8635/THE LAST LAUGH: A Man Falls Into A Pub

THE LAST LAUGH: A Man Falls Into A Pub
Date of Scene:	10 November 2021
Location:	White Horse Tavern, East End, London
Synopsis:	The bartender says 'Why the ugly face?'
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Chas Chandler, Zatanna Zatara, Jonathan Sims, Radha Tackeray, Meggan Puceanu, Hope Svelgate, Jessica Cruz

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John Constantine has posed:
At this time of the morning, the White Horse Tavern is closed to patrons. The building itself dates back to the medieval period, and its name and vocation has never changed. It sits squat in an alleyway in London's East End, flanked on either side by more modern buildings dating back to the Thirties. It's the sort of place that one needs to know where it is as there's no signage save for the shingle with a white stallion rearing back on its hind legs and the silhouette of a tankard.

Inside, the front bar is empty. The stools have been set upside down on the bar tops, and the chairs are all stacked in one corner of the room. The tables have likewise been moved out of the way, and the smell of the disinfectant that the custodian uses to clean the place outside business hours is ripe in the air.

And there, on the sagging white ceiling between two ancient wooden rafters, is a sigil. Charred as though someone held a match to the paint and painstakingly burnt it into the surface. Unmistakably the sigil of Nergal.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Chas had seen the social media postings and despite the events in Egypt being less than 18 hours ago, the sigil was something he *had* to look into. He called Zatanna, Jon, and other Night Brigade members, managing to only get ahold of Jessica Cruz (of the remaining Night Brigade) in the end. But it was better than nothing. He had also called one more name in his phone, one he hadn't spoken to in months, but she needed to be there if this had anything to do with what he (and the others) suspected.

    Getting from the House of Mystery to the East End wasn't a hard jump all things considered. The House's portals seeming to delight in having a connection back to the mystical Motherland.

    Chas steps from Gotham directly into the midst of the deserted pub. Looking up at the ceiling he sighs. He recognizes the symbol. He recognizes it all too well and it is almost too perfect to be anything but authentic.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Black Magic, disinfectant, and stale alcohol in the morning have the distinct odor of a hangover. So it's fitting that Chas, the consummate bartender, and master of rebirth, should convene them all at a pub. The call woke her up from what had become 12 hours of sleep - the events in Egypt had wrung her out.

At least, she hadn't died. Still, the Mistress of Magic is bleary-eyed at the early morning call as she portals in wishing she had stopped for a triple-shot capp, dry and a croissant.

With no performances on her calendar for the next few weeks, she wears a roomy Yamamoto jacket over high-waisted pants, and ankle-high boots- all black.

"Whew - what a smell." She cranes her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I mean that. No need to guess who left that."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's exhausted. He threw around a /lot/ of energy yesterday, between summoning the power of two gods and casting some of his own spells as well. He'd actually begged off training the next morning, so tired was he on returning home.

    Mystical emergencies, of course, don't care how tired you are, and demons even less.

    He has his mystical Sight open as they step through the portal, since they have no idea what they're walking into. He ignores the headache it's giving him and looks up at the ceiling.

    "Well, /shit/," he says under his breath. Eloquent.

    He puts a hand to his chest. "Fair warning," he adds in a louder tone, "we might be getting some company if things go sideways. I, ahh... got us some heavy-hitting backup." He starts his gaze casting around the pub, frowning, looking for anything that... stands out, mystically speaking.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
"It looks like it's been charred in place, according to my optical scans," says the New Space Ranger, from his perch atop a table. "It must have been very fine control! Looks very uniform."

The New Space Ranger is a tin-bodied robot toy that has been customized with more flexible arms and is, in fact, magically animate - endowed with unusual powers, individuation, and more by the acts of the divine! It also has Optimus Prime's head - surely a mere coincidence.

"Ye-es," says Radha Thackeray, holder of a British passport (in general) and a clove-style cigarette (in specific, being occasionally sucked on) while craning her head to look upwards. She has a shoulder bag, containing several other dolls, action figures, or small warrior toys - these ones have not been blessed by the gods.

"I don't know that I actually recognize it, but it does look... Enochian but not really enochian. It's definitely nobody friendly," Radha says, her tone faintly sour.

She looks towards Jonathan. "Oh, god, is it demons? Please say it isn't demons."

