When the Laughing Magician opens that door, he's met with the wind of a stampede of wild horses. ...but not. They're not the things straight out of the Wild West, running free across the plains.

    No, not that at all. They're inky back shadows of black that's blacker than any black has a right to be. Their hooves pounding echoes through the air, yet they leave no trace of it behind. Their eyes, when not rolled back to reveal grey-green 'whites' are red balls of flame.

    For a moment John just stands there watching them pass. "Really?" It's a deadpanned question that, eyes rolled to the Heavens as he asks it. "Bloody Hell." The man's battle cry, that. He walks up a few steps, just far enough to look up and down the street.

    Those horses trample up and over cars, again without leaving a mark in the physical. It doesn't even seem the folks on the streets are overly aware of anything but the noise of them. Like Phoebe, they assume the mundane. The fear of an earthquake has them running for cover.

    A quick incantation, in Creole of all things, and a wave of his hand in Chas's direction before, "Out back, cut'm off at the pass, herd them back around! Phoebe..." Fuck he hates saying it. "Go with him!"

    The same quick words spoken, the same gesture in Simon's direction and suddenly the poor man can *see*, oh yes he can, all the things beneath what most consider the end of reality when there's so much more under there. Simon can see the wards in the bar, the horses stampeding in the streets and the large, silvery, shimmering rip in the air about fifteen feet up and three blocks down from the bar that they're coming from.

    Welcome, Simon Trent, to the world of the surreal and mystical.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe obediently hangs back behind the door, letting John and Chas go first, hanging back a couple of feet before looking up, her eyes going wide at the shadowy equines running through the city street. She gives a m omentary swallow of the driness in the back of her throat, and gives a nod, hot on Chas's heals as she goes.

    "My bike's out back, I've got a couple flashbangs in the saddle bags -- think that scares Nightmares?" she asks of the Big Guy. She is *keenly aware on the fact that John probably did not want her involved at all, but strategy is important!

Jason Blood has posed:
Jason Blood might be able to intervene with sorcerous intent but, frankly, he suspects John has enough of that so that, if it's the key to defeating these things, that measure will be handled. What they're lacking is physical strength to fight the damn thing in its own element. Which means he'll have to do what he least wants to do.

Jason makes his way towards teh back door as well, coming out just after Phoebe and making sure the wards are clear before he does what he has to do.

"You and the old man stay back. Let the already-damned bastards handle this," he mutters to Phoebe before he steps towards the end of the alley.

"Gone, Gone, O Form of Man
AND RISE THE DEMON, ETRIGAN!"

Blood's flesh itself seems to explode, tearing from the inside, a gout of hellfire rising from the center of his chest and, in its hearth, the bilious, jaundice-skinned gargoyle known as Etrigan the Rhymer flies out of the flames with his mouth wide open to expose his fangs in a cackling laugh.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon pauses for a long moment unsure of quite what he's looking at. His eyes glance from one wall to the next taking in the strange sights the mysterious imagery out of the pits of hell and the heights of heaven itself and everything between. It's a short pause that short circuits whatever was going through his head prior to that moment.

     The shock quickly subsides just enough for him to follow through along with phoebe out the back door. He's seen so much already that the demon exploding out of a man just goes right into the pile of things that he doesn't understand at the moment.

     Instead he falls down back into that protective stance, locking his eyes on the door as he readies with two fists of brass to strike at the oncoming horses in an attempt to divert their direction.

John Constantine has posed:
    "You, get people OFF the streets!" John barks at Simon before adding, "Do not let them touch you and Do. NOT. let. them. breathe. on. you." Pointed that, get the point Simon, horse breath is BAD. "Bloody Hell, man!" he bellows when Simon's out there balls to the wall. He reaches out to snatch Simon by whatever he can get a hold of and drag him back. But not before contact with horse might have the poor man feeling the icy cold tendrils of terror beginning to take hold. A little shake and a screamed, "Are you good, mate?!" He doesn't wait for an answer really.

