Owner	Pose
Meggan Constantine	The funny thing about the House. Sometimes it opens doors where it ought not to. It's in Gotham and other places, too. So one damp, rain-slicked night - as if Gotham has any other - a doorway looks plenty appealing as a spot to get out of the rain. A timid tap or a soft clunk of the knocker interrupts whatever's at play or amiss. For all the visitor knows, John Constantine sits unconscious in the gutter, oblivious to it all. But the furtive look passes. Te man, wet and in jeans, somewhere around a frantic 24 tops, turns his eyes up to the door and back again.
John Constantine	"What?" The voice is gruff and old, worn by cigarettes and age. The door itself doesn't seem to so much open as just be open all of a sudden with one sharp, blue eye peering through the crack. It looks the young man up and down, is silent for a moment, then asks: "The fuck're you 'sposed to be?"%
Meggan Constantine	Water dribbles from wet hair standing on end in spikes, raked through by damp hands a few times over, and not for stylish purposes. The blinking helps to clear the drops from his milky eyes, but he swipes a sleeve over his face that's none too dry. Guy's been out for a while. "On the Nineteen westbound," croaks the visitor. He pats at the back of his neck to stop the cold from clawing down his back. His coat's sodden in places, suspiciously dark on his side. A few tears show a t-shirt of some kind through saw-sliced edges. "It didn't come to the stop in time. I've been running..." He looks past John, probably not seeing a thing, fatigue the devil to all men. "From the... weasel things. Red eyed weasels. Rotten and dead. Gave them a shake to get here."
John Constantine	"We're fresh outta psychadelics, mate," John says with a laugh, "Might want to try the place a few steps down. Accepts payment in cash and mouth favours." He pauses for a moment, considering things before rolling his eyes and opening the door. "Alright, fine, come in. Don't drip on everything."
Meggan Constantine	John earns a blank stare. The guy's too far gone or too spooked to even put two and two together, coming up 17 instead of four. "Huh?" Reason to shut the door might be there, returning to a drink, bum a cig, watch a match replay on the telly. Except beyond him the shadows glisten red, peering out of the night, and the cloying stink of flesh rises up and above the regular run of a Gotham street. He shudders and just about runs past the Laughing Magician. "Fuckity fuck. They're coming, and they're relent--" The first body slamming into the wall a bit short of the door makes a wet noise. They jump, damned beasts, slinky and springy in the worst ways.
John Constantine	"Fuck me sideways," John announces, eyes widening at the sudden appearance of the beasts. He doesn't level an offensive spell, he doesn't call out to the Vishanti for secret powers, he doesn't summon a mystical talisman. No, he just closes the door and turns the lock with an audible click. "Meg! Weasels!"
Meggan Constantine	The guy runs for cover, though cover means anything his hands connect with. It's probably a bookcase as he slams into it bodily, curling around the edges in the ungainly way of the solidly exhausted. The sound of more small, insistent animals follows between this. Raining cats and dogs takes on a very real truth when bouncing off the facade of the House. They crash into the door. Repeatedly. One hard thump after another indicates the relentless efforts to break through. Claws scrape over, teeth gnaw at metal or wood. Radioactive waste would be just fine, really. Whatever they are is growing in number, and the smell isn't very good. "They're batshit," gasps John's guest, wheezing for breath and down to his last dregs. "Came outta the bushes and chased me through a neighbourhood." It takes him a couple tries to get the words out. "Couple of them -- they -- they didn't have fur or skin. Muscle? What's under skin?" Which is in fairness how long it takes the blonde Tuath to stop looking like an elf, or Galadriel, and more like 'low key activist' that she is. She carries a bowl filled midway with popcorn, peeking a look around the corner. "Why did we invite weasels? They're awful guests, such gossips. And the musk!" Right about then, a look centers past Constantine to the foyer and remainder of the house. "-Where- are the weasels? That's a man, love."