The New Space Ranger reaches into a leather sheath on its back and pulls out a knife, without further prelude.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A social media heavyweight in her own right, Meggan doesn't need long to learn of wrongness in Jolly Olde England. A call through sifting through tags and messy Insta, TikTok, and Twitter post research pulls her out long enough to note the contact, a few quiet words. Backtracking the path to the House from her lighthouse takes no time at all, much as she could wish it otherwise.

There they are, several sleep-deprived mystics and one incapable of being so. Fucking //flowers// wiggle from dormancy between cracks the minute her heavy boots land on the kerb. Clammy morning air ticks a couple Celsius higher in the dingy alley.

Might be that guests look forward to a slab of Sunday roast, adorned by a chewy Yorkshire pud and horseradish slathered for a bite. Might be they dream of a frothy pint to end a weekend and face the dreary prospects ahead. "Who is vexed to lay nightmares on the East End?" she asks the assembled lot, the usual fluting lilt of her commingled accent obliterated. It's straight up local, like she was born on Pennyfields or Stoneyard two streets over. Plummy it ain't.

"Same was burnt onto Hell's Kitchen." A roundabout answer for Radha's question, if soft. She chews the inside of her cheek subtly, the only real suggestion of being troubled. Meggan stares past the veil, gaze attuned to the invisible easy as breathing. "More familiar than it ought to be." The arcane bindings on her left arm are sure enough to burn with anyone Sighted, a peerless bit of high sorcery.

Hope Svelgate has posed:
Somewhere within Jonathan a mote of Energy Arcane pulses. The tiny fragment of fiery blue mystic energy unknowingly to him (though he very may well suspect it) connecting everything he experiences to another, the one placed it there.

Far across the Atlantic, within the darkened confines of her decaying church Sanctuary's tower, amidst scents of insense and macabre decor, Lady Death's eyes open from her meditations glowing with fiery blue light. Like a fisherman casting her lure, she has felt a tug on her line, the mystical line that she placed in the Archivist.

"Nergal." The name is spat like a curse as she rises to her feet.

Jessica Cruz has posed:
A scream issues forth from Jessica Cruz as she shoots up and stares at the wall. She shudders and reaches over slowly for the phone and stares at it. She types a response and then looks at the ring on her hand. A moment later she gets angry. As she steps out of bed, black and green wraps her body and she looks up with a green cross turned like an x over her eye.

"Gotta do it at least once." She floats above her rooftop moments later and then she shoots up into the sky. She stares into the distance and then shoots off like a bullet. She is moving with speed that would make an SR-71 to be jealous.

John Constantine has posed:
Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe it's the presence of so much mystical potential in the same place. Whatever it is, it happens now while those gathered are there to witness it. There is a sudden heat in the room, the unnatural sort that one associates with housefires and the incineration of beloved mementos. The air above their heads shimmers before it ignites, a grasping blanket of flame spreading out from the symbol above to cover the entire ceiling. The white paint chips and peels, the sigil warped before burning away entirely. With the heat and fire comes smoke, great billowing clouds of it that quickly fill the bar.

The ceiling above them burns away entirely, but rather than revealing the upper floor of the old building it shows something else entirely. Something pitch black. Even the light of the roaring conflagration fails to illuminate it, and from the emptiness comes rushing the awful smell of decay and filth. A million, billion voices rising together in the sort of terror that only a sliver of hope can bring.

The sound of a great beast, indignant and wrathful. A protest. Furious and all-consuming, tearing out into the real world and chilling to the bone. Awakening the old neanderthal brain that cries: 'Run! Flee! Escape!' In the midst of it all, something topples through the darkness and lands with a meaty thud behind the bar.

Then it's all over. The flames disappear. The ceiling is once against merely a saggy, rather pitiful and cigarette-smoke-stained ceiling in a pub limping on well past its years. The sigil is gone, not painted over but evaporated as though it were never there. There is an eerie, peaceful stillness.

"Fuckin' 'ell," a gravelly voice mutters from behind the bar. A figure rises up, completely nude with only the wooden counter there to (barely) protect his modesty. Dirty blonde hair that?s a shaggy miss and seemingly still smoking from the flames. A torso that's showing the early onset of what middle age will do to a man who opts for drinking and smoking over exercise and kale. His face is weathered and weary, creasing around the eyes showing age that has arrived too early and refused to leave.

John Constantine regards those assembled for the moment with a slack jaw, lifting one hand to scratch the back of his head.