    Chas snags a shotgun from behind the bar on his way out, blessed rounds does that thing hold. "Use your light kid, too many to kill'm all on at a time, we gotta get'm back in. They're not going to like what you can put out." To Jason, just as if it were John speaking and giving orders, the cabbie says, "Blood, take out any that stray from the herd, as in *take out*, we can't let any of them get loose."

    John? He clears the steps leading out of the bar and hits the sidewalk outside. So far, most of them are in the streets and he's managing to duck and evade any that do stray onto the walk. As soon as he's close enough, he's holding his hands up in the direction of that shimmering, silvery doorway. Not time to close it, not yet, but he can throw a down and dirty ward up in front of it to keep more from escaping. It'll work for as long as it holds against more of the Nightmare Horses trying to shove their way through it and bouncing off.

    There one person, a young man maybe in his twenties, cries out as a Nightmare passes right through them, over there another person, an older lady with old lady blue hair, falls to the ground after putrid green breath is blown from flaring nostrils in their direction.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The streets of Hell's Kitchen have seen it all. High crime, slumlords, gangland warfare and elder demon symbols. An occasional multiversal incursion justifies jacking the rent up because some real estate ad can call it 'artistic character.' Working class heroes and hipsters might argue about many things, but rarely about galloping horses running down a street.

Pedestrians can take the smart move of throwing themselves out of the way. Hiding in an alleyway is rarely a smart idea, but preferable to being trampled even if ghost hooves don't do much. A young man in his maybe twenties gets into the wrong path of incorporeal hooves. "Ey! Stay out of the-- nonono." A shape sliding through his body sends a young woman maybe in her twenties - white hair makes it really touch to tell - stumbling back to avoid a hit.

A hit that never comes, but still bloody uncanny all the same. What weird people find normal, she finds horrifying. Her pale mouth falls open. There goes the neighbourhood, and her earbuds, scattered away to be ignored by a nightmare and crunched by someone else.

Both of them probably go down on the sidewalk. She's deflected back into a brick wall, landing hard on her backside. Better than falling to all fours, but the white-haired girl rolls onto her side and hauls the guy by his arm to the relative safety of hiding behind a dumpster. "God, what's *wrong* with this place?"

Jason Blood has posed:
"Blood is gone, you little snot, you putrid magic boy
Tis Etrigan you now address and always to annoy
I'll slaughter shadow as you say, because it pleases me
But no mistake over I you've no authority
Some demons vie to own your soul, some will bow and scrape
But Etrigan sees nothing but another hairless ape
These Nightmare fiends I do not love, I'm happy to burn black
Much darker than anything in your sweaty magic sack."

Etrigan flies above the charging creatures and opens his own mouth, unleashing a gout of Hellflame on the nightmarish minions, scattering shadow with hellborn light and relishing the screams and terror that come of it, occasionally sweeping low and snatching one up with his demonic claws, tearing through it with devilish strength.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe calls back to Simon: "Mr. Trent, you might want to stay inside --" she calls out, pausing just a moment to grab her bag, and she grips her hands into loose fists. Well, it's useful being a Glowworm every once in a while.

    Thundering hooves match her heartbeat as she dashes out the back door, her sneakers skidding agaisnt the pavement as she watches Chas for instruction. She trusts him, and she's going to look out for him as much as she can. She brings her hands down, her palms filling with light as she relaxes her shoulders, all the power that would have been in the aura around her concentrating as a circle appears on her left palm.

    "I'm following your lead." she comments quietly.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon is pulled back just in time before he can do something monumentally stupid. He manages to wiff the strike completely just barely catching some skin on the horse sending a chill of pure unadulterated terror down his spine. It tenses up his whole body for a brief moment.

     "Great galloping gophers." He offers as he recoils, pulled back from his action and into the safety of the bar. He turns his attention back towards John before nodding his head firmly his way. "Right."

     (Simon) He thinks to himself in the voice of the Gray Ghost, he can almost see the costume standing before himself a much younger man. (It's time to be the hero you pretend to be.)

     Of course he should stay inside where it's safe. It's what any sane man would do. So he listens to that voice in his head puffs up his chest and runs out into the thick of it full pelt.

