Owner	Pose
John Constantine	It's not every day that John Constantine has to go up against a good, old fashioned _cult_. It's even rarer he gets to do it with his wife. So when he discovered that their date destination --a nice little fishing village on the coast of a greek island was the home of the last remnants of the Cult of Khlopa-Khlopa... _well_. At the moment, John and Meggan are enjoying a _delicious_ lobster, but increasingly, the people around them have stopped eating and have begun to shift and move and clearly press the attentions unto the couple. Khlopa-Khlopa is a hungry goddess of the Deepest Sea, one of many dimensions made up entirely of profound waters and accessible only through the deep trenches in the ocean. And she really, really likes human sacrifices. They don't even have to be _entirely_ human. Just human-oid is fine. "Have you tried this butter, luv?" John pushes a little butter tray over to Meggan across the table. "It's _spicy_. Spicy butter. What will they think of next?" He winks at her.
Meggan Constantine	Hunting cults fits in with the classic English summer, dreary and wet. Going to a place with actual sunshine almost causes Meggan to drop her morning tea. "You. In the Aeolian Islands?" Checking John isn't a bit peaky, her expression worried, probably confirms the madman really isn't so mad after all. "Very well... but you need to wear sunblock. I'm not certain that you've ever been under the sun that long." --- Now, then, lobster. A slender fork used to pry the sweet meat from the claw earns a bit of a frown out of her, since it's so much work. How do people actually get the bloody chunk of lobster meat out of the claw? Why eat sea-spider monsters at all? Perhaps these are the wrong questions to think, especially given the nature of things. "Spicy butter? Not a clue what they can do to top that. Lemonfish that self-garnish from underwater orange trees? Come to think..." Khlopa-Khlopa may be disappointed at the particular vintage in her veins; she's not /that/ old. Though lots of seniors about might count. Her gaze goes cloudy in delight at the morsel of seafood goodness. "Wrong of me to fail at being vegan?"
John Constantine	"Recent scientific findings suggest plants are just as alive as animals," John says, slurping some meet from inside a lobster claw. "That, and we both know Swamp Thing personally. I think we're beyond veganism at this point, luv, we'd have to subsist entirely on fruits that have naturally fallen out of trees. I'd die in a week at most." He shrugs and dips some meat in the spicy butter, taking another slurp. "Woof. This is strong. I don't know if my English palate can handle this. We really failed at colonialism, luv. All that world-conquering for spices and we still can't handle it." As they eat, some of the people around them 'pay' for their meals and begin to rise... holding their forks and knives.
Meggan Constantine	"Bioelectric charges and diffused communication, mmhmm. Trees have intense emotional lives, though much slower than others. Unless it's a risk. Turns out Tolkien was pretty apt though I'm not sure /where/ the entwives went. Probably an... something story thing about why the great forests were gone in England and Wales." Her smile fades over the fork, the dimming of those electric green eyes a risk aplenty. The feisty move exists there. "I just don't know sometimes if it's smart to munch on a triggerfish or something I'm just as like to want to swim with. Octopi are straight off the menu though. After the docos by Mr. Attenborough, I just can't." No, she will not cry into her pasta. It's a close thing, though as John considers munching on fruit and death in moments. "I'd rather not introduce you to the fungal kingdom to keep you alive. Myconids are weird." A shudder trails down he back. /Too/ weird. Or it could be all the weird emotions of the people around them sending her sloughing left to right and all over the place. Deffo not ideal; that's for certain a problem with them carrying their cutlery, especially as most probably isn't sharp. "Someone's like to lose an eye at this rate. Who?" Indeed, if they're all targeting /John/ then there might be a severe tempest on the horizon. If it's some old Nonna possibly more doughty than the Bismarck, slightly less risk of environmental catastrophe.
John Constantine	For all that the cutlery the clientel is using is probably not sharp, when the chef _bursts_ out of the kitchen a few yards away, he's brandishing a very sharp, very large kitchen knife and a cleaver in the other hand. he launches himself over a table, taking a swing at John with the cleaver. By the time that the chef is across the table, John's already assessed the situation. He drops out of his chair and grabs it, holding it up to stop the incoming cleaver with the chair's wood. The other patrons are suddenly sprinting at them, many of them aiming for Meggan. They don't seem to care if she's not entirely human, or even that old. A sacrifice to Khopla-Khopla is a sacrifice, regardless. Forks and knives are swung and stabbed at the petite blonde and at John, who's fending them off with chairs.