Then he turns, half-climbing onto the ornate and mirror-backed shelves behind the bar. What little modesty he had goes traipsing out the window as he pulls a bottle of Lagavulin down from the top shelf. He pulls the stopper out with his teeth, spitting it to the ground and swallowing a quarter of the bottle in a single gesture.

"Chas, mate," he says after a moment, voice hoarse, "Be a love and toss me your jacket, will ya?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Chas jerks away as the ceiling belches hellfire. He wasn't keen on reaching 37 so quickly after hitting 38. But the flames don't spread and the discharge of the dishevelled man is enough to draw his attention as it fades--taking the sigil of Nergal with it. He blinks. "John..." he says, hesitantly. "John is that..." he slips off his long coat. Bear of a man that he is, it'll likely engulf the naked man and then some. Still he tosses it at the bar. "Is it... you?"

    There's a weight to the question. Significance. "What... what's going on...?" he asks pointing at the ceiling. "The sigil... the fire... and now..." he holds out his hand, indicating John's nudity on display. He's clearly flabbergasted at the situation and searching for answers.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The flames are retina-burning bright, making Zatanna cover her eyes - caught flat-footed without a spell to her name. Then, strangling as Hell belches and opens up above her head, Zatanna gets half a spell spat out before the meaty thud and absence of heat open her eyes.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters, hardly the invocation she had planned on. The sight of a bare-assed Constantine merits the eloquence.

"stnaP," she snaps. A pair of black jeans appear on the bar next to the bottle of scotch.

The magician sputters with exasperation, "WHERE were you? And with... with Nergal of all cursed demons of the universe?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    As the ceiling opens and belches, Jon puts his hand to his chest again, the other one reached up, fingers splayed. He has a vague idea of springing a shield into being, and there's even a moment of crackling energy before there's a thump and then a... John?

    He /stares/ at the man. Hard. Twists the bracer on his wrist so that it glows briefly, a deep emerald green, and then his eyes are glowing green and the Archivist is /staring/ at John Constantine. To be certain it's actually him.

    "It was, indeed, a demon," he says aside to Radha. "Whether or not it still is remains to be seen."

Radha Tackeray has posed:
When the ceiling opens up and discharges a belch of flame, Radha leaps back with a slight shriek, raising her arms to cover her face. She has encountered the uncanny but no doubt expects a full bore demonic invasion. (The New Space Ranger grasps his knife with both nipper claws, fully prepared to murder a demon with cutlery.)

But for better or worse, it is not a demonic assault, but rather:

"John Constantine! Why are you naked," Radha states more than asks. "What has happened. Did you go to Hell?" She looks towards Zatanna, then towards Chas. "He does this a lot, doesn't he. Like it wasn't just a rough week then, with the gods and everything. Well, I guess this is a rough thing too."

"Can we just have anything we want from the back?" Radha then asks, rhetorically, tilting her head.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Fire wreathes the building and that, at least, holds little fear for Meggan. Carmine flames eagerly devouring broad beams and old, seasoned wood reflect in near-colourless grey eyes, painting a lurid oni mask over her angular face. Terror of another sort reaches out across the void, the countless voids teeming in a horrific wail that rolls through the pub and the empath with it. Other reactions vanish in an all-consuming roar, her hand lifted to her ear as the world knocks askew.

A breath drawn in might seek to give strength to the chorus or drown it out. No phantom howl claws its way forth from a bone-girt cage, trapped in silent suspension. Fingers curl at her side, bunching into the jagged hem of her skirt. Chas asking the obvious question barely registers. Replies roll around over her head from strangers and familiar faces, but the unblinking stare holds almost force enough on its own to blast the bar to flinders and pin a shadow to the ground with a lepidopterist's pins.

Her silver brows arch a fraction at John, totally uncaring about his current state of undress. The pants Zatanna so kindly manifested shall receive consideration later, bookmarked. The usually mobile, bright smiles that dawn in sunny profusion do not grace her mouth, nor do tears fall. She pushes her sunglasses back to rest atop her head. Finding her voice at no more than a casual murmur, she says, "Don't name the bastard, luv," to Zee. "He wants to come to the party, he can bloody well earn it without help."

Hope Svelgate has posed:
Watching from afar, when the ceiling erupts with Hellfire and links to the void Lady Death summons her swords. "Apocalypse! Scyinster!" The blades fly to her waiting hands from the ornate stand where they normally rest when not in use. "Now then, there he is." Jonathan had asked for Lady Death's help in dealing with Constantine and now in a shower of Hellfire, emerging from the yawning void, there is Constantine.