     For a man in his late sixties Simon can run. He sees a young boy in the path of the nightmares and he leaps with all his might throwing himself into the path as he leaps forward off the ground. He tucks into the leap shielding the boy with his body as he lands hard against the ground tumbling against a stack of trash-cans which fall over him the boy looking confused as he breaks out of Simons grip.

John Constantine has posed:
    Even with the wards tattooed on his body, when one of the things runs right through John, his efforts focused solely on keeping a plug in that hole, he lets out an involuntary yelp. For a moment, the 'finger in the damn' comes loose and more tumble out. He shakes off the icy cold, the fear that didn't quite make it to paralyzing terror thanks to his inked warding, and plugs it up again. "Chas!" Bellowed loudly enough to carry to the back of the building, even over the sound of hooves beating. "Simon!" From his pocket he pulls a simple glove, black leather, a small sigil of metal in each knuckle, a cross over the backside of it. Man better be quick to catch the thing, because John just launches it in that general direction.

    "Workin' on it mate!" Turning the herd back, that is. The first blast from that shotgun of his hits one of them square in the muzzle. It just... falls apart, evaporates into a shadowy mist that's dispelled on the wind.

    On the streets, people still have no idea what's happening, all they have is sounds of hooves and screaming, still unable to *see* the things. But even the screams and the threat of an 'earthquake' has them heading in the right direction, toward *inside* somewhere. One poor sap stops to help the little blue-haired woman and gets run through by a nightmare. His eyes widen, he lets out a cry of a scream that's pure, unbridled terror.

    "Man, that bloke needs to work on his poetry," Chas grumbles. "Talent night worthy, he is not." *BLAM* Another shot, another dissolved nightmare. "Driven'm back, kid!"

    Indeed, even as Phoebe's light begins to form, the leader of the stampeding herd rounding the bend toward them balk and rear up on hind legs. Really turning them in the tight confines of the streets will be the trick, won't it?

    Etrigan's efforts have them snorting, eyes rolling back to reveal those green-grey 'whites', panicked and bolting this way and that, a few breaking off from the rest of the herd to head down alleways. That might not be good. John would be swearing a blue streak if he could see back there.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The ground resonating to screams and unseen hooves ends up forcing the white-haired woman back down again. She loses her balance, this time going down to one knee and looking fairly put out about it. A frustrated sound leaks out between clenched teeth as her jaggedly chopped hair falls in her face and she shoves it back. "For real?"

Looking from side to side gives no sense of a safe direction, except to keep the poor guy her age who took a literal nightmare to the chest down and out of the way. Shingles tumble onto them while some -thing- up there chants poetry. A sing-song that she repeats anyway, "Pleases me, authority. Not half bad." Another shriek rolls up nearby and she frowns. This place is so bloody weird." She bats aside a chunk of wood too close, sending it flying into the street where no ghostly demon-horse is really going to care.

Those colourless eyes of hers follow the madcap terror in the street, lifted up to the hungry demon and then the Laughing Magician. Patting the back pocket of her jeans, a concerned frown forming and fading, she edges out from cover. Toward the trouble, not away from it, though nothing even suggests she sees a herd of corralled angry beasts. Maybe not the best plan, but the ground is still and the air frigid where she goes, all the heat drawn from it.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe keeps her light going, filling the back alley with a bright and cheery glow, turning back the tide of nightmares. She steps forward, tightening the space they have to try and corral them, her arms outstretched as she walks, emitting light and tightening up the spaces where the horses could turn.

    "Back!" she commands, not that it was going to do anything, but there's an awful lot of stubborn will behind it as more light pools in her palms. THe back alley is getting pretty damn bright.

Jason Blood has posed:
Etrigan the Demon shows Chas that he knows how to use non-verbal communication as well, although he's not sure what 'middle finger' rhymes with even as he directs one towards the magician's assistant with a big yellow claw.

If he has any care for Constantine's idea of order, he doesn't show it as Etrigan mostly just mows down monsters left and right. If they scatter one way or another, it makes no matter to him, even as he snatches one up the the throat and casually tears its face off with his jaws.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon looks less than respectable covered by several silver trashcans that he had slammed into in the alleyway. He shoves them to either side just in time to look up towards the gauntlet as it flies towards him. It slams right into his face sliding down slowly as he speaks to no one in particular.