Meggan Constantine	Not unaware of John's history of bar fights and scraps in the street, Meggan doesn't abruptly shriek or throw him under the table. Improvised melee weapons have an honoured history, even if the score there can be fatal or ugly for any missteps. Forks and knives may not be the fearsome Trident of Neptune (or Poseidon, in these parts). The lobster is forgotten in favour of shoving an older woman back away from her, taking a fork to the forearm and glaring at the tines scratching her skin. "What's wrong with you gits? /Stop!/" Nothing the cultists haven't likely heard a dozen times before, no real risk there. Except they're on an island, not that far from the sea, in a geologically active area. Nature may be tamed by man far, far more in the Greek islands than elsewhere, like Tierra Del Fuego or the Congolese rainforest. But nature still thrums with concern when she swats at a butter knife, trying to limit the pain or damage inflicted. The ground shivers. A plant swings in its pot in her direction. If they're directly seaside, the waves start rolling in funny patterns, piled up slowly. "You're all mental, we're not here for you!" Her Latin is non-existent, which leaves a limited score of languages to share with John short of becoming him. Bit awkward, really. So an infernal tongue it is: <Have them where you want them?> Time spent merged into a plane of Hell does have its advantages.
John Constantine	"To be one hundred per cent fair, luv," John says as he hooks the chef's arm in the chair and twists, breaking the man's arm and then tossing him against a group of young clients who are trying to carve his eye sout with spoons, "we sort of _are_ here for them, if only tangentially." He switches to that infernal tongue, though it leaves some ash-taste in his mouth. << I think this is as close as it's going to get. Can you give me a big, crashing wave from the shore in here? Should give me the time I need. >> He spent half the afternoon casting a spell to protect him from the pressures and harms of the sea, so he should be totally fine. It's all part of the plan!
Meggan Constantine	"No, we're here for the boss. Right bit of a diff--oof!" Someone gets a little too feisty with Meggan and socks her with a pretty decent punch, and the startled squeal of disbelief and pain follows. She raises her hands to her cheek, for the sheer cheek of the lumbering sailor to hit her. The response she has makes no difference if she was a skinny 5'2" girl without powers or her current Aphrodite Cypria appearance. Total shock someone would hit her in violence rolls over in a ripple, and she gives another opening for a stab from the varied mortal cutlery. Getting her to bleed is tricky given the wounds usually close up quick, but a few drops is enough. The Mediterranean's foaming mood becomes ugly, and the wind slants down at a sharp gust signalling her petulant, offended mood. The water needs a few proper heaves to get up and over the seawall to crash into the dining area, scattering tables, chairs, humans, and other things beside. It takes particular umbrage to anyone around Meggan but really, with water, it's all about vague swipes and direction.
John Constantine	As the large wave crashes through, John takes a deep breath out of pure habit and lets the salt water of the Mediterranean wash over him. He's unfazed, here, his spell holding strong against the deluge from Meggan's anger. With the cultists washed aside for at least some long seconds, John rteaches into his pocket and pulls out the pendant he brought. It has a sigil on it -- a silhouette of something strange and worm-y -- and he places it on the wet floor of the restaurant. "Keep me safe for a minute, luv." And then John sits down on the wet floor and starts to chant.
Meggan Constantine	Salt water carries off plates and perfectly good seafood back to where it belongs in the deep. A waste of the kitchen's resources that only infuriates the Tuath de Danaan further, by increments. Ceci gets plenty of 'don't waste food' too. Call it being poor when she was young. Her eyes narrow as the water floods around her, soaking her sundress to optimal effect, not that it's going to do more than resemble an impressive bit of Greek drapery on a marble statue. John needs to work, and so she has to step in. Something easy enough against two or three, but several? That's a fight. First, the chef getting up with his knife and water in his face. She doesn't have footing problems on soggy rugs, floating up and tossing him over the balcony the wave came through. Gently, as she can, no need to aim for the Cretan goalposts! Soon as that happens two more men try to bumrush John through the sloshing water, and she scoots in probably uncomfortably close to his side to intercept them, making a frustrated noise as that opens another opportunity for a teenager to scrabble up on all fours and run. Nothing a blast of wind won't deal with, mostly throwing wet napkins in the girl's face. Walking over the mage's peace of mind simply won't do, and a satisfying series of meaty thuds and thunks behind him aren't likely Meggan being the punching bag. Not mostly. She dents a water pitcher on someone's head, at least.