Raising the Chaos-forged blade Apocalypse in front of her, Lady Death, who looks like a Valkyrie that went to Hell's best beauty salon for a makeover, brings the blade slicing downward through the air in front of her, cutting a gaping rent through space and time itself as it goes.

In the White Horse Tavern, not far Jon, there is a shimmer in the air, a glow of primal Chaos-energy, as a blade seemingly pierces forth through reality itself and cuts a gaping tear of shimmering reddish-orange energy. Through that tear in the fabric of space itself steps the woman known in some legends as The White Witch of Scandinavia, but she prefers to call herself Lady Death.

The towering pale woman glowing with fiery blue energy, swords still in hand, spares a glance to Jon. "You found him." Before the brightly glowing white pits of her eyes lock upon the naked man who fell out of the ceiling once more.

Jessica Cruz has posed:
She overshoots. Jessica has trouble bringing that much momentum a halt. She whips back around and comes in the front with a smile, she had to fiddle with the door a bit but she got in and seems to have a small smile. That was exhilarating and successful. She looks around at the people here and then at John before blinking at Chas.

"It was very important I get here to see John naked? "

John Constantine has posed:
"That's the stuff," John murmurs nonchalantly, voice still scuffed from the whisky, as he takes Chas' coat and practically drapes it over himself like some country baron's ermine cloak, "You're packin' 'em on a bit, mate. Look at this!"

  To illustrate his point, John draws the front of the coat out away from himself and flaps it around. An awful little rattle in his throat accounts for a chuckle as he draws it closed and does up the buttons, rendering himself effectively closed for the moment.

  The sudden appearance of the pants prompts him to look at the jeans curiously, picking them up and dabbing his mouth with the cuff to wipe away the excess booze.

  "Ta, Zee."

  He then slings the pants over his shoulder like a scarf, clearly disinterested in wearing them at this point.

  "Look, fuck off with the third degree for a tick," John holds up a hand, wincing one eye closed as though he wear nursing a monstrous hangover, "Yes, it's me. I was indisposed because a certain demon is a cunt. I'm naked because the Concierge service on the banks of the Phlegethon is fuckin' shite. And if someone doesn't conjure me up a fuckin' carton of Silk Cuts in the next five seconds I'm gonna have to dry you out, roll you up, and smoke you instead."

  He coughs, loping around from behind the bar to grab an upturned stool. He sets himself down upon it, staring at the gathered collection of shocked faces. He raises an eyebrow at the arrival of Lady Death.

  "What, Simmo," John asks of Jon, features barely containing a laugh, "Didn't wanna spring for the cake she pops out of?"

  He tilts his head to look past Jon at Lady Death.

"Nice to mee you. I'm the birthday boy."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "Check the inside pocket, you idiot. Pack'll do for now," Chas says, falling into the familiar banter with the man out of habit. He catches himself and narrows his eyes. Jessica's arrival is met with a scowl, as well. "No. There *was* a demonic sigil burned into the ceiling a few moments ago. When it opened it spat out... this..." he gestures to John.

    "You weren't indisposed, mate. You've been walking around plain as day for a while now... or at least something that looks and talks like you has." He sounds angry. "So you come poppin' out of a Hellgate with narry a stitch on ya, I think the lot of us can be forgiven for being a bit apprehensive about just who *or what* you might be." He glances a Meggan for a moment, surprised she didn't burn the man to cinders at the sight. Progress, right? He looks back to (presumably) Constantine. "So... get your smoke up and start answerin' some questions. Because we might be here a while unless we get some answers."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Waving her hand at the smell of charred Hell lingering, nostrils pinched irritably at the man behind the bar (what's new?), Zatanna shrugs. Angry at John for the last months, even if it was out of his hands, the homo magi unfairly snaps at Meggan, "Let him come to the party then. We will deal with him."

Not a moment later, she murmurs to her, "He...I'm sorry for that."

The Mistress of Magic raises an irascible eyebrow at Lady Death, "Lady, we weren't sure until recently that we had /lost/ him." Wrinkling her nose, "/He/ has a lot of explaining to do."

John gets under her skin, never in a good way,"Nnnng," she fumes. The sound most close associates of John's make sooner or later. "Go naked....you," Zee cuts her sentence off.

"enoG stnaP," biting off each word.

