eastbound | un: wooden dice.

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un: wooden dice.

[The voice is definitely English, a scouse accent mixing slightly with bits of Cockney, if one is the sort to recognize it.]

Lovely weather we're having in this sodding fishbowl. Nearly reminds me of home. Ah, hfff, something to lighten the spirit. I've got a story.

Have you lot heard of Ellethia? Couldn't tell you how it's spelled; I haven't the foggiest whether we're playing with Fake Latin or fake Greek. Gorgeous country, it is; proper Byronic. Maybe fake Greek, then.

It were haunted.

D'you remember a bloke prancing around during the communal head trip? Stroppy bastard he was, complaining to me about tea and infanticide. Reckon he had more sparkling conversation for you lot. Wore white. Ghosts in your Ellethia said he got a uniform from them. Or from there, at least.

Don't all rush to thank me. Weren't alone. Your girl Lila, she were dead helpful. Distracted the ghosts she did. I'm sure she'll love the credit, hehh.

And that'd make me John Constantine. [It rhymes with Clementine.] Ain't me first brush with ghosts, let's say. Magic, that rubbish, have you ever seen any? The real stuff, I mean.

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[And he can feel himself being strung along. He doesn't mind it, because, for once, he knows it's happening. It's a nice feeling, when someone knows where some of the buttons to press are, but none of the really fucked ones.]

Price is always higher than the prize. Sounds like you learned the hard way.

[A breath of smoke.]

God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories... you know how it goes.

[ Something softer─more melancholy─eases her features at the suggestion. None of it would be for God's sake, try as she might. ]

Sad stories often call for a drink to nurse, don't they? When moonlight reigns? So to speak.

[If John were twenty years younger, he'd suggest she was the muse and drink to her. As it is, he's a little smarter about being stupid.]

Starting to sound dangerously like a date, luv.

[ Just the slightest twitch of confusion, there. ]

A date?

[ Obviously slang, and should she be surprised that she doesn't know it? She can use context clues. There's only one thing that might make a man worry for his safety. Vanessa can concur that romance is dangerous. ]

I believe the stories will be quite enough cause for sadness. No need to risk more.

[What year you from- but he doesn't ask.]

A drink, at least. Pints go with stories.

Not whisky?

[There's a smile in his voice.] If you've got it, luv.

[ Any smile for her sake is doomed to be short-lived. She ruins all the parties (or improves them, depending on your take). ]

Unfortunately, I claim nothing within the halls of the Mouse House. My belongings remain in Minaras. A temporary inconvenience, we can only hope.

Reckon I can rustle up something to drink. Dunno if it'll be fit for a lady.

[Read: what kind of lady are you?]

[ Nearly a chuckle. Just.

The kind that invites a stranger out for night-time trouble before giving her name. ]

I suppose I can set aside the 'lady' disguise for a short while. Where would it please you to host?

[ Not many options down here, but there are a few. Orphanage corners and alleyways and ports abound. ]

[There's a snake of a corridor off to the side of what would be Minaras' High Street, if it had one. Even dead cities have a pulse, and he can hear it thrumming through the walls. There are barrels to sit on, because people used to sit on them, and talk, because they used to talk.]

Reckon I know a place. Bring your sparklin' personality, luv, as I'm seeing to everything else.

[What a charmer!]

[ Charming enough that Vanessa doesn't mind wandering where she shouldn't. A recurring habit no matter the lure, really. Sir Malcolm, a very different man than the one she is about to meet, would have something to say about that. Were he here.

Nothing about her demeaner suggests that she belongs on or near barrels of any kind, but despite the long skirts and high collar trimmed with leather and lace, Vanessa's appraisal upon arriving to the questionable location carries mostly curiosity. Perhaps some weariness, deep in her stiff shoulders. She likes simple comforts, despite what the fine clothes and glittering hair ornament─a pale scorpion against a pile of dark hair─may suggest.

Barrels are inoffensive enough, she finds. The company may be less predictable. She can only hope so. ]

[She looks like the ghost of the woman haunting a Victorian novel. She looks too posh to be talking to John. She looks absolutely bloody gorgeous, and it's affecting John's judgement. Some part of him is aware of this. The majority of him wants to see the way a smile cuts the side of her face again, and know he did it.]

[He has a bottle of something offensively pink, and two shot glasses, not matching. His coat is folded off to the side; he's in shirtsleeves, his red tie folded over his shoulder. A cigarette dangles out of his mouth, washing the place with smoke.]

[He is doing shuffling card tricks with a well-worn deck, and he looks up at her with an expression that, on a younger face, would be winsome.] Just in time.