John Constantine	This is not your daddy's fantasy novel. In this one, the guy is the squishy ritualist who needs protecting, and his petite overpowered love interest in the one dealing with the physical threats. That's just how the Constantines roll. John takes another deep breath, chanting some more: "KHOPLA-KHOPLA! KHOPLA-KHOPLA! KHOPLA-KHOPLA! << I BANISH THINE INFLUENCE AND SEAL YOUR PRESENCE BEYOND THE WALLS OF THE SEA. >>" He presses the amulet against the floor, and it _melds_ into the wood, and then beyond, sinking into the very earth. John pushes himself up to his feet. "Okay. I'm d--" CONK. He takes a vase to the head.
Meggan Constantine	Meggan does not do well with hair pulling or validating she is no Shang-Chi or Daredevil. Intentionally not the type to become a combat monster, she ends up engaged with the damn sailor and Nonna with her vase, plus two grumpy servants fighting with damp aprons. One can only have so many arms without growing more, and Spiral proves how creepy that is, okay? Experiencing a full range of emotions while John staggers to the seal on Khopla-Khopla leaves the air stained in water droplets and erratic winds. She hisses through her teeth, and those pointed ears and curled fingers speak to the Seelie aspect running hot. Licks of light dance off her skin and she pounces, dragging over three struggling people to flatten Nonna and bash a server into another.
John Constantine	John holds his head for a few seconds and then he elbows a guy that's coming in too close. He walks over to where Meggan is and heaves a kick into the side of the damn sailor, cracking a few ribs, and then he grabs Meggan by the wrist. "I think it's time you flew us out of here, luv. I don't have enough juice left for a teleportation or a portal," and a portal would probably get them chased through it by the cultists. He threads his fingers into hers and flashes her a soaked smile.
Meggan Constantine	Grabbing her is dangerous in that state, since John ends up pulled in hard against her, those wild phosphorescent eyes lost of their humanity. Holding onto the golden Galadriel-by-Aphrodite visage is sufficient to pass, though not entirely. The flash of the tattoo wrapped up her forearm in a Celtic infinity knot twists into visibility, the shape crawling subtly, altered to force her back. Nope, not about to get a bite taken out of him, though he ends up jarringly shoved to the side when she rotates to take a tray bashing her on the shoulder. Headbutting someone might be an option there. "Why ask? You always have permission to take." But on that point, they both jet up about five or six feet, long enough for her to kick the awning out of the way.
John Constantine	"This way I get the chance to press up against you and maybe sneak in a little hands-on amidst our escape, luv. You know I can't keep my hands off of you." All while hanging on for dear life as Meggan kicks the awning out of the way and flies out into the Grecian sky. "Besides, would _you_ prefer teleporting over this view?" Below them, the restaurant is starting to sink into the ground, the barrier that is now blocking Khopla-Khopla's influence no longer erecting the base upon which the restaurant rested.
Meggan Constantine	The awning stays tangled up, and requires another good kick to get out of the way. It refuses to just part, thick canvas wrapped up on ropes and metal, torn away to allow the pair heavenward. Now they have a fantastic cape until it smacks vase-Nonna in a flutter of fabric. The temperature gradient slips to cooler as she ascends, looming about a hundred meters up and not much further. "Hope there's no one takin' potshots at us. We aren't so close to the Amazon island that the neighbours are chill, yeah? I'd be happier checking out Thera. Or the... whatever island that is. Just goats and us?"
John Constantine	Up here, with her, John's worries about the cult below and the external monster that they worshiped who wanted to consume everything kind of just fade away. He keeps his arm wrapped around her shoulders and then reaches up to grab her jaw, pulling her mouth to his and giving her a long, silent kiss. When he's done, he smiles at her. "Thera it is. And then we find a place where it's just us, and the goats." All before heading home to the Child.
Meggan Constantine	Both of them soaked, a bit messy, and battered might be par for the course. Her arm firm around John, Meggan returns those salted and spiced-butter kisses with a sound of raw affection between breaths. "You fancy goatherding to warlocking? Never thought I'd see the day. John Constantine, shepherd and got no time for your shit. Sounds about right, but less rain?" Her poker face is completely terrible.