     "Sometimes a man just can't catch a break." As he shoves his right hand into the gauntlet donning the holy symbol across his fist he readies himself for what may well be his final combat.

     (Just because you're down doesn't mean you're out) That voice rings out in his head once more as he lowers his fist into a fighting stance looking towards a nearby beast as it charges for another pass on the unsuspecting public. (Show them what it means to be a Hero. Show them what it means to be The Gray Ghost.)

     He charges with right fist outstretched and delivers a devastating blow towards the mare as it beads down on a pair of unsuspecting civilians a fire lit in his eyes.

John Constantine has posed:
    John has a choice to make, either hold the 'plug' in or drop it long enough to contain the herd as much as possible. He has no choice, can't let them get out and run amok in the city. "Chas! More incoming, hurry the fuck up, mate!" OOF, another runs through him and staggers him back before he raises palms to the heavens. He's done it before a time or two, maybe twenty, could be thirty... dropped a barrier around a certain area, but he's not really tried it to the complicated extent he's about to. He closes his eyes and concentrates on his mental memory of the streets around the bar. Slam, a gate on that block, slam one on each end of that alleyway, slam, slam, slam.... he keeps it up, chanting softly, barely even a whisper, until the streets are turned into some sort of mystical corral run. Only then does his attention shift back to the hole in reality.

    "Working on it!" Chas calls back and they are, with Phoebe doing more than the cabbie's *BLAM BLAM* method of dispersing of them one at a time. Her light is driving them back, causing them to rear and turn, in some cases bring hooves down onto their brethren behind.

    Etrigan makes a dent, a goodly dent, but ther are sooooo many of them; packed flank to shoulders, nose to arse into the streets and spilling onto the sidewalks.

    One more person saved the terror of touch or the deep sleep of nightmares from the breath by Simon's hit, one person is one person and they all count.

    Mindless nightmares care naught about frigid ground, anyone in their path is fair game.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe keeps up with the light, continuing to step forwards, feeling the Light pour out of her. Each step along the cold back alley ground, strewn with detritus and styrofoam containers and boxes that once contained frozen chicken nuggets, the Girl with The Light continues to walk forward, circle in her left hand glowing brightly, right below the pale white tattoo.

    "Get back! Go home! You don't belong here!" she calls out to the dark equines as she tries to turn their tide with light as bright as the sun pooled in her palms.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Coming around a corner free of trash cans and dumpsters puts that white-haired chit right into harm's way. The rapidly descending temperature might not cause the nightmares to give much of a care, crashing left and right, stamping down all resistance.

Loud explosions ringing in her ears downright hurt, so she-who-is-not-Meggan orients on their relative direction. Another round shot off helps her find her way blind through the night, and then the whole reason for the temperature inversion shows particularly plainly.

A handful of silver fire bubbles up in her right hand, bleeding round motes away in loose sparks and pops. It acts a bit like fire, behaves a lot like fire, but contains superheated material that a frightening, flying demon with great yellow claws probably wouldn't like very much.

Especially when she sends it hurled into what looks like an empty space being peppered by whatever Chas chooses to shoot. Rounds don't mean much, but skyfire drawn from the opposite realm may help some. Helps too that she has some accuracy with shaping those blasts away from people she -can- see, ropes and streams dodging around objects.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Knocking the nightmare out of the way is all that it takes for Simon to reach out his free hand down towards the figure on the ground motioning towards them with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Come on let's get you to safety." Before taking their hand and moving his way towards the nearby alleyway just to get them out of the main street way using his own outstretched fist to guide the way to safety for the downed fellow.

John Constantine has posed:
    Phoebe's efforts do, indeed, turn them back, quickly they retreat with a purpose. Even more so do they turn when Meggan's efforts are added to the mix. Chas keeps blasting away one at a time. Elsewhere through out the blocks around John's bar, Nightmares find themselves turned back by invisible barriers they can not cross. Ertigan's efforts thin the heard considerably, likely saving many a hapless mortal the fate of being breathed on or run through in the process.

