un: wooden dice.

[strewth]

[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.

Comments

[matermali]

[ 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?

[strewth]

[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.]

[matermali]

[ 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.

[strewth]

[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.

[matermali]

[ 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?

[strewth]

[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.

[matermali]

[ 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?

[strewth]

[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.

[matermali]

[ 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?

[strewth]

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.

[matermali]

[ 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?

[strewth]

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

[matermali]

[ Such offhand acceptance of it leaves her leaning in closer, curiosity now boundless in regards to a man who may have a similar curse and find any ease in it. ]

No. [ There's rarely a choice. ] What of demons? Do they also insist that you listen and watch?

[strewth]

[He feels their gazes on his back; if he just turns his head, he'll see-]

Demons? Oh, hfft. [A puff of smoke, whisked away on the wind.] They can try, stroppy buggers. Talk a big game, they do, but it's worth bugger all.

[matermali]

[ Less tilted, now. Envy touches the shift in her lean, but not more than hope does. It could be all talk on his end. Never hope too much. ]

Do they? What of their Master? Surely his words must weigh more.

[strewth]

Their mast- pffhhhhehhehhh haa! [Sorry, he's laughing now, fully laughing, puffs of cigarette smoke coming out of him like a chimney. He actually drops his cigarette; it rolls onto the table, pointing to the deck of cards, all face-down.] That poof? Blimey, if only I could be shut of the wanker. Pathetic, he is, just bloody sad.

[matermali]

[ Fascinating. She leaves the cigarette burning underfoot, unwilling to look away from such a reaction. How can anyone know anything close to what she knows and still...laugh.

But then there is Wrath, who has proven that Hell isn't always ruled the same. Does it make them any less despicable? Less pitiful? ]

You know him, but don't fear him? He may yet make himself known here. Could you tell him as much to his face?

[strewth]

Feared him in, ehhhh, the eighties, maybe? After you cheat the devil, just ain't the same anymore. Second time, it's a habit.

[He takes the cigarette back for another long drag. His voice is momentarily hushed, serious,] Demons you have to look out for, [then jovial again, convivial.] but the bloody First? Bollocks to him. I've said as much, and worse.

[matermali]

[ For that, she does smile, tight-lipped but won over by open such disdain for the bothers of Satan.

Which eighties? Not important yet. ]

Suppose I have yet to learn how best to cheat the Devil.

[strewth]

[Oh, but that smile is worth its weight in gold. The jawline at least, the cut of that grin-- she really is dark and beautiful and if he were younger, he knows he'd be wrapped around her finger.]

[At the moment, he just wants to cool in the shade of her shadow.] Call 'im the First. First of the Fallen. Less respectful. Never Lucifer-- too much credit.

[Different guy, too, but explaining that's a whole different discussion he doesn't feel like having.]

My suggestion-- if I were suggestin' having anything to do with the bastard, which I ain't-- my suggestion'd be to play him off somebody. Bastard gets distracted. Detail-oriented bugger.

[matermali]

[ Something about his advice is stirring. Familiar. A memory she can't see or hear, but one she can feel in her belly. A flutter like moths searching unending for their light. She knows of someone else, doesn't she?

When he fell... He did not fall alone. A warning that still rings inside. Who could distract him from her? Who would make him shrink from her, when he calls her beloved? No more can she recall, so she leaves it, with her fingertip tapping once at her knee and that curiosity abandoned by the roots.

To talk in this way leaves her uncertain about how she's meant to feel about him. His draw is uncanny. He doesn't talk of demons like anyone else has. It's reckless and foolish. There's admiration for such a nature, in how she'll nod her chin in the direction of the drink of choice. ]

Shall we drink to that, then? May he forever be left wanting.

[strewth]

[John lets out another wheezing laugh, bright charm fading into something more homely. There's a certain smile men acquire, roughly after the age of 63, and while John doesn't look old enough to have it, somehow the shape of that grin has plastered itself onto his too-pleased face.]

Can't argue with that. Cheers, luv.

[The bright pink liquid burns the whole way down.]

[matermali]

[ It's enough for her to make...a face, of sorts, clearing her throat roughly against her knuckles. At least she isn't reduced to coughing, no stranger to hard liquors, but she certainly prefers whisky or brandy.

Embarrassment from her reaction leaves her smile more crooked─awkward. Almost apologetic in how she hums after setting the glass down. ]

Nothing quite like that in London.

[ That she knows of. ]

[strewth]

Oh, we have this in London, [John says, his voice only slightly wheezed,] but I don't think it's survivable.

[matermali]

[ Something like this may very well exist in the back alleys of London. When she frequents those, it is hardly for a drink.

But it does trigger her earlier curiosity as she brushes what remains of the acid from her lips. ]

You mentioned 'the eighties'. I already gather you do not mean the 1880s.

[ Because nobody is here from her time, she would never be that lucky. ]