[ To follow his lead, a rare exception for the sake of frivolity, Vanessa will unbutton her long coat to drape beside his. Neither the cigarette nor the troubling hue of the drinks draw much of her attention, but the cards do. Her gaze borders on unblinking at times, traveling slowly from the flourish of his rough hands to the grizzled features that promise countless tales of sadness.

And violence. Again, she can only hope.

She settles across from him, hands poised in her lap while she searches him up, down, before lingering again on the cards. Interest draws her into a lean. ]

For what, I now wonder. A game?

[There's something off about her, alright, but it clashes and shimmers with her unnerving beauty. John can't tell if the signals she's giving out are that of a lighthouse or the rising sun. (No, light is the wrong metaphor. This woman is all darks, fat spiders and moonless nights.) Whatever it is, it has him both fascinated and distracted. A maw to study, and consider jumping into. He'd be faster to ruin himself if this were decades ago, but it's been a long lifetime since then.]

Keeping me hands busy for your story, [he teases.] No, luv. Gotten into the habit, entertaining the orphans. May as well see how it looks on someone who'll appreciate it.

[He pulls out one card and sets it aside; he can't show up for this.]

[ Any bit of smile that she may have hinted for his humor now tilts, the pale blue of her eyes caught in a momentary glaze. Clouds over moonlight. She looks away from the cards, back up to him, her curiosity now only only knives and glass shards. Softness, any play at it, is gone. Like her voice, with the silk in tatters, to be dragged through gravel and grit.

She has never been on the other side of the cards, not like this. The unfamiliar position may almost leave her threatened, but it's too soon for that. Card tricks, games, may be all he can or ever will do. ]

Not the sort of cards one should handle without caution. That much, I appreciate.

[The last time he was threatened with sharpness, it was in a urinal. A woman's tooth-arched smile is far superior.]

These? Hffft, no, I nicked 'em from a shop in Chelsea. Beakman's Odds & Ends. [You can just hear the ampersand.] Ain't about the cards. How you use 'em.

[Which is about when two cards fall out of his deck. A pause.]

...How you try not to get used.

[ She wouldn't argue with his understanding of their handling, but her feeling of caution extends to far more than any bent edges or smudged ink. The use is exactly the concern, and as two fall out unbidden, Vanessa refuses to look down towards them. She keeps her gaze only on him and his reaction, unyielding in her suspicion of whatever trick he is playing at.

The familiarity of the Tarot, no matter the differing appearance or presentation, does call to It. That Thing inside that wants to be perceived, but never expelled. A precarious demand that requires silence from the old soul chained below. ]

And you seem to be using them to tell a story. Is it mine, or yours?

[He sighs, not willing to string himself out any further, and sets the cards aside. Worry joins Art, and the Magus has been carefully tucked away like a business card.]

S'everyone's story. That's the point, I reckon. [He turns Worry over.] It's all the old Art. If you ain't needy, you won't turn to it.

[ Taking his intention, momentarily, to be true enough, Vanessa cedes to glancing over the slip of the cards. The Magus now hidden close to heart did not escape her notice, but she'll let that go in favor of a glance of appraisal to the two cards that made themselves known. Their title may be different to what she is used to, but there are enough similarities to keep them from being too alien. She catches the Five of Pentacles, or Coins, just as he turns it. Too late to deny its visit, though; the omen is born. Worry, how kind of it to announce itself.

Its partner, XIV. Temperance? She should laugh (she won't). ]

Do you think yourself to be the same as everyone?

[A long huff of the cigarette. What wind there is blows it away from the woman's face.]

D'you? Remarkably un-flapped by all this wank.

[ It's good to know that her façade hasn't completely crumbled in the wake of the Unwinding, then. The manner of her upset is more easily buried when in the company of the unknown, when there is as much a chance of promise as there is disaster.

She'll never understand the draw of tobacco, but she would never fault a man his vice. She has her own. In that sense, she may be the same as everyone. In others... Certainly not, and she carries that knowledge in her poise. ]

An abundance of opportunities to acclimate, perhaps. Your resolve seems likewise unshaken. Do you frequent other realms where the dead walk?

I dream, same as everybody else. [Except that sodding gremlin, but John's feelings on him are currently too mixed and blood-salted; he sets the thought aside as soon as it comes up.] Dead don't walk, luv, they sing.

[ Vanessa could still hope for this to be a dream, but what would that say about her? Better for it to be another curse, maybe.

Something hums inside at the thought of the dead singing. ]

Do you listen to their songs?

[John shrugs, like it's nothing.] See 'em or hear 'em, it ain't really a choice.

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