    John, however, did not think this plan of his out very well. Once the tide of them is turned and rushing back from whence they came? That means a LOT of inky black beasts in the small space of the streets and sidewalks on the block. It doesn't leave much room for a mage to get out of the way, in fact it leaves none at all. Time after time, he's run through by the panicked creatures trying to escape the onslaught coming for them from behind.

    ...but he holds his feet, stays standing and keeps the plug in place until the first of the long line of them is trying to leap back through. Because that is just what John Constantine does, he keeps his feet beneath him. Through the icy fear that's now bordering on terror from so many hits and the inked wards beginning to fade, he keeps his feet. Through a pounding heart beating blood in his ears louder than hoof beats and reaching dangerously rapid levels, he keeps his feet. Through the sound of terror he isn't aware he's making, he keeps his bloody feet.

    A life saved, is a life lived that could potentially grow to save more and more beyond that. Every life saved by a hero *counts*.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    John might not have thought the plan out very well, but he had plenty of good elements to work with. Phoebe comes around the corner, hearding the nightmares back, the ink-black darkness of an equine tide flowing like a river of soot, clearing the streets as Phoebe jogs, her light pushing them back. Her heart was thudding loudly, thundering in her ears just as those hooves thunder against the ground.

    Simon is pulling people out of the way. Chas's shotgun rapports are behind and to the side as he takes care of any stragglers, and the little light-embued healer keeps those lights going in her palms, feelign the hair stand up on the back of her neck as she goes. Every life counts as she mumbles under her breath.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Soulfire dims down until regathered again. Plenty good time to bowl the white-haired girl over, if any of those nightmares feel like crashing into her. Not like she wears armour impervious to their strikes. Placed by the back of the bar runs the odds out in dodging. She's getting hit. Boom, Chas' gun speaks, and maybe she oughta reconsider this whole 'help out' gig, right? While Simon saves lives and Phoebe puts the fear of whatever nightmares fear into them, and John bleeds magic or confidence, call her another victim.

Inky black nightmares will pass through through her unmolested. The first time.

A hit of contact is all that it takes for her to get a good look at the source for the panic. An involuntary gurgle of terror lashed from her throat makes her spit a sworn word not fit for good company. Their icky stew of darkness leads her to do what any angry kid from the streets would do: she cold clocks a damn nightmare, little flickering bits of soulfire helpful. But honestly, it's the strength behind her closed fist. One that does not care about velocities of running horses. So much fear doesn't help, but borrowing a cup of dogged anger will do that.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon lets go of the mans hand leaving them behind for the time being as he turns back to the street moving to return back to the fray. He's just one man overwhelmed and in over his head but he's got to try something anything to keep up.

     Running back into the midst of the street he sees the juggernauts fighting their best and focuses on making his way back towards John. He may not know the man from Adam, but he's helped to clear the streets and now he knows the man could use a bit of help. Not that he's got a flying clue what he can actually do to help.

John Constantine has posed:
    By the time the biggest bit of the herd is back through and there's room to breathe on the street, John's on his knees. How many more hits did he take? He lost count if he was evr counting to begin with. One hand, trembling visibly, his outstretched toward that rift. Murmuring under his breath, he's *really* struggling to bring the edges of the thing together.

    "Phoebe," the girls name breathed out in a choked, hoarse voice. Pale, trembling, mouth dry, lips chapped from it... the 'help me' is as implied in his appearance as it is in the speaking of her name.

    "Bloody Hell, John," Chas mutters as he lowers the shotgun and jogs toward his friend. The last of the Nighmares are vanishing back through at least. If only they can keep them there?

    ... all the stragglers save the one Meggan hits. Just as fist makes contact the thing puffs out a panicked breath through its nostrils. Can she avoid the noxious vapors? The Nightmare itself dissolves into mist and blows away on the wind, but that breath lingers moments after in a thick cloud.