"How did you let that happen, and why didn't he keep you is what I want to know?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist blinks at John for a long moment, gaping. "The... /cake/...?" He... splutters. Looks over at Lady Death. "That's not... she's not... you... you absolute /prick/, do you have /any/ idea..."

    He twists the bracer on his left wrist again, and his eyes go back to brown. He looks away, not least because he's trying not to cry. Embarassing.

    "Well, I can state with some certainty that's actually John Constantine and not whatever /thing/ has been running around wearing his face." He rubs at his own face, pinches the bridge of his nose. He has a thousand questions, but when does he not?

    His eyes track up to Lady Death. "That's not... look, I really doubt..." Finally he looks over at John. "Have you met her before?" He indicates the Valkyrie with the Hell makeover. "Took a bunch of her gold and then threw her out of your bar? Please, /lord/, tell me you haven't and there's another target I can point her at." Look, it's a /very/ important question. Otherwise Lady Death might decide to burn John to cinders just to fulfil the deal.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
"... I admit that's a very good set of answers, but I'm going to have to pass on conjuring the cigarettes," Radha says, despite having one herself, but it's some kind of Djarum and not what he wants. She takes a quick hit off of it, for anxiety, which is justified by the arrival of the pale form of Lady Death!

Jessica is somewhat less terrifying, but this seems to keep her quiet.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"That's the spirit." Whether vehemence or apology on the Mistress of Magic's part, Zatanna receives no wrathful answer from the English empath. For those who know her, the inaction is quite out of character, about as un-Meggan as it gets beyond the pearl-white, pinstraight hair.

Meggan stays well back of the bar and its enticing array of smoke-washed liquor, not that a single one prompts her to swig a bottle. Her distorted reflection in the dark glass catches Jessica entering in reverse, and she edges to the side, leaving a means to enter. For the newcomer, a softly murmured, "Pardon me." Though anyone paying enough attention might ascertain how she ghosts the Laughing Magician's movements, blocking a direct line to him from certain angles. Especially one. Tall and bearing swords aplenty, though hardly an act of hostility.

Diluted jade eyes meet Chas' for a moment, a widening gulf of silence stretching out. She tips her head a degree through the volley of accusations raining down. Every syllable puts a stake through the shattered fragments of a heart still bleeding, perhaps, if she's still got one at all.

The tall Valkyrie with a fascinating makeover, not all too dissimilar from her own, she addresses in her way. "A departure after unbearable rudeness. To the lady, I apologize for the lack of hospitality and offence. If you'll accept it from me and it's not too late." The lilting cadences drink in the East End's peculiar patter, split by traces of Bangladeshi and Romanischal, reflecting the area's diverse community.

Hope Svelgate has posed:
At least she didn't bring the Nameless Wolves with her.

Lady Death stares at Constantine. "Cake?" She asks still holding her swords. The cultural touchstone seems lost on her, probably for the best.

A smile, a wicked grin of blood red lips, curls across her expression as the Archivist confirms that this the real John Constantine. But then Jon starts wavering and the smile fades. A pointed look is given to Jon and then to John. "Start talking." The words directed at the latter are not a request.

Her attention, however, flickers towards Meggan when she is addressed. "I am not here for you. You have little to apologize for." Her burning gaze falling back upon John again.

Jessica Cruz has posed:
Looking at everyone here, Jessica starts to get a little confused as she starts to try to figure things out. She looks from Chas to John and then at Jon before looking to her ring. Something is said in her mind, something no one else can hear before she looks to John and stares. She holds up her ring briefly and then swallows before shaking her head.

"Wait..." She looks down at her ring and then up at John, "I...you were kidnapped or gone or what for how long?" Jessica stares for a long moment and takes a step back toward the door.

John Constantine has posed:

"God's honest?" John asks, glancing up at Chas as he fishes a cigarette from the coat and lights it, "Fuck me. Worse than I thought. Hope he hasn't been up to too much mischief."

John's bloodshot baby blues settle on Zatanna, taking in her question and breathing out a plume of cigarette smoke in her general direction: "The why is a bit of a long story, and one I reckon deserves a proper tellin' - which means I want to go home first. As for the letting me go? He didn't. Pulled one over on the cunt. He's not gonna be happy."

Jon's invective prompts a disgusted look from Constantine, as though he himself weren't dropping F's and C's like a confused thermometer.

"Steady on. I'm a delicate boy. Just fell out of Hell."

