open

[ashing]

WHO: John Constantine and You
WHAT: Arrival and settling in
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: Various
NOTES: A few prompts, open

ARRIVAL
(Just one thread for this one please. Multiple characters welcome but they'd have to be on the same rifter collection team.)

It's a dark and stormy night. Something poetic about that, maybe, but John doesn't have the space to think about it yet. He's just had a nasty wake-up - possibly the worst in his life, which is saying something. He doesn't even remember what he was dreaming about, but he does remember it was at least warm, and dry, and there weren't any demons.

Not this: soaked through to the skin, freezing, running through a goddamn forest, the densely packed tree trunks illuminated only by the sickly green light of the thing he'd fallen out of. Like a hole, or a crack in the air, but flickering and fluctuating like a flame. He hadn't had a chance to look at it further. Not with the claws and teeth that had started climbing out after him.

In normal circumstances he might have some way to deal with this situation. Something tucked in his pockets. But in the immediate of not knowing what the hell was going on, he'd taken the most obvious survival option: run.

Where the fuck he's running to, though, he has no idea.


GALLOWS
It's still raining. John doesn't think it's stopped, and has considered, several times, that God must be here too. No one else has a sense of humour as twisted as this.

For a man that isn't happy about the rain, he's closer to it than he should be. Stood in the doorway leading onward to the dining hall, golden light, the sound of a dozen conversations and the smell of food spilling welcomingly out. But he has his back turned to it, shoulder leant into the stone of the doorframe, eyes on the dark clouds overhead.

His fingers are twitching, a little. Trembling might be a better word for it. Jumpy and restless, more irritated than usual, more trouble sleeping than usual. It hasn't been a good time to be trapped indoors, even if the rain might have prevented him from seeing the wonders of Thedas anyway.

Finally, something about him seems to fold. His hand dips into a pocket of his coat, fishes out a packet, silver foil and green. One mint coloured pellet of gum is peeled out, the packet crumpling empty in his hand. He holds it up to the sky between finger and thumb, almost like he's giving a toast.

"Picked a great time," he says, then pops the gum in his mouth.


KIRKWALL & DOCKS
Only a day out of quarantine and he can already be found getting thrown out of a tavern, landing on his back in the mud. Face bloodied, he attempts to get upright again as fast as he can before realising no one appears to be following him out. Well, that's just fine by him. He can just lay in the rain for a moment.

"Must be something I said," he mutters to himself. It absolutely was, of course. Making friends and influencing people, John Constantine style, usually means pushing buttons until he knows what they all do. And Thedas, so far, seems to be full of buttons.

Eventually, he levers himself up, starts making his way down to the docks. Finds himself a place to stand, right out on the jetty, seemingly uncaring of the salt breeze only blowing the rain sharper. Hair pasted to his face, clothes soaked through, the bruises blossoming on his face are unmistakable against the increasing paleness of cold skin. He doesn't bother to seek shelter back near the buildings or amongst the waiting cargo of the docks. Just watches the slow approach of the ferry across the water.

"You should see the other guy," he says, when he notices he's being looked at. But even just that comment has him wincing, pressing a handkerchief that's as wet with blood as it is rain more firmly against the fresh flow of red from his nose.

Comments

[ashing]

John considers it, for a long moment. Considers the title 'seneschal', which he's never heard before but apparently means something here. Trying to make sure people are comfortable, or something. Like a hotel concierge. Considers how comfortable he'd be being comfortable, seeing as he was near-constantly coughing his lungs up only a week ago. But hey, can't hurt to try.

"It's the stuff in tobacco that makes smoking addictive," he says, finally, shouldering away from his lean against the wall to fully face the man. He's assuming they have tobacco here. They have coffee. Some things seem to be universal. "Without all the other shit that'll give you cancer."

He's assuming they have that here, too.

[wearyallalone]

It doesn't show on his face, but Vanya has the brief, mad impulse to laugh at the thought I didn't know tobacco was addictive. Under the circumstances, it is perhaps the smallest bit funny, but not in a way a new arrival is likely to appreciate, and this isn't about Vanya.

When John looks him over, while he's unlikely to see the suppressed irony, he can probably read a lifetime of military training, the signs of which aren't so different between worlds. Vanya isn't in armor or visibly armed, but the marks are still there: in his posture, in the way he's unconsciously positioned himself so that no one can easily sneak up on him, in the way "at ease" applies to him more in that it suggests not at attention than that it suggests relaxed.

"I'm afraid tobacco is not close enough to the top of the list of things that might kill us that we have dealt with that particular issue yet." It's mild enough that it's easy to miss that it's a joke. "That said, the infirmary might have some suggestions you're not familiar with from home, if you are willing to branch out. I know they have dealt with other sorts of addiction, before."