    When one of those last stragglers suddenly veers off, prancing and rearing back, eyes wide and panicked, Chas isn't ready for it. Maybe, just maybe, one old man; a hero at heart despite his years, can get there in time to keep the horrible thing from stomping all over the fallen magician or running straight through Chas?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe is keeping up the light, her dark eyes falling to John, on his knees. She feels her own breath get knocked out as the last straggler veers off for Chas and Simon, and she rushes to John's side, skidding on the pavement, dark eyes wide. Her left hand is still up, the pool of light in her palm enmeshed with the circle, and she reaches for John, hesitantly, and then holds her hand back, not sure on how to broach it. Pull the threads on light and healing, leave the Holy behind? Can she cnocentrate two different threads on two different hands, but she keeps her left hand held aloft, her right reaching for John's shoulder.

    "I'm here, John. What do we do now?" she asks, even though there's a big rift and a fairly injured John, she's not going to make an assumption about it. Even if her hands are starting to throb.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The nightmare gets that curl of pale lips when it snorts at the irritated woman. Now is the time to get the hell out of dodge, girl. Top of mind is dropping back, though incinerating exhaled smoke never actually works so well, does it?

She chokes against the noxious fumes it breathes out, rapidly shaking her head. Her hair flies in front of her, and mutagenic reactions flip, turn, and respec her from the ground up.

That doesn't stop whatever effect from what the vapors do, merely runs down their clock until the treachery might be diluted. The only consolation when she, like so many other very normal, very bothered citizens, drops.

Simon Trent has posed:
     Simon Trent is worn down to his last he's huffing and puffing but he's holding out. (Come on Simon, are you a man or a hero?) The voice echoes in his mind as he throws himself forward one step after another. Flinging his feet against the pavement he carries himself at a full pelt run. Standing off to one side he can see the Gray Ghost in the shadow of a street lamp. (People are depending on you Simon.)

     He leaps forward with all of his strength sending right fist forward. He makes contact slamming down into the nightmare through the apparition as its torn asunder his fist slamming through the beast and down towards the ground with a pitiful thud of his fist hitting the floor dust exploding in either direction as shadows disperse.

     He breathes haggardly rising himself up to a stand shaky on his stance, as he watches the Gray Ghost walk into the darkness vanishing from view. He takes in deep gasping breaths of air as he wobbles on the spot wiping the sweat from his brow.

John Constantine has posed:
    John reaches up with his own hand to latch on to Phoebe's with a death grip. Then he's just pulling on all it, light, hope, healing, whatever she has. He can't be choosy, not with her low and him almost down for the count and that tear still there.

    Oh, Holy Hell, it BURNS. John's skin blisters and bubbles up the arm attached to the hand gripping the girl so tightly. Mental note, maybe teach her this spell?

    The one that John murmurs under his breath through clenched teeth and jaw. The spell that he's barely able to form into words through it all.

    It's actually Chas that says, "It's okay, kid, let him, he knows what he's doing."

    ...and John *does* know what he's doing. This? All this? It's really next to nothing, it's stuff he'll shake off like a duck shaking water from its back when it's over. At least the light he's pulling through himself chases away the fear clinging still from being run over so many times by those things? Tomorrow it'll be like this never happened. It'll be the other stuff that still hurts and bleeds, the stuff of the heart and soul.

    When the last little bit of that rift closes with a near audible 'pop' and John releases his hold on Phoebe's hand, he lurches forward to his hands and knees and, guess what? Phoebe, it's always okay to puke. Magic's messy, it hurts, it pulls insides outward, it works when it works, it leaves blood and tears behind when it doesn't.

    But it's a hard fought win, with rifts in reality closed after a herd of demonic equines sent back through it that make all the mess, the inside out and even the vomit it *worth it*.

    When he rocks back again to rest ass on heels, he wipes the back of his mouth with one hand, lights a Silk with another and flashes a thumbs up to everyone.

    Including Simon, the old man with a hero's heart that truly saved the day. There might not have been a John to vomit. Dead, likely not, on the ground screaming in terror and unable to pull off that spell with or without Phoebe's help after one too many hits? Very likely.

    Just like every life counts, so does the heart of every hero, no matter how old or battered or broken. Innit so?

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe holds onto John's hand, and lets him draw off her. The light on her left palm, with its circle, slowly fades out. She breathes out, and allows John to pull on everything she's got to finish the spell. Chas doesn't have to tell her. She's shed blood for John, she trusts the man. For John it burns as her power flows, for her it is draining and weird, and her head is pounding. Her eyes close against the feeling of nausea.