A glance given to Lady Death again, along with a broad grin: "We haven't met, no. I think I'd remember."

His brow furrows further and he shakes his head, rising to his feet and flicking the mostly-gone Silk Cut to the ground with a click of his tongue against teeth.

"I know you're all ready to hang me by the bollocks over stuff you think I done. That fella you met? Not me. He's something I made to fuck over Nergal, 'cept Nergal got control of it. Plus side? Makes it harder for him to spot me. As for how long? You tell me."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Chas deflates a great deal. "Fuck mate..." he says as mostly an exhale. "It's... been a while." He looks to Zatanna and the others. "We got the confirmation we needed" he says looking at Jon the others. "Let's get him back home and into some of his own damn clothes." It was always brisk in London, mid autumn moreso.

    "We can fill in a lot of the blanks--*on both sides*" this triggers a hard look to Constantine, "--once we're not trespassing." He looks to those gathered. "Sound fair for the rest of you?" he asks. God he feels like he's hearding tigers with so much power around him.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
If it were anyone else, Zatanna would soften in an instant at the need to go home. She bites the inside of her lips, tempted to ask him if he needs his PJs and stuffed toy to hug. Instead, the magician crosses her arms, shaking her head.

Batting at the smoke, John blows in her direction, "Well, you did a bang-up job! The demon nearly got us all ten times over as well as Phoebe. It had better be good, John, or I'll ask Lady Death the boon of borrowing her Nameless Wolves to sic on your sorry ass."

Throwing her hands up in a gesture of defeat, she nods at Chas, "Let's get him home."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon shakes his head. "Not blaming you," he says softly to John. "Glad you're back. The /real/ you. The other thing..." He shakes his head again. "We'll deal with it, if it's still out there."

    He looks to Lady Death. Flexes his left hand. "Now that we've got him," he nods to John, "we can track down this demon and deal with it. Fair?" Trying to be sure she agrees that the deal is not yet done.

Jessica Cruz has posed:
Staring at the man she thought she knew, Jessica looks to the others here briefly and begins to mentally question a lot of things. She takes another step back and then shakes her head, "I..." She then looks at her ring and looks at John with a glare before she shakes her head.

"Eff this." And she clenches her fist and turns and goes out the front of the bar. This time, she doens't open the door. Before what is left of the door even hits the ground, she's already flying off into the sky and well out of sight.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Slowly, the world is righting itself by painful degrees from being tipped over on its axis. Lyric poems and pop songs blather on all the time about the effects of emotional or psychic shellshock, but lived experience takes many different forms. Meggan moves through twenty atmospheres compressed on her head, navigating the conversational minefield while salvos come and go. No map, no lifeline, just the instinct that has failed her too many times in the present company.

"Please keep the talk of physical harm to a dull roar." The lilting chime ascends from East End closer to its native register, an act of forcible memory instead of letting the ebb and flow of Britain itself carry her along its slumbrous, weary current. Sunday mornings are never a rush, but here's a land cratered in the Blitz, witness to tragedy when plague rolled by or triumph at every silver bit and bob snapped up from the maw of fate. "You surely all have your reasons. I'm obliged to defend him, wolves, bullets or mince pies." Might pass for humour, albeit of the gallows, and gibbets were plenty common enough in these parts back in their day.

A beat would make an apology necesary but the door's blown open and Jessica off like a shot. The glaring noise of it may just be the straw that tilts the scales, camel sent sprawling flat to the sands. She thrusts her palm out and the air under the shattered portal hardens, holding it without a wobble in midair, caught between two realities just as the Englishwoman herself is.

"I'd like to go home and figure this shite out, if no one particularly minds." The first step goes straight into the void, full of an emptiness deeper than the rifts that swallowed the ceiling. "Particularly you, Chas. John."

Hope Svelgate has posed:
Lady Death scowls and crosses her arms, sheathing her weapons at her sides. She does that a lot, the scowling, but it is vastly preferable to the stabbing in almost all cases.

Her burning eyes go from one individual to the next, eventually coming to Jon and finally ending on John. Death is not called forth from the heavens, there is no great conflagration of Hellfire from her. It would seem that the Mistress of the Endless Graveyard is prepared to listen and accept for the time being that she doesn't have need to reap the man before her.

"Very well." To what she is responding is left to the listener to decide. Perhaps she is answering John's request for a change of venue, perhaps it is Jon's pleas, or Meggan's call for calm. But that is all she says, letting the words hang in the air.