    And once he releases her and lurches forward, she tilts back and falls to her butt, making a face as she tilts her head back, takes a deep caliming breath, and then just lays in the street -- away from where John's expelled his scotch.

    She also gives a thumbs up. Just needs a minute to steady and ground.

    "Is... that ever *not* going to suck?" she asks woozily.

Simon Trent has posed:
     "Considering I have no idea what's going on, I couldn't give much advice." Simon says breathlessly as he looks over towards the chaos that has ensued from whatever just happened. He takes in a deep breath of air before placing his pipe right back into the corner of his mouth and lighting up fresh, enjoying the cool refreshing surge of nicotine that hits his system, something he can genuinely rely on without worrying about magic or demons or ghosts for a few precious moments.

     He takes a few steps over closer as he collects himself puffing small circular clouds of smoke off into the air as he looks up into the sky reflecting on everything that he's just witnessed, experienced in a very rapid fire crash course in magic being very much real.

John Constantine has posed:
    "No, probably not," John replies to Phoebe as he drags himself to his feet. By now emergency services are arriving on the scene along with the police. There's not much to tell on this one really, it's not as if the Nightmares were scene. Crowd stories range from earthquake to maybe under ground explosion of some sort.

    John doesn't volunteer anything else, let'm sort it out, none of his business what they want to believe it is.

    It's Chas that remembers and calls out to one of the EMT's, "Hey, check the alley one block North! There was girl back there and I've not seen her out here!" After asking at least three times if everyone in the little group there was 'okay', they finally go to check the alley.

    "Little hint," John aims at Simon even as he's offering a hand up to Phoebe. "Next time? Wait until the bloke that knows what's happening to tell you what's happening before rushing in, aye? Otherwise, thanks." Once he's dragged Phoebe up, he extends a hand in Simon's direction, "Constantine, John, Constantine. Consider lunch or dinner or whatever free for a month."

    A few are taken away after inhaling Nighmare breath, they'll wake tomorrow or the next now that the beasts' influence is gone from this realm. Those just run through are already beginning to feel the effects of it fade. None dead. Another day ending in Y for John, but it was one that ended well in his books.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "As long as I know it's coming, I'll deal." the teenager states, and lets out a breath before she accepts the hand up from John, hopping to her feet, teetering slightly as she squints, and tries to decide if her body is going to evacuate her fruit cup, and then gives a nod and a wince. She'll make it without puking, even though yes John it is totally okay to puke.

    "Cool. I'll... make sure I mark it in the book that Mr. Trent gets free dinner. So that I remember." Phoebe states, takes a couple of steps, and then takes a deep breath. "I'm going to go lay down I think."

Simon Trent has posed:
     "Yes, I admit that I can be a bit overzealous sometimes when it comes to trying to assist in crime fighting scenarios, but at least no one got hurt." Simon finishes collecting himself having experienced quite the large evening in the short amount of time really. "Simon Trent, you may have seen me on television as the Gray Ghost or in the academy award winning film Have Gun Will Run" He gives a light smile as he looks over towards Constantine.

     "And trust me next time I'll be much more careful, I do my best never to make the same mistake twice." He adds with a light bit of a chuckle. "I find new ways to mess up."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
That's what EMTs are for, the times when car accidents or gas leaks or nightmares happen. Just one more victim is scooped up, detailed for vitals, and swept off. When they have no identification to speak of, that merely adds another complication but hardly more than a wrinkle in the great turn of healthcare. Add another one to the tally of the lost.

John Constantine has posed:
    "The only way to mess up is spectacularly, Simon. Then that's all they remember you for and their expectations aren't so high, aye? Not much into the tele, other things keep me busy." John turns his attention to Phoebe and says, "Don't don't think this makes it okay, what you did, coming after me like that. It was NOT Okay."

    Chas just grumbles something about being too hard on the kid before, "Let's get back inside."

    To which, John is in total agreement, back to his stool and back to his scotch sounds a solid plan and a good way to end a decent day.